Odeyne's marriage

CHAPTER IV.

A LITTLE CLOUD.

"My dear, you are charming—perfect. I own that I have had misgivings: but you have proved yourself the best judge. My own treasured Madame could not have turned you out better. I am delighted with you. Now you need not blush at a compliment from a sister, not but what it is a remarkably becoming blush."

"Now Beatrice—please——"

"My dear child, if you think to stop my tongue, or to curb my freedom of speech, you are attempting an utter impossibility, as your husband will tell you, if you still take the trouble to apply to him for information. Well, Odeyne, I hope you will enjoy your first introduction to society. You must expect to have your measure taken pretty freely by all the company, who are more or less dying of curiosity to see Desmond's bride: but at least your appearance defies criticism. It is as quaint and delicious and altogether charming as your name, which nobody has ever heard before."

Odeyne was standing before Beatrice, in one of the elegantly-appointed rooms of Rotherham Park, the country residence of the Hon. Algernon Vanborough. It was the first dinner-party which had been given in honour of the bride, and Odeyne felt a little excited, and perhaps a trifle nervous too, at the prospect of facing a fashionable assemblage, met together in her honour, though fortunately for her she was not either self-conscious or shy. The long straight folds of her white silk wedding-dress hung in severely classical lines about her slight, well-proportioned figure, giving it additional height and grace. The dress was absolutely plain, without a particle of trimming, and had originally been high to the throat and wrists. Since then Alice's deft fingers had cut a small square in front and arranged a high Medicis collar at the back, whilst the sleeves were now short to the elbow and finished off with delicate lace ruffles. Odeyne wore no ornaments save the string of pearls—Beatrice's wedding gift—round her neck, and a spray of stephanotis and maidenhair fern fastened on her shoulder. Starry white blossoms nestled in her dusky hair, which was piled up on the top of her head. She possessed a marked individuality of her own that was not lost upon Beatrice. Not only was she decidedly beautiful, but she had an air of distinction—a thing of which Mrs. Vanborough thought a great deal more.

Odeyne and her husband had come early, a good hour before other dinner guests were likely to arrive. The young wife had taken a liking to Beatrice, more because she found her so easy to get on with, than for any great similarity in taste or feeling: and then there was no doubt that Beatrice liked her—which was more than she could say with certainty of the rest of Desmond's near relatives; and it is easy under such circumstances to entertain warm feelings. Odeyne was eager to like her husband's people and make herself one of them, but Maud's coldness repelled her, whilst there was something in the air and manner of the mother which always had the effect of jarring on her sensibilities, though she could never exactly tell why.

So Beatrice was a pleasant contrast, and she had accepted the brother's wife as a sister from the first. Desmond, too, liked his sister's house far better than his mother's, and was always ready to ride or drive across, or to ask them over to the Chase. Odeyne had seen Beatrice quite a number of times already, and the small amount of natural constraint she had felt at first was rapidly vanishing away. It was certainly rather hard to feel constrained with Beatrice, unless she intended you to be so.

As they turned to go downstairs together, Odeyne paused and said—

"Please may we go to the nursery first? I have not seen the boy for such a long time."

Beatrice laughed as she answered—

"Do you say that because you really wish to go, or because you think it will please me to pretend you do?"

"I say it because I want it. I think it bores you to go to your nursery, Beatrice, but I can quite well go alone. I know the way by this time."

Again Beatrice laughed, shaking her head.

"Your candour is delightful, and your eyes are sharp. Take care that the combination does not get you into trouble one of these fine days, fair sister. But I will go with you. You have a happy knack of not boring me with your admiration of the boy. You do not expect me to drivel over him, and really I cannot stoop to that."

The nursery was dimly lighted, cool and empty. The rosy, beautiful boy lay sleeping in his cot, with one round, fat arm flung over his head. Odeyne bent over him and kissed him many times, a strange thrill running through her as she did so. It seemed such a holy and beautiful and wonderful thing to have a little innocent child all one's own. She felt that if such a life should some day be given to her, as a gift from heaven, she would hardly know how to prize or cherish it enough.

"Oh, Beatrice," she said, lifting herself up at last, "how good it must make you try to be, to have a darling like that to think for! I think it must be a great help, though of course it is a great anxiety too."

