Who was responsible for the reform of the summer-house? The newtenant at Windygates was responsible.

And who was the new tenant?

Come, and see.

In the spring of eighteen hundred and sixty-eight thesummer-house had been the dismal dwelling-place of a pair ofowls. In the autumnof the same year the summer-house was the lively gathering-placeof a crowd of ladies and gentlemen, assembled at a lawnparty--the guests of the tenant who had taken Windygates.

The scene--at the opening of the party--was as pleasant to lookat as light and beauty and movement could make it.

Inside the summer-house the butterfly-brightness of the women intheir summer dresses shone radiant out of the gloom shed round itby the dreary modern clothing of the men. Outside thesummer-house, seen through three arched openings, the cool greenprospect of a lawn led away, in the distance, to flower-beds andshrubberies, and, farther still, disclosed, through a break inthe trees, a grand stone house which closed the view, with afountain in front of it playing in the sun.

They were half of them laughing, they were all of themtalking--the comfortable hum of their voices was at its loudest;the cheery pealing of the laughter was soaring to its highestnotes--when one dominant voice, rising clear and shrill above allthe rest, called imperatively for silence. The moment after, ayoung lady stepped into the vacant space in front of thesummer-house, and surveyed the throng of guests as a general incommand surveys a regiment under review.

She was young, she was pretty, she was plump, she was fair. Shewas not the least embarrassed by her prominent position. She wasdressed in the height of the fashion. A hat, like a cheese-plate,was tilted over her forehead. A balloon of light brown hairsoared, fully inflated, from the crown of her head. A cataract ofbeads poured over her bosom. A pair of cock-chafers in enamel(frightfully like the living originals) hung at her ears. Herscanty skirts shone splendid with the blue of heaven. Her anklestwinkled 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 wasMiss Blanche Lundie--once the little rosy Blanche whom thePrologue 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 moderntime--with the merits of the age we live in, and the failings ofthe age we live in--and a substance of sincerity and truth andfeeling underlying it all.

"Now then, good people," cried Miss Blanche, "silence, if youplease! We are going to choose sides at croquet. Business,business, business!"

Upon this, a second lady among the company assumed a position ofprominence, and answered the young person who had just spokenwith a look of mild reproof, and in a tone of benevolent protest.

The second lady was tall, and solid, and five-and-thirty. Shepresented to the general observation a cruel aquiline nose, anobstinate straight chin, magnificent dark hair and eyes, a serenesplendor of fawn-colored apparel, and a lazy grace of movementwhich was attractive at first sight, but inexpressibly monotonousand wearisome on a longer acquaintance. This was Lady Lundie theSecond, now the widow (after four months only of married life) ofSir Thomas Lundie, deceased. In other words, the step-mother ofBlanche, and the enviable person who had taken the house andlands of Windygates.

"My dear," said Lady Lundie, "words have their meanings--even ona young lady's lips. Do you call Croquet, 'business?' "

"You don't call it pleasure, surely?" said a gravely ironicalvoice in the back-ground of the summer-house.

The ranks of the visitors parted before the last speaker, anddisclosed to view, in the midst of that modern assembly, agentleman of the bygone time.

The manner of this gentleman was distinguished by a pliant graceand courtesy unknown to the present generation. The attire ofthis gentleman was composed of a many-folded white cravat, aclose-buttoned blue dress-coat, and nankeen trousers with gaitersto match, ridiculous to the present generation. The talk of thisgentleman ran in an easy flow--revealing an independent habit ofmind, and exhibiting a carefully-polished capacity for satiricalretort--dreaded and disliked by the present generation.Personally, he was little and wiry and slim--with a bright whitehead, and sparkling black eyes, and a wry twist of humor curlingsharply at the corners of his lips. At his lower extremities, heexhibited the deformity which is popularly known as "aclub-foot." But he carried his lameness, as he carried his years,gayly. He was socially celebrated for his ivory cane, with asnuff-box artfully let into the knob at the top--and he wassocially dreaded for a hatred of modern institutions, whichexpressed itself in season and out of season, and which alwaysshowed the same, fatal knack of hitting smartly on the weakestplace. Such was Sir Patrick Lundie; brother of the late baronet,Sir Thomas; and inheritor, at Sir Thomas's death, of the titleand estates.

