_A STRANGE CHRISTMAS._
"Here is Maud!" cried Cissy, springing up from the breakfast table,
the little bow-window of which looked out over the road, though in
summer a screen of greenery shut in the quaint little house from
being itself overlooked. The next minute she was out in the tiny
hall, hands outstretched and face alight with smiles.
"A happy Christmas, Maud! a happy Christmas! You are early abroad.
Come in and have a cup of hot coffee. Have you had any proper
breakfast yet? Come and share ours!"
Maud let herself be led into the homely little room, where she
received a further welcome from Guy.
"Thank you," she said, "I have had a cup of tea, but I am ready for
something more substantial. As Beatrice has a cold and is
breakfasting in bed, I dispensed with that meal myself. I am on my
way to Odeyne. I wanted to be there when the post arrived, in
case--in case----"
She paused and seemed to turn her attention to the food placed before
her. Cissy's face was full of sympathy, Guy's questioningly grave.
"Maud," he said, "do you really share Odeyne's unspoken hope? Do you
think she will hear from Desmond to-day?"
Maud pressed her hands together. Her lips quivered before she opened
them to speak. A change had passed over Maud during the past six
months. Her face had lost colour and was thinner than of old, yet it
had gained much in expression. The statuesque hardness had melted
into something much sweeter and tenderer. There was a wistful
softness in the eyes that was very appealing in its unconsciousness.
Maud had always been handsome, but in old days she had met with scant
admiration in her circle. Now there were many who thought her very
beautiful, and she was more beloved than she had been at any previous
stage of her existence. This consciousness was the drop of sweetness
to her in the bitter cup she had been schooling herself to drink.
"How can I tell?" she said in answer to Guy's question; "I am
perplexed beyond measure at his long silence. It is not like Desmond
to give needless pain to those whom he loves, and yet only one
message has reached us all these months. We have done everything to
let him know that he may come back safely; yet he gives no sign. It
is wearing Odeyne out, though she is always brave and hopeful. But
he ought not to leave her in this uncertainty. He ought not!--he
ought not!"
"But surely--at Christmas," began Cissy.
"Yes, that is what Odeyne is saying in her heart--what we are all
saying and hoping. But I know Desmond so well--so well. It is like
this with him--he cannot realise what he does not see with his own
eyes. If he is somewhere far away, seeking to retrieve the past, and
to make amends for it--if he has made some plan of his own to stay
away a certain time, and then return and surprise us all, he may go
on month after month believing that his one cheerful message will be
enough to keep Odeyne from fretting--living himself in the present,
and looking forward to some future happy time when they will be
together again."
"But surely, surely he must write!"
"Of course he might! Of course he should. But I can quite believe
that he might not--might never realise all that we are suffering,
might think he was doing right and expiating his sins by hiding his
head for a time, and keeping away in exile. Oh, he has done things
like that before--on a much smaller scale. We have had days and
weeks of terrible anxiety about him in his boyhood and early manhood;
and the wondering excuse has always been, 'I never thought you would
worry so--of course I was all right. You would precious soon have
heard if I had not been!' That is Desmond all over; and now when he
has been overwhelmed with shame, and feels so utterly unworthy of
Odeyne's trust and love, and probably thinks that coming back would
bring him face to face with a mass of misery of his own making--why I
can understand in a measure that he keeps away and works out some
plan of his own. But he ought to write--he ought indeed!"
"Let us hope he will--for Christmas," said Guy, "he and Algernon too.
Perhaps they are together, taking care of one another. But Beatrice
bears the uncertainty better than Odeyne."
"The love is not the same, for one thing," said Maud. "Yet Beatrice
cares more than I gave her credit for once. She has been very
different latterly. The quiet life has given her time to think; and
when all is said and done, the marriage tie is a very solemn and
sacred thing. Poor Algernon had given her so much anxiety and
trouble, that for a time it was almost a relief to think of him as
out of harm's way somewhere. But she wants news of him badly now.
