Man and Wife

by Wilkie Collins

Blanche, who had been children at the time; and the rising

  solicitor who had discovered the flaw in the Irish marriage--once

  Mr. Delamayn: now Lord Holchester.

  THE STORY.

  FIRST SCENE.--THE SUMMER-HOUSE.

  CHAPTER THE FIRST.

  THE OWLS.

  IN the spring of the year eighteen hundred and sixty-eight there

  lived, in a certain county of North Britain, two venerable White

  Owls.

  The Owls inhabited a decayed and deserted summer-house. The

  summer-house stood in grounds attached to a country seat in

  Perthshire, known by the name of Windygates.

  The situation of Windygates had been skillfully chosen in that

  part of the county where the fertile lowlands first begin to

  merge into the mountain region beyond. The mansion-house was

  intelligently laid out, and luxuriously furnished. The stables

  offered a model for ventilation and space; and the gardens and

  grounds were fit for a prince.

  Possessed of these advantages, at starting, Windygates,

  nevertheless, went the road to ruin in due course of time. The

  curse of litigation fell on house and lands. For more than ten

  years an interminable lawsuit coiled itself closer and closer

  round the place, sequestering it from human habitation, and even

  from human approach. The mansion was closed. The garden became a

  wilderness of weeds. The summer-house was choked up by creeping

  plants; and the appearance of the creepers was followed by the

  appearance of the birds of night.

  For years the Owls lived undisturbed on the property which they

  had acquired by the oldest of all existing rights--the right of

  taking. Throughout the day they sat peaceful and solemn, with

  closed eyes, in the cool darkness shed round them by the ivy.

  With the twilight they roused themselves softly to the business

  of life. In sage and silent companionship of two, they went

  flying, noiseless, along the quiet lanes in search of a meal. At

  one time they would beat a field like a setter dog, and drop down

  in an instant on a mouse unaware of them. At another time--moving

  spectral over the black surface of the water--they would try the

  lake for a change, and catch a perch as they had caught the

  mouse. Their catholic digestions were equally tolerant of a rat

  or an insect. And there were moments, proud moments, in their

  lives, when they were clever enough to snatch a small bird at

  roost off his perch. On those occasions the sense of superiority

  which the large bird feels every where over the small, warmed

  their cool blood, and set them screeching cheerfully in the

  stillness of the night.

  So, for years, the Owls slept their happy sleep by day, and found

  their comfortable meal when darkness fell. They had come, with

  the creepers, into possession of the summer-house. Consequently,

  the creepers were a part of the constitution of the summer-house.

  And consequently the Owls were the guardians of the Constitution.

  There are some human owls who reason as they did, and who are, in

  this respect--as also in respect of snatching smaller birds off

  their roosts--wonderfully like them.

  The constitution of the summer-house had lasted until the spring

  of the year eighteen hundred and sixty-eight, when the unhallowed

  footsteps of innovation passed that way; and the venerable

  privileges of the Owls were assailed, for the first time, from

  the world outside.

  Two featherless beings appeared, uninvited, at the door of the

  summer-house, surveyed the constitutional creepers, and said,

  "These must come down"--looked around at the horrid light of

  noonday, and said, "That must come in"--went away, thereupon, and

  were heard, in the distance, agreeing together, "To-morrow it

  shall be done."

  And the Owls said, "Have we honored the summer-house by occupying

  it all these years--and is the horrid light of noonday to be let

  in on us at last? My lords and gentlemen, the Constitution is

  destroyed!"

  They passed a resolution to that effect, as is the manner of

  their kind. And then they shut their eyes again, and felt that

  they had done their duty.

  The same night, on their way to the fields, they observed with

  dismay a light in one of the windows of the house. What did the

  light mean?

  It meant, in the first place, that the lawsuit was over at last.