Her sister-in-law regarded her with a look of speculative curiosity, in which amusement and something not altogether removed from sadness were strangely blended.

"A help?" she repeated questioningly. "In what way?"

"Oh, you must know, you must feel it. Think how sad it would be if one's own children saw the least thing to make them lose confidence in one. I know if I had seen mother or father doing wrong, or being careless or frivolous, it would have felt as if the very foundations of the world were giving way. Don't you know what I mean? I think you must. There are so many temptations in life, but nothing would help to keep us clear of them like the thought that we might be setting a bad example to the children who trusted us. It would be too dreadful to think that we had perhaps given the first impetus in a wrong direction."

And Odeyne's face was turned upon her companion with a depth of sweet seriousness upon it that for once seemed to silence the lively Beatrice.

"Well, dear, suppose we go down now," she said, after a little pause. "Your ideas are beautiful—almost too beautiful for daily wear, I fear—never mind, you shall set us all an example one of these days. No, I am not laughing at you, I verily believe you will; though whether we follow it is quite another matter. Ah, here is Maud, come in good time also. Well, I will leave you together, and go down, for people may be coming any time now, and Algy is always fussing over the wine till the very last moment."

Beatrice's dinner was a great success—most of her entertainments were—for both she and her husband possessed the knack of getting the right people together, and entertaining them well.

Odeyne was the person of greatest importance that night, and she made quite a little social success, which she enjoyed in the fresh, spontaneous way of a young thing, to whom everything was new and delightful.

She saw that Desmond was pleased with her, and with everything, and that added to her enjoyment; and then the talk was so bright and lively, there was such sparkle and wit in the sallies and retorts, that the girl was quite taken out of herself, and found it all most entertaining; nor was she herself by any means a cypher either, but showed that she could talk with a spice of originality that delighted her neighbours. She was so fresh and bright and unsophisticated, without being silly, that all were taken with her, and it was said on all hands that the new Mrs. St. Claire was going to be an addition to the county.

So the dinner and the first part of the evening passed off delightfully, and it was only after the gentlemen joined the ladies later on in the drawing-room that anything occurred to mar the pleasure of what had gone before.

Odeyne gathered from the talk in the drawing-room that the Goodwood races, which had hitherto been but a name to her, were shortly coming off, and that everyone talked as if all were going as the veriest matter-of-course.

So far Desmond had not mentioned the matter to his wife, and Odeyne was a little surprised that Beatrice should speak of her going as if it were a settled thing.

The girl had never seen a race in her life, and she thought it must be a very pretty sight.

At the same time she felt a misgiving as to whether her parents would altogether like her to be there, and she wondered if there could be anything wrong about it, for all these people evidently meant to go, and saw no harm in it.

Beatrice looked at her once or twice as the conversation proceeded, as if to see how it affected her; but Odeyne was not one to air her opinions too freely, especially when she was uncertain of her ground, and she had implicit confidence in her husband's judgment. He would never take her to any place she ought not to be seen at.

Desmond seemed in a very lively mood when he came in. He stood beside his wife's chair, as though he liked to feel her near; but he continued his conversation with the men about him, and though Odeyne listened to every word, she found that she understood very little. It seemed to be about horses and racing, and that was about all she made out. Sometimes note-books were produced, and entries made—Desmond himself made a good many—but she did not understand what it was about, and was half ashamed of the feeling of uneasiness which came over her as she watched and listened.

But before long the carriage was announced, and they took their departure; and when she was once alone with her husband, felt his arm about her waist, and heard his tender words of playful praise for the impression she had made on the neighbourhood that night, she felt perfectly happy again. He would never do the least thing that was wrong; and, indeed, her confidence was such that she was not afraid to put the question to him direct when they had got home, and were sitting together for a chat before retiring for the night.

"Desmond, what were you all doing with your note-books just now?" she said, laying her hand caressingly on his coat-sleeve; "it looked almost as if you were betting together. What was it?"

"Well, you might have made a worse shot, little wifie; did you never hear of fellows laying a little money upon coming events?" and he laughed at his little pleasantry.

"But, Desmond, I thought it was wrong to bet."

He stooped and kissed her grave face.