The suspense is telling upon her."
"And your mother, how is she?"
"Pretty well--not very bright. Sometimes I am afraid she is really
failing. She has never been quite herself since the troubles in
June. But she does not complain; only she is much more the invalid
than ever before. She has not left the house for nearly a month.
But the little maiden was taken to see her yesterday. It was a great
delight, and has done her good. But oh, to think that Desmond does
not know! It ought not to be! No, it ought not to be!"
Cissy and Guy both prepared to accompany Maud to the lodge, to be
there before the arrival of the postman, who was always late on
Christmas Day morning.
There had been both anxiety and rejoicing at that little home within
the last fortnight, for a little daughter had been born to Odeyne--a
frail, tiny morsel of humanity, who had made her appearance before
she was expected--but she was thriving well in spite of drawbacks,
and had already done something towards comforting the heart of her
mother.
"She will be a little Christmas present for Desmond," had been her
remark when first the tiny creature had been placed in her arms.
"Desmond will come back for Christmas, you know. We could not spend
Christmas apart, and he must come and see his precious little
daughter."
Words like this had often passed Odeyne's lips during the past days,
causing some anxiety to those about her, who were almost nervous of
the way in which she seemed to have made up her mind that Desmond
would return at this season.
When her brothers or friends had asked her what she really thought
about this, and if she had any grounds to go upon, she would smile
peacefully and say--
"I feel it in my spirit somehow. I cannot put it into words, but
something tells me he is near. He is coming back to us. He would be
sure to do so for Christmas. He may have far to come. He may not
come just to the day or hour, but he is coming--surely--surely.
Perhaps we shall have a letter on Christmas Day to say when."
This confident hope had been a powerful factor in Odeyne's rapid and
satisfactory recovery. They had never been anxious about her, only
about the little babe, whose flame of life burnt so feebly at the
first. Now the child was thriving apace too, and it was pretty to
see Odeyne's pleasure in it, and little Guy's wide-eyed interest and
curiosity.
Odeyne had both children upon the bed with her, when Maud and Cissy
entered with their loving greetings. She was looking very young and
bright and pretty, with her hair rather pulled about by Master Guy's
mischievous fingers, and the light of expectant happiness shining in
her eyes.
"I had such happy dreams about him last night," she said, as they sat
talking together. "It seemed when I awoke as though we had been
together, and I still heard the echo of his voice. Oh, it is going
to be a very happy Christmas! I am to get up to-day, you know, for a
few hours. That will be delightful; and then, when--I mean
if--Desmond comes, it will give him such a much better welcome!"
Maud and Cissy exchanged furtive glances. They did not quite like to
hear her building so much upon this fancy of hers. If it were to
meet with disappointment, might not the reaction be bad for her? Yet
her confidence could not but have some effect upon them; and there
was at least a reasonable hope of a letter; only if it came from
far-off lands, it might not reach upon the very morning of the
festival.
Alice entered the room with a tray in her hands, and Odeyne gave a
little cry; for here was the post--letters, parcels, cards, all
heaped up together; some for Desmond, some for the children--for even
Miss St. Claire had her share now--and the bulk for the mother
herself.
Odeyne sat up with a flushed face, and hastily turned them all over;
but Maud had asked Alice a question with her eyes, and had received a
sorrowful shake of the head in reply. There was nothing in Desmond's
hand amongst all these.
"Letters are often delayed at this time," said Odeyne cheerfully, as
she made this discovery for herself. "Besides, if he should be
coming himself, he would not perhaps care to write. Desmond was
never fond of the pen."
Then she turned her attention to little Guy, opening his parcels and
admiring his treasures with all the patience and fondness of a young
mother with her firstborn.
Maud slipped away into the other room, where Alice was standing
beside the window with tears in her eyes.
"Poor Alice!" said Maud gently, "I fear this is a sorrowful time for
you also. You have heard nothing, I suppose?"
