_THE RITCHIES AT HOME._
Despite the little warning clouds in the clear horizon of her sky,
Odeyne settled down to her life in the new home with a sense of deep
content and happiness. It was all so interesting, so novel, and the
interest rather increased than lessened as time went by. The house
in itself was a perpetual source of pleasure to its young mistress.
It was so delightful to be surrounded by pretty things, and to find
everything for which she had expressed a wish supplied as if by
magic. True, when Desmond began to go regularly to town the young
wife found the days a little long, and sometimes even a little
lonely; but Odeyne always had plenty of occupations, and was not one
to let time hang on her hands heavily. Desmond did not go up to
business more than three or four times in the week, and on the other
days he was with her all the day. They had much to plan on the
laying out of their garden, for the girl was devoted to flowers, and
it was not till August was losing itself in September that she ever
began to feel a little dull on the days she spent alone.
The autumn came somewhat early that season, with driving rain-storms,
and frost that nipped the flowers, and drove Odeyne from her
favourite arbour in the garden to the fireside for comfort. There is
always something just a little bit sad in the death of the golden
summertide, and Odeyne, who had been accustomed to be one of a big
family, and to share in the abundant life of a household of noisy
young things, felt the silence of her home as something strange and
not altogether natural. And yet she saw little chance of improving
matters at once, for she was too much the new-comer to be able to
take the initiative with her neighbours, and just now many of the
houses were empty, for Scotland had drawn off the sporting men to the
grouse moors, whilst Switzerland and other foreign resorts had
claimed others. True, now that September was fairly in, people would
be coming home again fast; but just at the present time most of the
nearest houses were vacant, and Odeyne was thrown quite upon her own
resources.
As she stood warming her hands over her cheerful fire of logs, after
having enjoyed the early cup of tea to which she was partial, looking
out the while over the park at the driving clouds chasing each other
across the blustery sky, she felt a wish to do or see something
instead of spending the remainder of the afternoon in the house, and
after a pause for consideration, she said aloud--
"I declare I will go and see the Ritchies. They are home again now,
I know. It seems ridiculous that I have never once seen my nearest
neighbours, though I have been living here so many weeks. And I have
a feeling that I should like them, though Desmond does laugh over
them with Beatrice."
It was quite true that no meeting had so far been accomplished
between young Mrs. St. Claire and the doctor's household. When first
calls had been exchanged neither party had been at home, and not long
after Odeyne's arrival at the Chase, Mrs. Ritchie and her daughters
had gone for a month to the seaside, and were only just back now. It
was Odeyne's turn to call there, and it seemed a happy inspiration to
go this rather dreary afternoon, to fill up the time of Desmond's
absence.
The walk was a short one, and Odeyne hurried over it, for a black
cloud was coming up from the south-west, and threatened to fall in
heavy rain before long--indeed, the first drops were plashing down as
she reached the friendly shelter of the porch; and when she was
informed that Mrs. Ritchie, though not at home, was expected in every
moment, and asked if she would not wait, she gladly assented, for she
had no wish either to be baulked again or to get a wetting.
She was ushered through a homely-looking hall, rather like a parlour,
and into a low-ceiled room which bore traces of the constant
occupation of a family party. There was no blinking the matter that
the Ritchies' house was rather untidy; but there are two kinds of
untidiness, at least, one of which has a home-like and pleasant side,
altogether removed from slovenliness and dirt, and it was to this
class that the disorder in Mrs. Ritchie's house belonged. Indeed,
Odeyne's heart warmed at the sight of it. It recalled the old home
to her mental vision, as nothing at the Chase ever did. There was
something pleasant to her eyes in the worn and battered look of many
of the articles of furniture, in the threadbare patches on the
carpet, covered by rugs, and the pieces of unfinished needlework and
well-used books lying about on table, and chair. It was certainly
very charming to have all your surroundings harmonious and beautiful,
but it was more natural to see traces of economy and lack of means in
the ordering of the household, and Odeyne knew that she should feel
the more at home in this house for these little familiar touches.
The room was rather dim and dark, for one window was shaded by a
little greenhouse into which it opened, and the black cloud had
spread over the sky by this time. Odeyne at first thought no one was
present, as she had been ushered in unannounced: but as she advanced
towards the cheerful fire that glowed in the grate, a figure raised
itself suddenly into a sitting posture upon the rug, and a voice out
of the shadow said--
"I beg your pardon. I believe I have been to sleep."