Miss Blanche--taking no notice of her step-mother's reproof, orof her uncle's commentary on it--pointed to a table on whichcroquet mallets and balls were laid ready, and recalled theattention of the company to the matter in hand.

"I head one side, ladies and gentlemen," she resumed. "And LadyLundie heads the other. We choose our players turn and turnabout. Mamma has the advantage of me in years. So mamma choosesfirst."

With a look at her step-daughter--which, being interpreted,meant, "I would send you back to the nursery, miss, if Icould!"--Lady Lundie turned and ran her eye over her guests. Shehad evidently made up her mind, beforehand, what player to pickout first.

"I choose Miss Silvester," she said--with a special emphasis laidon the name.

At that there was another parting among the crowd. To us (whoknow her), it was Anne who now appeared. Strangers, who saw herfor the first time, saw a lady in the prime of her life--a ladyplainly dressed in unornamented white--who advanced slowly, andconfronted the mistress of the house.

A certain proportion--and not a small one--of the men at thelawn-party had been brought there by friends who were privilegedto introduce them. The moment she appeared every one of those mensuddenly became interested in the lady who had been chosen first.

"That's a very charming woman," whispered one of the strangers atthe 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 wasalso the moment which brought Lady Lundie and Miss Silvester faceto face in the presence of the company.

The stranger at the house looked at the two women, and whisperedagain.

"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 anunfathomable mystery to observers of their own sex. The governesswas one of those women. She had inherited the charm, but not thebeauty, of her unhappy mother. Judge her by the standard set upin the illustrated gift-books and the print-shop windows--and thesentence must have inevitably followed. "She has not a singlegood featurein her face."

There was nothing individually remarkable about Miss Silvester,seen in a state of repose. She was of the average height. She wasas well made as most women. In hair and complexion she wasneither light nor dark, but provokingly neutral just between thetwo. Worse even than this, there were positive defects in herface, which it was impossible to deny. A nervous contraction atone corner of her mouth drew up the lips out of the symmetricallyright line, when, they moved. A nervous uncertainty in the eye onthe same side narrowly escaped presenting the deformity of a"cast." And yet, with these indisputable drawbacks, here was oneof those women--the formidable few--who have the hearts of menand the peace of families at their mercy. She moved--and therewas some subtle charm, Sir, in the movement, that made you lookback, and suspend your conversation with your friend, and watchher silently while she walked. She sat by you and talked toyou--and behold, a sensitive something passed into that littletwist at the corner of the mouth, and into that nervousuncertainty in the soft gray eye, which turned defect intobeauty--which enchained your senses--which made your nervesthrill if she touched you by accident, and set your heart beatingif you looked at the same book with her, and felt her breath onyour face. All this, let it be well understood, only happened ifyou were a man.

If you saw her with the eyes of a woman, the results were ofquite another kind. In that case you merely turned to yournearest female friend, and said, with unaffected pity for theother sex, "What _can_ the men see in her!"

The eyes of the lady of the house and the eyes of the governessmet, with marked distrust on either side. Few people could havefailed to see what the stranger and the friend had noticedalike--that there was something smoldering under the surfacehere. Miss Silvester spoke first.

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

Lady Lundie assumed an extreme surprise which passed the limitsof good-breeding.

"Oh, indeed?" she rejoined, sharply. "Considering that we are allhere for the purpose of playing, that seems rather remarkable. Isany thing wrong, Miss Silvester?"

A flush appeared on the delicate paleness of Miss Silvester'sface. But she did her duty as a woman and a governess. Shesubmitted, and so preserved appearances, for that time.

"Nothing is the matter," she answered. "I am not very well thismorning. 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 thesummer-house. She waited for events, looking out over the lawn,with a visible inner disturbance, marked over the bosom by therise 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 aboutamong the guests, and caught the eye of a gentleman in the frontranks. He stood side by side with Sir Patrick--a strikingrepresentative of the school that is among us--as Sir Patrick wasa striking representative of the school that has passed away.

