_ODEYNE'S HOME._
Odeyne stepped out of the long French window which opened upon the
lawn, but instead of joining the family party, grouped together
beneath the sweeping boughs of the great cedar tree, she shrank away
into the friendly shadow of the willow arbour hard by, and looked
across the sunny vista, with eyes in which there was a sparkle of
suspicious moisture, albeit there was no look of unhappiness in the
girl's fair face, but rather an expression of deep content.
And yet, now that the last day in the old home had really come,
Odeyne found it in her heart to wonder how she had ever made up her
mind to leave it, and to go out into the great unknown world, even
with Desmond at her side. It was a great mystery to her even now,
the strange, new, overpowering love which had crept into her life and
changed its whole tenor--had made her willing to leave her sheltered
home and all the tender associations of her childhood--father,
mother, sisters, and brothers, including even Guy, her dearly-beloved
twin, from whom she had vowed a hundred times that no power on earth
should ever part her. Sometimes it seemed as if it could only be a
dream, from which she should soon awake; but, then, Desmond was no
dream; he had grown to be as the girl's second self, and it had
become an impossibility to picture life without him.
She wanted a little time for quiet thought. She had been indoors
writing the last letters (in all probability) that would ever be
signed Odeyne Hamilton, and she had promised to join the others at
afternoon tea beneath the old cedar; but the tray was not yet brought
out, though the party had all assembled in the cool retreat, and she
wanted to sit a few minutes looking at them all, herself unobserved,
so as to carry away with her a picture that would ever after be a
source of pleasure and tender satisfaction.
For there was not one face missing in the dear group. There was the
father, with the snowy head--the typical clergyman, even to the
beautiful benevolent sweetness of expression, which surely ought to
characterise the faces of those whose lives are specially dedicated
to the feeding of Christ's flock; the mother, all gentle seriousness,
with unselfish love shining in her eyes, and making lovely the whole
countenance, even though some anxious fears could not but mingle in
sympathy with her child's happiness. Then there was tall, manly
Edmund--every inch the soldier--and Walter, his father's curate, so
good and steady, who had never given his parents one hour of real
anxiety or pain. There was bright, capable Mary, a model eldest
daughter and sister, and the three girls yet in the schoolroom and
nursery--Patty, Flossy, and Nesta, the pets and plagues of the house.
And last, though by no means least, there was Guy--Guy with the thin,
pale, intellectual face, the broad brow, beautiful dark eyes, and the
ever-changing lights and shades flickering always in them.
It was upon Guy's face that Odeyne's glance rested most long and most
lovingly, for it was after all Guy who would miss her most.
For Guy had lived always at home, on account of his delicate health,
and his twin sister had shared alike in his studies and his
amusements, had been his nurse in sickness and his comrade in health,
till the two had grown to be almost shadows of one another.
It had always seemed to the girl as if Guy's lack of physical
strength had been in some sort her fault, as if she had taken an
undue share of it, rather to his detriment.
One delicate child in a pair of twins was nothing uncommon; but it
seemed to her as if it ought to have been the girl, not the boy, who
should be called on to take the extra burden of ill-health, whereas,
in this case, she was endowed with an unusually strong physique, and
had hardly known a day's illness in her life, whilst Guy had gone
through pretty well every misery to which flesh is heir.
There was a strong likeness between this brother and sister. Both
had the same straight level brows, the same expressive eyes of dark
grey, that looked almost black in shadow, and the same delicate,
regular features.
But the smooth, rounded cheek of the girl was tinged with a beautiful
bloom, and her every movement spoke of an overflowing vitality and
power of enjoyment.
It was pleasant to watch Odeyne walk, or carry on any active
employment: there was a dainty grace and precision in her movements,
as characteristic as it was unstudied, which gave a subtle
gratification to the spectator, and showed an amount of healthy
physical training of a perfectly feminine kind that it is refreshing
to meet with in these days of extremes.