  It meant, in the second place that the owner of Windygates,

  wanting money, had decided on letting the property. It meant, in

  the third place, that the property had found a tenant, and was to

  be renovated immediately out of doors and in. The Owls shrieked

  as they flapped along the lanes in the darkness, And that night

  they struck at a mouse--and missed him.

  The next morning, the Owls--fast asleep in charge of the

  Constitution--were roused by voices of featherless beings all

  round them. They opened their eyes, under protest, and saw

  instruments of destruction attacking the creepers. Now in one

  direction, and now in another, those instruments let in on the

  summer-house the horrid light of day. But the Owls were equal to

  the occasion. They ruffled their feathers, and cried, "No

  surrender!" The featherless beings plied their work cheerfully,

  and answered, "Reform!" The creepers were torn down this way and

  that. The horrid daylight poured in brighter and brighter. The

  Owls had barely time to pass a new resolution, namely, "That we

  do stand

  by the Constitution," when a ray of the outer sunlight flashed

  into their eyes, and sent them flying headlong to the nearest

  shade. There they sat winking, while the summer-house was cleared

  of the rank growth that had choked it up, while the rotten

  wood-work was renewed, while all the murky place was purified

  with air and light. And when the world saw it, and said, "Now we

  shall do!" the Owls shut their eyes in pious remembrance of the

  darkness, and answered, "My lords and gentlemen, the Constitution

  is destroyed!"

  CHAPTER THE SECOND.

  THE GUESTS.

  Who was responsible for the reform of the summer-house? The new

  tenant at Windygates was responsible.

  And who was the new tenant?

  Come, and see.

  In the spring of eighteen hundred and sixty-eight the

  summer-house had been the dismal dwelling-place of a pair of

  owls. In the autumn

  of the same year the summer-house was the lively gathering-place

  of a crowd of ladies and gentlemen, assembled at a lawn

  party--the guests of the tenant who had taken Windygates.

  The scene--at the opening of the party--was as pleasant to look

  at as light and beauty and movement could make it.

  Inside the summer-house the butterfly-brightness of the women in

  their summer dresses shone radiant out of the gloom shed round it

  by the dreary modern clothing of the men. Outside the

  summer-house, seen through three arched openings, the cool green

  prospect of a lawn led away, in the distance, to flower-beds and

  shrubberies, and, farther
still, disclosed, through a break in

  the trees, a grand stone house which closed the view, with a

  fountain in front of it playing in the sun.

  They were half of them laughing, they were all of them

  talking--the comfortable hum of their voices was at its loudest;

  the cheery pealing of the laughter was soaring to its highest

  notes--when one dominant voice, rising clear and shrill above all

  the rest, called imperatively for silence. The moment after, a

  young lady stepped into the vacant space in front of the

  summer-house, and surveyed the throng of guests as a general in

  command surveys a regiment under review.

  She was young, she was pretty, she was plump, she was fair. She

  was not the least embarrassed by her prominent position. She was

  dressed in the height of the fashion. A hat, like a cheese-plate,

  was tilted over her forehead. A balloon of light brown hair

  soared, fully inflated, from the crown of her head. A cataract of

  beads poured over her bosom. A pair of cock-chafers in enamel

  (frightfully like the living originals) hung at her ears. Her

  scanty skirts shone splendid with the blue of heaven. Her ankles

  twinkled in striped stockings. Her shoes were of the sort called

  "Watteau." And her heels were of the height at which men shudder,

  and ask themselves (in contemplating an otherwise lovable woman),

  "Can this charming person straighten her knees?"

  The young lady thus presenting herself to the general view was

  Miss Blanche Lundie--once the little rosy Blanche whom the

  Prologue has introduced to the reader. Age, at the present time,

  eighteen. Position, excellent. Money, certain. Temper, quick.

  Disposition, variable. In a word, a child of the modern

  time--with the merits of the age we live in, and the failings of

  the age we live in--and a substance of sincerity and truth and

  feeling underlying it all.

  "Now then, good people," cried Miss Blanche, "silence, if you

  please! We are going to choose sides at croquet. Business,

  business, business!"