"No, ma'am, and I didn't expect it," answered Alice, turning round
and wiping her eyes; "I do not expect to ever hear of him again.
They all say he has got away to Spain, where he cannot be fetched
back, and there he will stay, I am sure. He is too clever to do
anything which would put him into danger."
"But he might write to you, at least."
"I don't expect it, ma'am. I might almost say I don't wish it. I
did love him once, and meant to make him a true and loving wife; but
he has killed the love out of my heart by betraying trust and robbing
those who put their faith in him. He made a fool of me, and then
cast me off. I don't want to think hard things of one whose name I
bear, but I can't love where I can't respect. If he were to send for
me, I would go, if you all thought it right, for I've learnt that
God's way is for us to do what is right, and leave the result to Him;
but I don't think he will. I think a wife would only be a trouble to
him. Sometimes he used to tell me he was disappointed in me. That
was when he wanted me to get at papers and things which were
sometimes put in my care. I wouldn't do that--not towards the
end--and then I used to get hard words from him."
"Poor Alice!" said Maud gently, "you have been through a great deal."
"Not more than I needed, ma'am, to show me the truth of things,"
answered Alice earnestly. "I can see plainly now, looking back, how
vain and frivolous and giddy I was. I thought of nothing but myself,
and how to get on (as I thought) in life. I wanted to be a 'lady'--a
fine sort of lady I should have made! I believe it was that in me
that took Garth's fancy. He thought I might help him on. When I
began to see through it all, and knew that I should be a better and
happier woman without trying after such things as that, he changed to
me very soon. He left me with never a word. I don't want to think
harshly of him. He is my husband still. But I never want to see him
again. I want to belong always to my dear mistress and the sweet
children. Nobody knows what she has been to me all this time. And
yet she knew everything about me--she knows more than I can tell
anybody else--and it has never made one bit of difference. We always
did say down at home that there was nobody like our Miss Odeyne in
all the world."
Maud went off to church alone, for Guy and Cissy were going to pay a
visit to her family on the way, and join forces with them. Maud,
always fearful of intruding, took herself off early; and as she had
time and to spare, she made a _détour_, and found herself in a little
copse, which was endeared to her through certain associations, of
which she did not often allow herself to think at this time.
Oddly enough, it seemed as though somebody else had had a similar
motive for prowling into that place to-day. Certainly it looked very
pretty, with its carpet of brown and yellow leaves, coated with a
crisp white frost. The sky overhead was blue, necked with fleecy
white clouds, and the winter sunshine flooded the place with shafts
of pale gold light.
Maud walked thoughtfully through the leafless trees, listening to the
pleasant plash of the little stream, till suddenly she turned a
corner and came face to face with Edmund!
They both started and stood for a moment gazing speechlessly at one
another. They had not met since the day when Maud had broken the
engagement between them. Their eyes met and did not turn away. It
seemed as though they could not help devouring each other in that
fashion after the long separation.
Maud was the first to recover herself. She held out her hand and
said in tones which she strove to make steady and cheerful--
"May I wish you a happy Christmas, Captain Hamilton?"
He clasped her hand--he almost seized it; and his voice shook
unmistakably as he answered--
"You can give me one if you will, Maud."
She did not speak, but she trembled all over, and he felt it, and
would not relinquish the hand he held.
"Maud," he said, "I want no pledge. I want no promise. I ask
nothing from you whatever. But just let me hear you say that you
love me still, and my Christmas will be a happy one, even though we
may be no nearer than we have been all these past sad months."
She looked at him with a yearning wistfulness in her eyes.
"To what purpose, Edmund?" she asked, "to what purpose? Is it not
better to forget?"
"Have we either of us forgotten so far? Are we of the sort of stuff
that forgets? Maud, Maud, do you not think I can honour and love you
for your self-denial? Do you not think I can share it too? I will
never ask you to neglect a nearer duty--a prior claim--for my sake.