Guy's movements, on the contrary, were slow and languid, and his oval
face wore the pallor of confirmed ill-health. At the same time he
was stronger and better than he had ever been in his life before,
and, but for this marked improvement of the past year, it may be
doubtful whether even handsome and gallant Desmond St. Claire would
have urged his suit with any measure of success.
It was Guy's keen eyes that detected his sister in her shady retreat,
and detaching himself unobserved from the group beneath the cedar, he
took a circuitous path that brought him at length to her side.
"Well, Odeyne, in maiden meditation lost? A penny for your thoughts,
_Schwesterling mein_."
But at the caressing touch of his hand upon her shoulder, and the
sound of the old familiar pet name, the moisture on the girl's long
eyelashes resolved itself into very decided drops, which made her
brother's face and the sunny garden swim before her in a golden mist.
"Oh, Guy, I don't know how I have ever done it. I don't know how to
go through with it now. It seems almost wicked to go away and leave
you all. Am I right? Oh, I wish I were sure."
"My dearest child, you must not encourage these foolish thoughts,"
was the calm rejoinder, spoken in Guy's low, even tones, that despite
their quietness and evenness betrayed to the girl, who knew every
cadence of his voice, an amount of feeling that he would never openly
display. "You are only doing what every woman does at one time or
another in her life--or at least the great majority of them. What is
it that troubles you at the last? You have not quarrelled
desperately with Desmond since the morning?"
But Odeyne's glance was serious and grave, and tinged with a sort of
wistful anxiety.
"You know it is not that. It is no fear of Desmond. I think it is
fear of myself. Guy, do you remember how I so often grew almost
discontented and cross because our lives were so quiet, so shielded,
so far removed from the struggle and battle of life? Well, those
thoughts of rebellion are troubling me now--now that I am going out
into the world to be my own mistress, as people say. You do not know
what I would give to feel that there would always be mother to turn
to. I wish I had never been discontented. How is it one never
values what one has until it is going to be taken away?"
Guy put his arm caressingly round her neck, as he knelt on one knee
beside her. The slanting light from the westering sun twinkled into
their leafy retreat in a myriad golden shafts, interspersed with
flickering shadows, the breeze rustled the leaves overhead, the birds
began to twitter softly after their midday silence. A sort of
restful hush seemed over all the world, and the sense of farewell was
fast stealing over the heart of brother and sister alike.
"Odeyne," he said tenderly, "you have little enough to reproach
yourself with, I am sure. I suppose it is implanted in our very
nature--that longing to go out and try conclusions with the world.
Even I know something of it, though I should make so poor a figure
there. I think you will give us all reason to be proud of you. You
were always cut out more or less for the part of the great lady. You
must let me soon come to you in the new home. I want to see you at
the head of your own table, queening it in your own house."
She smiled then, but the look on her face did not change.
"That is part of the trouble, I think. It is only lately I have
realised that Desmond is rich, and has a large house, and a lot of
servants, and that things will be very different from what I have
been accustomed to here. I feel so small and inexperienced, and so
young. If only it were not so far away! If only I could have mother
to go to for advice!"
"You will have Desmond."
There was a soft light in the girl's eyes. She looked very lovely at
that moment, her brother thought.
"Yes, I shall have Desmond; but that is not quite what I mean. I
want somebody who will tell home-truths to me--Desmond always says
everything I do is right. You will be a help when you come, Guy, in
many ways; but I shall want mother dreadfully sometimes, I know."
"After you have been married some time, possibly Desmond will indulge
your taste for home-truths more freely."
"Oh yes, I daresay he will. He has plenty of will of his own; I do
not like men who have not. But, Guy, I am so distrustful of myself.