The modern gentleman was young and florid, tall and strong. Theparting of his curly Saxon locks began in the center of hisforehead, traveled over the top of his head, and ended,rigidly-central, at the ruddy nape of his neck. His features wereas perfectly regular and as perfectly unintelligent as humanfeatures can be. His expression preserved an immovable composurewonderful to behold. The muscles of his brawny arms showedthrough the sleeves of his light summer coat. He was deep in thechest, thin in the flanks, firm on the legs--in two words amagnificent human animal, wrought up to the highest pitch ofphysical development, from head to foot. This was Mr. GeoffreyDelamayn--commonly called "the honorable;" and meriting thatdistinction in more ways than one. He was honorable, in the firstplace, as being the son (second son) of that once-risingsolicitor, who was now Lord Holchester. He was honorable, in thesecond place, as having won the highest popular distinction whichthe educational system of modern England can bestow--he hadpulled the stroke-oar in a University boat-race. Add to this,that nobody had ever seen him read any thing but a newspaper, andthat nobody had ever known him to be backward in settling abet--and the picture of this distinguished young Englishman willbe, for the present, complete.

Blanche's eye naturally rested on him. Blanche's voice naturallypicked him out as the first player on her side.

"I choose Mr. Delamayn," she said.

As the name passed her lips the flush on Miss Silvester's facedied away, and a deadly paleness took its place. She made amovement to leave the summer-house--checked herself abruptly--andlaid one hand on the back of a rustic seat at her side. Agentleman behind her, looking at the hand, saw it clench itselfso suddenly and so fiercely that the glove on it split. Thegentleman made a mental memorandum, and registered Miss Silvesterin his private books as "the devil's own temper."

Meanwhile Mr. Delamayn, by a strange coincidence, took exactlythe same course which Miss Silvester had taken before him. He,too, attempted to withdraw from the coming game.

"Thanks very much," he said. "Could you additionally honor me bychoosing somebody else? It's not in my line."

Fifty years ago such an answer as this, addressed to a lady,would have been considered inexcusably impertinent. The socialcode of the present time hailed it as something frankly amusing.The company laughed. Blanche lost her temper.

"Can't we interest you in any thing but severe muscular exertion,Mr. Delamayn?" she asked, sharply. "Must you always be pulling ina boat-race, or flying over a high jump? If you had a mind, youwould want to relax it. You have got muscles instead. Why notrelax _ them?"_

The shafts of Miss Lundie's bitter wit glided off Mr. GeoffreyDelamayn like water off a duck's back.

"Just as you please," he said, with stolid good-humor. "Don't beoffended. I came here with ladies--and they wouldn't let mesmoke. I miss my smoke. I thought I'd slip away a bit and haveit. All right! I'll play."

"Oh! smoke by all means!" retorted Blanche. "I shall choosesomebody else. I won't have you!"

The honorable young gentleman looked unaffectedly relieved. Thepetulant young lady turned her back on him, and surveyed theguests at the other extremity of the summer-house.

"Who shall I choose?" she said to herself.

A dark young man--with a face burned gipsy-brown by the sun; withsomething in his look and manner suggestive of a roving life, andperhaps of a familiar acquaintance with the sea--advanced shyly,and said, in a whisper:

"Choose me!"

Blanche's face broke prettily into a charming smile. Judging fromappearances, the dark young man had a place in her estimationpeculiarly his own.

"You!" she said, coquettishly. "You are going to leave us in anhour's time!"

He ventured a step nearer. "I am coming back," he pleaded, "theday after to-morrow."

"You play very badly!"

"I might improve--if you would teach me."

"Might you? Then I will teach you!" She turned, bright and rosy,to her step-mother. "I choose Mr. Arnold Brinkworth," she said.

Here, again, there appeared to be something in a name unknown tocelebrity, which nevertheless produced its effect--not, thistime, on Miss Silvester, but on Sir Patrick. He looked at Mr.Brinkworth with a sudden interest and curiosity. If the lady ofthe house had not claimed his attention at the moment he wouldevidently have spoken to the dark young man.

But it was Lady Lundie's turn to choose a second player on herside. Her brother-in-law was a person of some importance; and shehad her own motives for ingratiating herself with the head of thefamily. She surprised the whole company by choosing Sir Patrick.