But tell me, sweetheart, do you love me still? and if the obstacles
were to be removed, would you come to me then?"
The tears rushed to her eyes.
"Oh, Edmund, you know I do! you know I would!"
He stooped and kissed her on the lips.
"That is all I wanted to hear you say. Now you have given me my
happy Christmas. I have got all I wanted--and more."
After that they walked to church together, but they hardly spoke
another word all the way.
Odeyne got up that day for the first time, and lay upon the couch in
the adjoining room, whence she could command a view over the park,
lying white and beautiful beneath its mantle of sparkling frost.
Her only visitor after Edmund had left, which he did almost
immediately after luncheon, was Beatrice; who, in spite of her cold,
drove over to see Odeyne, and to bring some little presents for the
boy.
Maud was not the only person who had seen a change in Beatrice during
the past six months. Others had begun to see it too. It might have
been the illness of the mother, it might have been the unconscious
influence and example of Odeyne, or even that of Maud; but whatever
the cause Beatrice certainly seemed different. She did not crave for
a ceaseless round of amusement. She was more content to live a quiet
life at home, and to interest herself in her boy. She was more
gentle in her manner towards Maud and her mother, and when she spoke
of her husband it was no longer in that half bitter, half flippant
way which had often distressed Odeyne in days gone by. She had her
ups and down, she had her varying moods, and her fits of waywardness
and selfishness, but on the whole she was a much improved Beatrice,
and to-day she had not been long with Odeyne before she suddenly
burst out with some quite unexpected words.
"Odeyne, do you think anything could be done to bring Maud and Edmund
together again?"
Odeyne, who had an inkling that something had happened only that very
day, smiled and thought it might be possible if----
"Oh yes, I know what you would say, that the situation has not
changed. But sometimes I think it has. I don't say it heartlessly,
Odeyne; I feel it terribly; but I can't blind my eyes to the fact.
Mother is dying slowly, and she knows it herself. I think we all
know it except Maud, who seems in this instance to be strangely
blind."
Odeyne looked very grave. She had suspected that her mother-in-law
ailed more than was admitted, but she had not put her fears into such
plain language.
"She was talking to me about the future only the other day. She
tells me she has willed to me all her own little private property,
and what comes under her settlement is divided between Maud and me.
I believe I should have quite enough to live upon in a quiet way with
the child. Or if it seemed better, I might go out to Algernon, if we
hear anything about him. I have not been a good wife to him all
these years; but I think after what has happened we might both do
better if we were to start afresh."
Odeyne said nothing, but her eyes were eloquent of sympathy.
"And in any case Maud ought to be free to make her own life. You
were quite right in all you said six months ago. I had no right to
let her sacrifice herself to me. Her duty towards mother is another
thing. But from that she will soon be released. When that happens
she must not let anything that I have ever said or done keep her away
from Edmund."
"Dear Beatrice," said Odeyne, with a kindling smile, "it makes me
very happy to hear you speak so--for I am sure Edmund and Maud were
made for one another."
"Maud will be a better wife than I have ever been," said Beatrice,
with a little sigh. "I have not lived with her all these months for
nothing. It is always the unselfish people who go to the wall in
their youth: but by-and-by wise folks come to know their merits, and
then they get the pick of everything, as they deserve to do."
"But I am grieved by what you say of mamma," said Odeyne anxiously;
"I had the impression that something was wrong, but----"
"Yes, she never liked it spoken about; and we have got used to it all
these years. But you know she is a much older woman than she looks.
And once or twice before she has had very slight strokes, though they
have never been called by that name. This anxiety about Algernon and
Desmond has been very bad for her. I only hope she may live to see
Desmond again. But sometimes I fear, if he does not soon come, she
will quietly slip out of life before we well know it."
"He will come very soon now," said Odeyne quietly. "He must be quite
close now, or he would have written."