I am afraid I may grow too fond of pleasure and luxury, and the
things that seem to be coming to me. Do you remember all my castles
in the air about the big house I was to have some day, and the horses
and carriages, and grand way of living, and how I always said that
that was just what I should like? Well, now that Desmond has talked
to me about the Chase, and all the things that go on there, and what
will be expected of us, it is just as if I were getting everything I
had coveted--if that is not too strong a word to use--and I am afraid
I may grow too fond of pleasure, and the bright, butterfly life that
we seem to be going to lead. You know, Guy, I am very fond of
pleasure--very fond of it indeed--though here, with father and mother
and all the influences round us, I have not done anything to make
them fear for me. Oh, I wish it did not seem all quite so strange!
Suppose I grow careless and vain and idle, and become a trouble to
you all, how sad it would be!"
"I do not think there is very much fear of that, _Schwesterling_; you
have your sheet-anchor fast, I am sure."
A new look crossed the girl's face.
"Oh, I hope so, Guy; that is the great comfort of all. I could never
dare to go away but for that"; then after a little pause she added
very softly: "You will pray for me always when I am gone, Guy; for I
know there will be so many more temptations, and I feel so ignorant
and so weak."
He pressed her hand by way of answer. Even to each other this
brother and sister were reserved as to their deeper feelings, though
they knew them to be in accord. Guy stood looking straight out
before him with a look of fine concentration on his face, whilst the
girl wiped the tears from her cheek, and presently looked up with a
smile in her sweet eyes.
"There, I am better now. I think I just wanted a little talk with
you all to myself. Let us go to the others now. I must not be long
away. Every hour is precious to-day."
"Ah, yes, let us come. We shall think of this afternoon when
to-morrow comes, and there is a great blank in the house. You will
be the best off; you will not be aware of it. No, no, little one, do
not look like that. It is all right, and I shall like to think of
you and Desmond having a good time together. You have been cooped up
quite long enough in one place. It is right that some of the birds
should leave the nest. Only I suppose you do not want me to say I
shall not miss you at first. It would be but a poor compliment after
all these long years of willing service. Am I to be allowed to thank
you for them before you take wing, little sister?"
"Please not, Guy, unless you want to make me cry again, and I hate to
cry. If one once begins there is no leaving off, and tears are so
perilously near one's eyes to-night," with a tremulous little laugh.
"Besides, Desmond will soon be here, and he would be distressed. Men
cannot quite understand what leaving home is like to us."
"And I do not think he has ever known a home like this either,"
answered Guy, as they moved away together. "You will have to develop
the domestic instinct in him, Odeyne."
There was laughter and the soft sound of happy voices round the
tea-table that evening, for all were determined that to-morrow's
bride should not be saddened on her last day at home, by the thought
of the regrets her absence could not but cause.
She was marrying, with the full consent of her parents, a man who was
passionately attached to her, and of whom the whole family was very
fond.
He had come for six months to the Rectory last year to read with Mr.
Hamilton for an examination, and had in that time made himself
beloved by all, for his never-failing flow of happy spirits, his
warm-hearted, affectionate disposition, and for the way in which he
had grown into the family circle, and shared their joys and sorrows
almost as if they were his own. Of his "people," as he called them,
and his prospects he had spoken but little. Not that there was any
mystery about the matter: he was very open about himself and his own
affairs. He had lost his father when he was seventeen, and his
mother had elected to go abroad with his two sisters whilst he spent
his time first at a tutor's and then at college. Meantime the family
house was let to strangers; for it was entailed on Desmond, the only
son, and he did not see any use in living there alone. Since his
coming of age things had not materially changed until about a year
ago, when Mrs. St. Claire had returned to England, and had settled
down in a smaller house, about half-way between her old home and the
house where her elder daughter spent much of her time.
Beatrice St. Claire had made a fairly brilliant marriage, and was now
the Hon. Mrs. Vanborough, with a town house and a country house,
being herself a leader in a small social circle. Maud was still at
home with her mother, and both were naturally anxious that Desmond
should return and settle near them. They had never come to the
remote Devonshire village to see his future wife--they were very busy
at home, and shrank, as it seemed, from the long journey; but both
had written in a kind and genial fashion, and Maud would have
certainly been present at the wedding, had it not been that Mrs. St.