"Mamma!" cried Blanche. "What can you be thinking of? Sir Patrickwon't play. Croquet wasn't discovered in his time."

Sir Patrick never allowed "his time" to be made the subject ofdisparaging remarks by the younger generation without paying they ounger generation back in its own coin.

"In _my_ time, my dear," he said to his niece, "people wereexpected to bring some agreeable quality with them to socialmeetings of this sort. In your time you have dispensed with allthat. Here," remarked the old gentleman, taking up a croquetmallet from the table near him, "is one of the qualifications forsuccess in modern society. And here," he added, taking up a ball,"is another. Very good. Live and learn. I'll play! I'll play!"

Lady Lundie (born impervious to all sense of irony) smiledgraciously.

"I knew Sir Patrick would play," she said, "to please me,"

Sir Patrick bowed with satirical politeness.

"Lady Lundie," he answered, "you read me like a book." To theastonishment of all persons present under forty he emphasizedthose words by laying his hand on his heart, and quoting poetry."I may say with Dryden," added the gallant old gentleman:

" 'Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit,The power of beauty I remember yet.' "

Lady Lundie looked unaffectedly shocked. Mr. Delamayn went a stepfarther. He interfered on the spot--with the air of a man whofeels himself imperatively called upon to perform a public duty.

"Dryden never said that," he remarked, "I'll answer for it."

Sir Patrick wheeled round with the help of his ivory cane, andlooked Mr. Delamayn hard in the face.

"Do you know Dryden, Sir, better than I do?" he asked.

The Honorable Geoffrey answered, modestly, "I should say I did. Ihave rowed three races with him, and we trained together."

Sir Patrick looked round him with a sour smile of triumph.

"Then let me tell you, Sir," he said, "that you trained with aman who died nearly two hundred years ago."

Mr. Delamayn appealed, in genuine bewilderment, to the companygenerally:

"What does this old gentleman mean?" he asked. "I am speaking ofTom Dryden, of Corpus. Every body in the University knows _him._"

"I am speaking," echoed Sir Patrick, "of John Dryden the Poet.Apparently, every body in the University does _not_ know _him!"_

Mr. Delamayn answered, with a cordial earnestness very pleasantto see:

"Give you my word of honor, I never heard of him before in mylife! Don't be angry, Sir. _I'm_ not offended with _you._" Hesmiled, and took out his brier-wood pipe. "Got a light?" heasked, in the friendliest possible manner.

Sir Patrick answered, with a total absence of cordiality:

"I don't smoke, Sir."

Mr. Delamayn looked at him, without taking the slightest offense:

"You don't smoke!" he repeated. "I wonder how you get throughyour spare time?"

Sir Patrick closed the conversation:

"Sir," he said, with a low bow, "you _may_ wonder."

While this little skirmish was proceeding Lady Lundie and herstep-daughter had organized the game; and the company, playersand spectators, were beginning to move toward the lawn. SirPatrick stopped his niece on her way out, with the dark young manin close attendance on her.

"Leave Mr. Brinkworth with me," he said. "I want to speak tohim."

Blanche issued her orders immediately. Mr. Brinkworth wassentenced to stay with Sir Patrick until she wanted him for thegame. Mr. Brinkworth wondered, and obeyed.

During the exercise of this act of authority a circumstanceoccurred at the other end of the summer-house. Taking advantageof the confusion caused by the general movement to the lawn, MissSilvester suddenly placed herself close to Mr. Delamayn.

"In ten minutes," she whispered, "the summer-house will be empty.Meet me here."

The Honorable Geoffrey started, and looked furtively at thevisitors about him.

"Do you think it's safe?" he whispered back.

The governess's sensitive lips trembled, with fear or with anger,it was hard to say which.

"I insist on it!" she answered, and left him.

Mr. Delamayn knitted his handsome eyebrows as he looked afterher, and then left the summer-house in his turn. The rose-gardenat the back of the building was solitary for the moment. He tookout his pipe and hid himself among the roses. The smoke came fromhis mouth in hot and hasty puffs. He was usually the gentlest ofmasters--to his pipe. When he hurried that confidential servant,it was a sure sign of disturbance in the inner man.