"So it can be, darling—very wrong indeed, as some men do it; but not as your husband does. You may trust me, my sweet, never to cross the line that divides a little innocent fun from what verges on actual fraud and roguery. Why, what a serious face, to be sure! What is the matter, Odeyne?"

"I—I hardly know how to say it, Desmond; you know it is not that I do not trust you—I know you would never do anything really wrong. But I cannot help thinking it would be so much better not to bet at all. You admit yourself that it can be very wrong indeed, and don't you think in such a case it is safer to leave it alone altogether?"

His pleasant smile beamed like sunshine over his face. It was almost enough in itself to dissipate her fears.

"My good, little, prudent wife, you speak with great seeming wisdom, but with a good deal of inexperience too. We live in a world where, unfortunately, every good thing and every pleasant thing is not only used, but abused also—very shamefully abused in many cases; but that is hardly a reason for not making a legitimate use of them. We cannot cease clothing ourselves because sweaters' dens exist, nor can we all feel it necessary to give up our glass of wine or beer because some men will persist in getting drunk. We have to buy horses, even though we know that dealers are cheating us, and we should have to live in glass cases, and never do a thing, if we were to be deterred by the thought that we were unconsciously encouraging vice in some form or another in the actions of our daily lives. We can only take care that all we do ourselves is upright and honest, and leave the rest. We cannot possibly stop the evil in the world, but if we set a good example of temperance in all things, and just and upright dealing, we are doing good in a way—and nowhere is such temperate example more needed than on the racecourse."

Odeyne was silent. She had hardly given these matters a thought in her past life, they had been so utterly removed from her range of vision. She felt that there was a flaw in Desmond's specious argument, but hardly knew how to detect or expose it. As her silence did not appear to be of quite a consenting kind, Desmond continued his little discourse.

"You see, Odeyne, it does not do for a man to make himself peculiar. If he does, he at once loses all influence over his friends, and is put down at once as a milksop or a fool. I live amongst a very nice set of fellows, I know their ways and like them, and we thoroughly understand one another. Everyone admits that it is a right and proper thing to spend a certain amount of one's income in amusement; and so long as this sum can be well afforded, and is never exceeded, there can be no reason alleged against spending it as one wishes. If it amuses me to risk a few pounds over a little bet with a fellow, just as well off as myself, what earthly harm can it do? We can both of us afford to lose, and if I win his money one day, he will win mine the next, and so in the long run things are pretty much where they were, and we have had our little bit of fun. You wouldn't think anything of playing a game for counters; and really, when one has a little margin in money to throw about in that sort of way, there's precious little difference that I can see. I admit that a man who tries to get his living by betting is likely enough to turn rascal, and, of course, it is simple idiocy the way clerks and fellows of that class are betting nowadays. But, as I said before, with that we have nothing to do. What I do promise, little wife, is that you shall never have any cause to be anxious on my account; but to say I would never lay a pound on a favourite horse would be absurd. We should be the laughing-stock of the whole place, and lose every scrap of influence we might otherwise possess. The moment you put yourself on to an entirely different plane from the rest of your world, from that moment your power ceases; and I should be really sorry to lose what influence I have with Algernon Vanborough, for he is disposed to be very reckless, and for poor Beatrice's sake I should be most reluctant to cut myself off from the chance of keeping him steadier. He is a very good fellow, and will listen to advice now; but if he thought I had 'turned Puritan,' as he would call it, he would never listen to another word I had to say."

Even then it was some time before Odeyne answered, and her words were prefaced by a sigh.

"Well, Desmond, perhaps you know best, but I am sorry, for I can't like it, or feel quite as you do. I know so little about these things that I can't argue—I have no facts to go upon—only a vague feeling that it can hardly be right to encourage any amusement that leads to so much sin and misery. It isn't the racing itself I mean. I think it must be a splendid sight to see the beautiful, strong horses run. If you like me to go with you to Goodwood, or anywhere else like that, I would go directly. But I do wish you would not bet—I have such a strong feeling against it, though to you perhaps it seems a foolish one. It seems to me almost like stealing, to take another man's money without earning it—and you say yourself that it is roguery in lots and lots of people. I'm afraid I don't quite see the difference. How can what is wrong in one case be right in another? The degree of wrong, I can see, may differ, but in kind it is the same; it is still a wrong."