Claire had been overtaken by a sharp attack of illness the previous
week, which kept both her and her daughter at home.
It was a disappointment to all parties, though not what it would have
been had Desmond known more of his nearest relatives. But though he
always spoke of them with warm affection he had been too much
separated from them and their life of late years, to have very much
in common; and the home of his betrothed was far more of a home for
him than the residence of his mother. Perhaps Mrs. Hamilton was the
most disappointed at the absence of Desmond's mother. She felt a
great anxiety to know what manner of woman it was who would be
henceforth the nearest confidante and adviser of her dearly-loved
daughter. She often found herself wishing that she knew more about
the life into which her child was about to step--more about the man
himself, into whose hands they were about to commit their treasure.
True, in one sense of the word, they knew everything--he kept nothing
back--not even the fact that at Oxford he had been more than a little
extravagant, and had been in serious disgrace more than once with the
authorities for his wild pranks and misdemeanours of various kinds.
No one could be more open than Desmond was, and no one could express
more contrition for past follies, or a livelier determination to
amend in the future. And then he and Odeyne loved one another.
There could be no manner of doubt as to that, and when all was said
and done there was nothing in the young man's past career to justify
the loving parents from withholding their consent, despite sundry
fears and forebodings on the part of the anxious mother. Indeed,
from a worldly standpoint, Odeyne was doing very well for herself, as
young Desmond was very well off, and would be likely to add to his
income as time went on, for he had finally decided, mainly through
the advice of his future father-in-law, to enter the large mercantile
house in which his own father's fortune had been made, and to be more
than a mere name upon the books. Mr. Hamilton had a not ungrounded
horror of an idle man, and as Desmond showed no special leaning
towards any profession the Rector strongly urged him to take the
place open to him in the business house, and make himself a power
there. He need not give his whole time to it; but at least it would
save him from some of the temptations that so closely beset a wealthy
man actually without employment. The Chase was so situated that it
was easy to run up to town from it three or four times a week, and
Desmond, after a little vacillating, and not unnatural distaste of
"harness," had decided to take the advice pressed upon him, and was
by this time quite pleased at the prospect, and full of the wonders
he was going to accomplish when once he had his hand on the reins.
His bright, sanguine temperament was one of his great charms.
Perhaps he owed it in part to the Irish blood that ran in his
veins--though for several generations his immediate ancestors had
been English--at any rate he had a happy buoyancy of disposition that
made his company delightful, and endeared him to all with whom he
came in contact.
There was certainly something peculiarly winning and attractive in
the face that was bent over Odeyne an hour later, as the lovers, so
soon to be united, stood together in the dewy garden, not talking
much, but pacing side by side in quiet contentment, glancing now and
then at each other with eyes that were eloquent of love. Desmond St.
Claire was just four-and-twenty, tall, broad-shouldered, but with
plenty of suppleness and grace in the free movements of his strong
limbs, as also in his whole bearing and carriage, particularly the
pose of the head, which had a very characteristic set of its own,
that might have been called haughty but for the open, smiling
brightness which was the prevailing expression of the handsome,
bronzed face. The young man looked like one of Fortune's favourites.
Guy used to tell him he also looked like an only son.
"One can see you've had no brothers to bully you, or take you down a
peg every now and then," he said to him early on in their
acquaintance; "it's easy to see you have always been surrounded by
adoring women-folk." And though this last statement was hardly
correct in its literal sense, it was none the less true that Desmond
had been used from childhood to be made much of, and to consider
himself a personage of some importance; nor had his training done
very much, so far, to eradicate the idea; though it is but fair to
say the young man was hardly aware that he held it. There was no
bumptious self-assertion about him. On the contrary, he was more
disposed to under-value his own attainments, and to admire others
above himself. Still, notwithstanding all this, he could not rid
himself of the air of a prosperous and rather important personage,
and Odeyne found no fault with the little air of distinction that he
wore with so much of boyish ease and grace. She liked, too, above
all else, the tender, protecting manner he always assumed towards
herself when they were alone together. Odeyne had won the reputation
at home of being slightly independent, and anything but desirous of
constant protection in the little details of her daily life; indeed,
she seemed rather protector than in need of care herself, in her
relations not only with Guy, but also with her mother and little
sisters. Yet none the less did she find a great sweetness in
depending upon Desmond, and feeling that he was watching over her and
upholding her in all their mutual relations. Odeyne was too true a
woman not to delight in this feeling, however little it might seem to
some to be a part of her nature.