Odeyne looked at the speaker, and in the uncertain light could not
make out whether it was a boy or a girl. The hair was short and
curly, the face, with its sharp, marked features, might have belonged
to either sex, and the dress was concealed by the heavy folds of an
old carriage rug which enveloped the semi-recumbent figure.
"I hope you haven't been waiting long. I don't know who you are, or
if you've come to see father or mother; but it was sensible of the
girl to bring you in here, any way, for the consulting-room is
precious cold, I daresay."
"I am not a patient," answered Odeyne with her sweet, low laugh; "I
am Desmond St. Claire's wife, and I have come to see you all. I am
very glad to have found somebody at home at last, and I should very
much like to know who you are."
The answer was prefaced by an answering laugh.
"Me? Oh, I'm only Jem. I don't count as anybody. I'm no good.
Mother will be in almost directly. She'll be awfully glad to see
you--so am I, for the matter of that. We've known Desmond ever since
he was a little boy--at least, the rest have. I don't profess to
remember much about it, for it's a great many years since we have
seen anything of him. I think he's got rather too grand for us, as
all the rest have, except, perhaps, Maud. It's no fun, you know,
when people get what Tom calls 'heavy swells.' I'd as soon not
pretend to be so very intimate. It looks as if one wanted to push
one's self where one isn't wanted."
"Well, at any rate, Jem, I'm not a heavy swell in any sense of the
word, I hope; and I think you and I ought to be friends, as we both
like plain speaking. And then in my old home I had quite a
reputation for getting on with boys--hitting it off, I suppose Tom
would say."
"To be sure he would. I'm glad you are not too grand to talk a
little slang in private. But I am not a boy, worse luck, only a
girl--and a girl with the awful name of Jemima, to boot. It's like
adding insult to injury, as I always tell them. I thought perhaps
you might have known our names; but of course Desmond would hardly
take count of me. I never played about with the others."
And as the girl slowly raised herself into a more upright sitting
posture, Odeyne saw with compassion that there was some malformation
of the childish figure, though she could not detect exactly what it
was. The face had the marked cast that so often accompanies
deformity, but the features were good, and the expression decidedly
attractive. The eyes, too, were really beautiful, and there was
something pathetic in the underlying sadness of their clear depths,
none the less so because the girl was often laughing, and seemed to
have a more than common aptitude for fun.
Odeyne bent forward and softly kissed the broad, pale brow. Jem
started, and then flushed as she caught the sweet look in the eyes
bent upon her.
"I have a very dear brother, who was an invalid for a great many
years," said the young wife softly. "I know all about sick people
and their ways. You must often come to see me, if you can, and I
will come to see you, too. We shall be great friends, I know, though
you are only a girl."
"Oh, I'm not an invalid," answered Jem quickly; "I'm only deformed;
and that makes my back ache a good deal, often. It ached all last
night, and kept me awake; so I went to sleep over the fire just now,
and didn't hear you come in. I hope you didn't think I was a
lunatic."
"Then you can get about the house, and out of it too, I hope? That
is right. It will make it easier for us. And some day you will come
out driving with me, I hope; for it is very dull going all alone,
especially for anyone like me. I have been used to a large family of
brothers and sisters, till I married and left them all. I want to
have some friends here to see plenty of. I shall make a beginning
with you, I think."
Jem's face beamed with pleasure.
"Will you really? Well, you are a brick--if you don't mind my saying
so. And you will tell me about your brother, won't you?--the one who
was ill. I hope he did not die," with a quick, upward look. "You
did not look sad when you spoke of him."
"Oh no, he is not dead; he is much better and stronger than he has
been ever since he was born. Some day soon, I hope, he will come and
see me; but I may have to wait till the spring, I am afraid, as it
might not do for him to leave home in the damp or cold, and
Devonshire is warmer in winter than this place. But I have my
soldier brother at Ashford, not five miles away. He is adjutant of
his depot, and he comes to see me as often as he can, which is very
nice. Now tell me about your brothers and sisters. Desmond has told
me their names, but he has talked to me about so many strangers that
I get a little confused amongst them all."
"Oh, we are not a large family--there are only Cissy and Cuthbert and
Tom. Tom is my favourite, because he is nearer my age, perhaps, and
he amuses me the most, and we seem always to understand one another
without any words--you know what I mean, don't you? But I think we
are a very united family altogether. Sometimes I think we must be a
bore to people, for I know we do like talking of one another, and
praising up one another, and in my inmost soul I know that that is
what one might reasonably call bad form, but I go on doing it all the
same. I could talk to you about Tom by the hour together, and enjoy
it. It is a family failing, I believe."