  Upon this, a second lady among the company assumed a position of

  prominence, and answered the young person who had just spoken

  with a look of mild reproof, and in a tone of benevolent protest.

  The second lady was tall, and solid, and five-and-thirty. She

  presented to the general observation a cruel aquiline nose, an

  obstinate straight chin, magnificent dark hair and eyes, a serene

  splendor of fawn-colored apparel, and a lazy grace of movement

  which was attractive at first sight, but inexpressibly monotonous

  and wearisome on a longer acquaintance. This was Lady Lundie the

  Second, now the widow (after four months only of married life) of

  Sir Thomas Lundie, deceased. In other words, the step-mother of

  Blanche, and the enviable person who had taken the house and

  lands of Windygates.

  "My dear," said Lady Lundie, "words have their meanings--even on

  a young lady's lips. Do you call Croquet, 'business?' "

  "You don't call it pleasure, surely?" said a gravely ironical

  voice in the back-ground of the summer-house.

  The ranks of the visitors parted before the last speaker, and

  disclosed to view, in the midst of that modern assembly, a

  gentleman of the bygone time.

  The manner of this gentleman was distinguished by a pliant grace

  and courtesy unknown to the present generation. The attire of

  this gentleman was composed of a many-folded white cravat, a

  close-buttoned blue dress-coat, and nankeen trousers with gaiters

  to match, ridiculous to the present generation. The talk of this

  gentleman ran in an easy flow--revealing an independent habit of

  mind, and exhibiting a carefully-polished capacity for satirical

  retort--dreaded and disliked by the present generation.

  Personally, he was little and wiry and slim--with a bright white

  head, and sparkling black eyes, and a wry twist of humor curling

  sharply at the corners of his lips. At his lower extremities, he

  exhibited the deformity which is popularly known as "a

  club-foot." But he carried his lameness, as he carried his years,

  gayly. He was socially celebrated for his ivory cane, with a

  snuff-box artfully let into the knob at the top--and he was

  socially dreaded for a hatred of modern institutions, which

  expressed itself in season and out of season, and which always

  showed the same, fatal knack of hitting smartly on the weakest

  place. Such was Sir Patrick Lundie; brother of the late baronet,

  Sir Thomas; and inheritor, at Sir Thomas's death, of the title

  and estates.

  Miss Blanche--taking no notice of her step-mother's reproof, or

  of her uncle's commentary on it--pointed to a table on which

  croquet mallets and balls were laid ready, and recalled the

  attention of the company to the matter in hand.

  "I head one side, ladies and gentlemen," she resumed. "And Lady

  Lundie heads the other. We choose our players turn and turn

  about. Mamma has the advantage of me in years. So mamma chooses

  first."

  With a look at her step-daughter--which, being interpreted,

  meant, "I would send you back to the nursery, miss, if I

  could!"--Lady Lundie turned and ran her eye over her guests. She

  had evidently made up her mind, beforehand, what player to pick

  out first.

  "I choose Miss Silvester," she said--with a special emphasis laid

  on the name.

  At that there was another parting among the crowd. To us (who

  know her), it was Anne who now appeared. Strangers, who saw her

  for the first time, saw a lady in the prime of her life--a lady

  plainly dressed in unornamented white--who advanced slowly, and

  confronted the mistress of the house.

  A certain proportion--and not a small one--of the men at the

  lawn-party had been brought there by friends who were privileged

  to introduce them. The moment she appeared every one of those men

  suddenly became interested in the lady who had been chosen first.

  "That's a very charming woman," whispered one of the strangers at

  the house to one of the friends of the house. "Who is she?"

  The friend whispered back.

  "Miss Lundie's governess--that's all."

  The moment during which the question was put and answered was

  also the moment which brought Lady Lundie and Miss Silvester face

  to face in the presence of the company.

  The stranger at the house looked at the two women, and whispered

  again.