To-night Desmond was in an unusually serious mood, but the girl was
content that it should be so. They walked for some time in silence,
and then he said tenderly and softly--
"You have had a very happy home here, my darling; sometimes I feel
half afraid of taking you away. Suppose I fail to make you happy.
Suppose the day should come when you should repent that you had ever
married me."
"That day never could come, Desmond," answered the girl in clear, low
tones, with an upward glance more eloquent than words.
"I trust not, dearest; but one never knows what may happen----"
"Nothing that happens could bring that to pass," was the quick reply.
"I know we may have trouble and sorrow--no lives are quite exempt
from that; and why should we expect it? But do you not know that
trouble shared with you would be sweeter than any ease and pleasure
enjoyed alone? The more sorrow fell to your lot, the more I should
want to be with you to share it."
He turned and clasped her in his arms.
"God bless you, sweet love, for those words," he said, with a quiver
in his voice. "I only trust I may be worthy of the treasure I shall
take to myself to-morrow."
"If God does bless us," answered Odeyne in a whisper, "we need not be
afraid of the future, or what it will bring. I am so glad you said
that, Desmond. I can't talk about things, but I want us--oh, so
much, to feel alike in everything."
"My darling, we will. You shall teach me to be like your own sweet
self. This home has always been a living lesson to me. If we can
make our own like it I shall be content."
"Oh, if we could!" cried the girl with beaming eyes. "Ah, Desmond,
let us try. We may come a good deal short of our ideal, but at any
rate we will try."
He smiled as he caressed her curly hair. The old brightness had come
back to his face. Desmond's grave moods were seldom of long
continuance.
"By all means, dearest, let us try. Only you may not find it quite
such an easy matter as you think now, to model our future household
upon that of a rustic rectory. Here we live in Arcadia; there it
will be--well, different."
There was a sweet, grave brightness upon Odeyne's face on the morrow,
as she stood before the altar of the quaint little parish church
where she had been christened, and repeated after her father the
solemn words that made her the wife of Desmond St. Claire. Behind
her stood her sisters, and those nearest and dearest; whilst at her
side stood the man of her choice, and before her was the strange
future life, which seemed to stretch itself out in rainbow tints.
The bells clashed out a merry peal as she left the church; all the
village was _en fête_ to see Miss Odeyne's wedding. In the absence
of the bridegroom's relations every face was familiar and
beloved--for Desmond was mighty popular in the little village he knew
so well.
It seemed a wedding all smiles and no tears, and even when the moment
of farewell came the smiles predominated, despite the mist that
obscured the visions of some of the party who watched the departure
of the bride.
"They are all your brothers and sisters now, Desmond," said the young
wife, leaning forward to take one last view of the crowd of dear,
familiar faces.
"Of course they are," he answered, his fingers closing upon hers, his
hat in his hand, waving a glad farewell salute. "I never had any
brothers of my own, and all yours are mine now. We will have them
all down to the Chase for our first Christmas there, if we don't get
them before. You shall never feel that marriage has made the least
bit of a barrier between you, my loyal little wife; only you will
give yourself to me for just a little while without any rivals in
your heart, will you not?"
At that question Odeyne turned to her husband with a beautiful light
in her eyes, and answered--
"Desmond, you know that you are always first now. Whatever lies
before us in the future you will always find me by your side. We
have taken each other for better for worse."
He took her hand and carried it to his lips.
"It shall never be for worse, my darling!" he cried, "I will promise
you that!"