Odeyne was much entertained by her quaint little companion, but had
not the chance to make a rejoinder, for the door opened to admit Mrs.
Ritchie and her elder daughter, whilst a confusion of masculine
voices in the hall without bespoke the close proximity of the sons.
In another moment the room seemed full, and Odeyne had exchanged
greetings with the whole family. Thanks to what she had been told by
Jem and Desmond, she was able to distinguish one from another, and
though the light was still rather dim she could see enough to enable
her to make her observations with a certain amount of accuracy and
discrimination.
Mrs. Ritchie she found delightful from the first. Not that she was
endowed with any great outward attractions, or shone in conversation.
On the contrary, she was stout and homely in manner and appearance,
and a little bit inconsequent at times in her speech, making remarks
that elicited peals of laughter from her quick-witted children, in
which no one joined more heartily than herself. But then she was
every inch the mother, with the mother's quick, kindly eye, the
mother's gentle restraining and encouraging influence. Her
children's faces lighted instinctively as they turned towards her.
They talked to her as if she were one of themselves, and familiar
with every detail of their lives. The tall sons waited on her, and
paid her little marks of attention, as if it were a privilege and
pleasure to do so, and her husband sat beside her, with his hand on
the back of her chair, in a way which plainly testified to the
satisfaction it was to feel her near. Different as many things were,
Odeyne was reminded of her old home again and again, and she felt for
the first time since leaving it the warm, comfortable sensation of
being in the midst of a thoroughly united family.
Perhaps Jem was right in saying that they were fond of talking of
themselves and their own affairs, but if it were the case Odeyne was
not disposed to find any fault--indeed, she often found her attention
straying from the more or less conventional conversation carried on
by one or another with herself, to the free-and-easy chatter the sons
were indulging in, or the anecdotes the father was relating to his
"little girl," as he called Jem.
And when it became evident to all that their guest enjoyed the
unrestrained converse of a family party they tried to let her share
in it; little domestic jokes and catch-words were explained, merry
sallies exchanged, and the new-comer showed herself so thoroughly up
to this style of conversation that she made her way with wonderful
rapidity, and was taken at once into the inner circle as a friend.
"It is so nice that Desmond has married you," Jem remarked with the
quaint outspoken candour that seemed to be her prerogative in the
home party. "We have been so wondering what you would be like, and
if we should see more or less of Desmond after his marriage. Tom saw
you out riding the other day, and said----"
"Shut up, young 'un!" here interposed Tom, though not with the air of
confusion that many lads would have betrayed under the circumstances;
"tales out of school ain't fair."
"Tom said," continued Jem, perfectly unabashed, "that you were
awfully pretty, but looked altogether a cut above us, and were very
thick with Mrs. Vanborough and her set, of whom we see almost
nothing. But you're not a bit like any of them really, and I am very
glad. I do so hope you will like us. We have not got a great many
fashionable friends, you know; but it is nice sometimes to see people
who wear pretty things, and go out into the world. I do so like to
sit and listen to stories about what goes on, that none of us ever
see. I could talk to you all day----"
"That I am sure you could do," put in Tom, _sotto voce_. "And what a
treat it would be for Mrs. St. Claire!"
Jem gave him a reproving glance, and then laughed, not taking up the
thread of her ideas. The father turned and laid a hand upon her
curly head, saying caressingly--
"The little girl always was the family chatter-box; but she is none
the worse for that, is she, Jem?"
"No, daddy, I hope not; one must assert one's self somehow, when one
is the youngest of the family."
"And we have known dear Desmond from his childhood," put in Mrs.
Ritchie, in her placid way, turning towards Odeyne in more
confidential fashion. "He was always such a dear boy, and as a
little fellow he was always here, playing about with Cuthbert, who is
very much his own age. Of course we have seen but little of him
since his father's death; he has not been much in the neighbourhood,
and seven years is a big gap in a young life. Of course we were all
anxious to know if we should renew the pleasant acquaintance, when he
came to live so near us. I hardly know why it has been, but we never
seem to have got into the old easy terms with the girls since they
came back. Maud is a pretty constant caller, but not much more than
a caller, and Beatrice we hardly ever see. She has grown quite out
of our little world, poor girl." And Mrs. Ritchie sighed in a way
that would mightily have amused the Hon. Mrs. Vanborough had she
chanced to overhear it.