  "Something wrong between the lady and the governess," he said.

  The friend looked also, and answered, in one emphatic word:

  "Evidently!"

  There are certain women whose influence over men is an

  unfathomable mystery to observers of their own sex. The governess

  was one of those women. She had inherited the charm, but not the

  beauty, of her unhappy mother. Judge her by the standard set up

  in the illustrated gift-books and the print-shop windows--and the

  sentence must have inevitably followed. "She has not a single

  good feature

  in her face."

  There was nothing individually remarka
ble about Miss Silvester,

  seen in a state of repose. She was of the average height. She was

  as well made as most women. In hair and complexion she was

  neither light nor dark, but provokingly neutral just between the

  two. Worse even than this, there were positive defects in her

  face, which it was impossible to deny. A nervous contraction at

  one corner of her mouth drew up the lips out of the symmetrically

  right line, when, they moved. A nervous uncertainty in the eye on

  the same side narrowly escaped presenting the deformity of a

  "cast." And yet, with these indisputable drawbacks, here was one

  of those women--the formidable few--who have the hearts of men

  and the peace of families at their mercy. She moved--and there

  was some subtle charm, Sir, in the movement, that made you look

  back, and suspend your conversation with your friend, and watch

  her silently while she walked. She sat by you and talked to

  you--and behold, a sensitive something passed into that little

  twist at the corner of the mouth, and into that nervous

  uncertainty in the soft gray eye, which turned defect into

  beauty--which enchained your senses--which made your nerves

  thrill if she touched you by accident, and set your heart beating

  if you looked at the same book with her, and felt her breath on

  your face. All this, let it be well understood, only happened if

  you were a man.

  If you saw her with the eyes of a woman, the results were of

  quite another kind. In that case you merely turned to your

  nearest female friend, and said, with unaffected pity for the

  other sex, "What _can_ the men see in her!"

  The eyes of the lady of the house and the eyes of the governess

  met, with marked distrust on either side. Few people could have

  failed to see what the stranger and the friend had noticed

  alike--that there was something smoldering under the surface

  here. Miss Silvester spoke first.

  "Thank you, Lady Lundie," she said. "I would rather not play."

  Lady Lundie assumed an extreme surprise which passed the limits

  of good-breeding.

  "Oh, indeed?" she rejoined, sharply. "Considering that we are all

  here for the purpose of playing, that seems rather remarkable. Is

  any thing wrong, Miss Silvester?"

  A flush appeared on the delicate paleness of Miss Silvester's

  face. But she did her duty as a woman and a governess. She

  submitted, and so preserved appearances, for that time.

  "Nothing is the matter," she answered. "I am not very well this

  morning. But I will play if you wish it."

  "I do wish it," answered Lady Lundie.

  Miss Silvester turned aside toward one of the entrances into the

  summer-house. She waited for events, looking out over the lawn,

  with a visible inner disturbance, marked over the bosom by the

  rise and fall of her white dress.

  It was Blanche's turn to select the next player .

  In some preliminary uncertainty as to her choice she looked about

  among the guests, and caught the eye of a gentleman in the front

  ranks. He stood side by side with Sir Patrick--a striking

  representative of the school that is among us--as Sir Patrick was

  a striking representative of the school that has passed away.

  The modern gentleman was young and florid, tall and strong. The

  parting of his curly Saxon locks began in the center of his

  forehead, traveled over the top of his head, and ended,

  rigidly-central, at the ruddy nape of his neck. His features were

  as perfectly regular and as perfectly unintelligent as human

  features can be. His expression preserved an immovable composure

  wonderful to behold. The muscles of his brawny arms showed

  through the sleeves of his light summer coat. He was deep in the

  chest, thin in the flanks, firm on the legs--in two words a

  magnificent human animal, wrought up to the highest pitch of

  physical development, from head to foot. This was Mr. Geoffrey

  Delamayn--commonly called "the honorable;" and meriting that