Beatrice knew her sister-in-law's "delusion" on this subject, and
therefore asked no questions.
She sincerely hoped her presentiment might be true, but did not feel
any confidence in it.
She had a profound distrust by this time of men and their ways, and
perhaps she had some reason for it.
"Well, dear, let us hope he will," she said as she rose to go. "I
must not stay out longer now, as it gets dark so soon, and my cold
has been rather bad. But I could not let the day pass without coming
to see you. I am glad to find you looking so well and bright, and
the baby so flourishing. You really manage to turn out very pretty
babies, Odeyne. My Gus was a little monster for the first six months
of his life!"
"He is a dear little fellow now," said Odeyne warmly. "Mind you send
him to see me very soon. Guy delights in his society, and he is so
good to him! I think it is quite pretty to see them together. Gus
is always ready to give up to Guy, because he is the smaller and
weaker."
"Long may it continue!" breathed Beatrice as she drew on her furs.
"That is not the way with men-folk as a rule. It is the weak who
have to go to the wall! I suppose it is the influence of pretty well
a year of Maud's training. He used to be a little Turk under the old
_régime_."
Beatrice was gone, and Odeyne lay looking out into the dying day.
Alice came in and out softly, and presently brought her mistress some
tea.
Odeyne would not have the curtains drawn; she liked to look out, even
though the room got dark, and only the light of the fire gleamed upon
the walls, and flickered on the diamond lattice-panes.
The moonlight shining on the white frosty ground was a beautiful
sight to see.
Odeyne must have fallen asleep, and must have slept long and soundly.
Perhaps that was why Alice had not disturbed her to get her to return
to bed, or even to light the lamp and draw the curtains.
Even through her sleep she became conscious at last of certain
strange, unwonted sounds. It was as though feet were hurrying past
her window, and as though the owners of these feet were talking
excitedly amongst themselves as they did so.
These sounds mingled with Odeyne's dreams, and she fancied that
Desmond was coming hastening back, that they were all running to tell
her he was coming; she woke with a start to find herself alone in the
fire-lit room, speaking his name aloud; whilst beneath her window,
along the road towards the Chase--so seldom trodden by the feet of
passers-by--there seemed to be a continuous rush of hurrying feet.
Odeyne sat up and looked out, and gave a great start, uttering a
stifled exclamation of alarm and amaze.
The sky was all in a glow; the very windows of her room reflected
back the ruddy glare.
"It is a fire at the Chase!" she cried. "General Mannering had a
great party there. Something has gone wrong!" And, forgetting all
but her excitement and wonder, Odeyne suddenly rose to her feet, and
went and stood at the window to try and see what was going on.
The trees, leafless as they were, blocked her view of the actual
house-building, but the palpitating light in the sky told its own
unmistakable tale; and the rush of feet under her windows showed that
all the village was hastening by the shortest cut to the scene of
action.
Odeyne looked down and saw the glow of the fire upon the eager,
hurrying crowd. It illumined their rugged faces (many of which were
known to her), and showed her that all the place had taken the alarm.
She heard disjointed exclamations about the engine and the fire
brigade, but nothing connected reached her ears, though the red glare
grew fiercer each moment.
Suddenly Odeyne started violently, leaned forward with her face
pressed against the window, and then, with a face as white as ashes,
began striving to unfasten the latch.
But it resisted her efforts. She was weak, and the spring was
strong. Upon her face there was an extraordinary expression--a look
so strange and wild that Alice, coming suddenly and softly in,
started forward with an exclamation of alarm--
"Oh, ma'am--you should not be here!"
Odeyne pointed out of the window in the direction of the Chase. Her
words came in panting gasps.
"Alice, after him!--after him! Your master has just passed by. He
has gone to the fire. He thinks we are there! After him! after him!
and bring him back. Do not stand staring at me! I am not mad! Your
master--my husband--went past this window only three seconds ago.
You must follow him and bring him here to me!"