But Odeyne understood better, and gave a quick look at the speaker.
A wordy battle was going on in another quarter, and under cover of
the noise the visitor drew a little nearer to her hostess.
"I think I know partly what you mean about Beatrice. I have felt it
a little myself, though I could not say so to anyone but a very old
friend of the family. Do you know much about the people I meet at
her house? They are not a bit like those I have seen anywhere before
I married--but, then, I hardly saw anything or anybody. I am so
dreadfully inexperienced."
"Oh, my love--I beg your pardon, I should say Mrs. St. Claire----"
"Oh no, please not--please say Odeyne. It is so nice to hear one's
name sometimes, and you are Desmond's oldest friends, and will soon
be mine, I hope. But you were going to tell me about Beatrice. Oh,
it would be such a comfort to have someone to advise me! Desmond
cannot quite understand what I mean. He has grown used to it--but it
is a kind of atmosphere there is in the house--I do not know if I can
explain. I hope I am not wrong in saying so much--but sometimes I
feel as if it would be such a relief to talk to somebody who feels a
little as I do. Indeed, I do not want to find any fault."
"My dear, I am sure you do not; and I know exactly what you mean. I
do not go often to the house, but one hardly needs to go there to
know what causes your anxiety. Perhaps our position of very old
residents, and my husband's profession, which takes him into so many
houses, gives us exceptional opportunities for knowing much that goes
on; but, at any rate, we do hear a good deal, and I am afraid it is
no secret now that Mr. Vanborough is almost entirely 'on the Turf,'
as they call it, and that it is a very fast company that assembles at
his house."
And as Odeyne made no reply, but sat looking rather pale and grave,
the speaker continued eagerly--
"But, dear Odeyne--if I may really call you so--you must not run away
with the idea that there is anything bad about Beatrice or her house.
I believe many of her great friends are exceedingly nice
people--kind, open-handed, generous, and in many ways high-principled
too. You know how charming she is herself, and how she draws people
to her. Dear girl, my heart often aches for her, as I think of all
the temptations to which she is exposed. Still she married with her
eyes open, and she must take the consequences. But, oh, my dear--if
you will not think I am taking an unwarrantable liberty in saying
it--do not let Desmond go too much into that set, if you can help it.
It is hardly a safe one for a young man with plenty of money, and his
unsuspecting nature. At home with you, or in many houses round, he
will be safe; but I would not like, if I were his mother, to see him
too often at Mr. Vanborough's."
Odeyne sat silent so long that her hostess took sudden alarm, and
added, in the humblest way--
"I hope I have not said too much, or offended you in any way.
Perhaps it was a liberty to have spoken so frankly about your
husband's relations; but I love him----"
"Oh, Mrs. Ritchie, please do not think I am offended--indeed, I am
very grateful to you. I know it is because you love him that you say
all this. It is not about Desmond that I was looking grave. He goes
there very little now that he is so often in town, and the days are
getting shorter. He is very fond of his sister; but I do not think
he cares at all particularly for her friends. It was of poor
Beatrice herself I was thinking. I do feel so very sorry for her.
And that dear little boy. What will she do as he grows up,
if--if----" Odeyne paused there, hardly knowing how to finish the
sentence. "Ah, that poor darling child! I have asked myself the
same question many times; but there are some things that hardly bear
thinking of. Perhaps Beatrice will awake to the danger before he
gets of an age to know or notice much. Perhaps God may have sent you
here just now to be her guardian angel and his."
The words were so very simple-spoken that Odeyne could have smiled,
yet the tears were near her eyes too.
"I am afraid I am not much like a guardian angel," she answered with
equal simplicity; "but at least I will do my best, and if--if I am in
trouble or perplexity, may I come to you and tell you all about it?
I am so far away from my own mother, and this house reminds me so
much of my own dear old home."
It was good to the girl to receive the warm, motherly kiss that Mrs.
Ritchie bestowed on her at parting. Certainly this visit had brought
about an intimacy little expected, and had been a very remarkable
introduction. It was hard to believe she had never seen these people
two hours ago, and stranger still that the first interview should
have been so confidential. But so it was, and as Odeyne walked back,
attended to her own gate by Cuthbert and Tom, she felt that it was
but the prelude to a very pleasant and satisfactory friendship.