"Well, dearest, I suppose I can hardly expect you, with your training and antecedents, to take any but a rather narrow view of such a complicated and difficult question. I admit that it is a very difficult one, and that your heroic remedy, if it could be enforced, would doubtless do an immense amount of good; but then, unluckily, it can't. We have to take the world as we find it, not as we should like it to be; and under these circumstances we have to accept a good deal of evil with it. Believe me, darling, that I am really acting for the best in not rushing to extremes either in one direction or another. I have seen as much harm done by the one extreme as by the other, and I am convinced that a middle course is the wisest and best, as well as the kindest to Beatrice. You will try to trust me, Odeyne, and believe that I act for the best?"

"I will try, dear Desmond," she answered with one of her tenderest glances. "You know that I trust you. But when a thing seems dangerous to one's self, it is always difficult to be convinced that the danger is imaginary. And you know, dear, if you do not mind my saying it, it can never be really right to do evil that good may come."

His answer was a smile. Desmond was never angry—least of all with his young wife, whom he so tenderly loved. Of course it was just what was to be expected from her, a little fear at first, and a few words of remonstrance; but she would soon learn that the danger was purely imaginary, and cease to dread it, and he would never give her one hour of real anxiety. He had had his lesson young, whilst still a mere lad. He had suffered enough then, he told himself, for a lifetime, and would be in no danger of falling into the trap again. He had plenty of ballast on board now to keep him steady—his wife at home, and his business abroad. If, to please her, he gave up a great part of his time to uncongenial toil, it would not be fair on her part to grudge him his fairly-won and innocent amusements. Odeyne was not unreasonable; she would see this for herself, and meantime he would keep all objectionable sights and sounds from her. She should be as happy as the day was long.

And there was no denying that the girl enjoyed Goodwood week immensely. Desmond took her to the place before the racing began, and showed her the country for miles round. They visited Arundel Castle and the little watering-places in the vicinity, and to Odeyne, to whom everything was new, it was altogether delightful. The beautiful sweep of down, upon the crest of which the racecourse stands, was in itself a joy to her. It was all so fresh, so breezy, so open, even in the heat of summer, that it was hard to believe anything very bad could go on there; and then the horses were so beautiful and so noble-looking, and struggled so gallantly to respond to the efforts of their riders when the time came, and it all seemed so perfectly fair and honest, that the whole scene could not but be a delight to the girl so keenly alive to beauty as Odeyne. She could not believe that there was any cheating and rascality in such an apparently simple thing as riding a race, and she was too far removed from the betting-ring, and too ignorant of the meaning of much that went on around her, to be enlightened or disillusioned to any great extent. Her husband saw her looking animated and happy, and was content, and the time passed away pleasantly for both.

Occasionally the girl's happiness was damped by the sight of some wretched, haggard face, and she would realise forcibly at such a moment that there was a very black reverse to all this sunshine and glamour. At such times she would long to be back in her quiet home, and wonder if she were right in being here at all. She would fain have given of her abundance to some of the broken-down wretches she sometimes saw, crushed down to the ground with misery; but once when she timidly suggested something of the kind to Desmond, he only shook his head.

"My dear child, where would be the use? he would only go straight to some sharper and lose it all again. What can such fellows as that know about racing? They are bound to lose. Nobody in the world can help them. They merely help those rascally bookmakers to live and thrive."

At such moments Odeyne would feel sick at heart, and wonder in what lay the almost miraculous attraction of the scene; but it was not until the last day that she was in any way disturbed on her own account, and then it was only by some chance words from Beatrice.

"Well, Odeyne, it has been charming having you in our party, I have enjoyed it double as much, so the advice I am going to give you is the more disinterested. If I were you I would try to wean Desmond away from such places. He is devoted to you and a very dear boy, and you might be able to use your influence successfully. He hasn't the head for this sort of thing. He is much too impulsive and generous and easy-going. He hasn't got far out yet; but one of these days he will get regularly dipped, if you don't keep him out of the way. Algernon is past cure; all I can hope is that he will keep fairly lucky, as he is for the most part, thank goodness. But then Algy has twice Desmond's head, and a vast deal more knowledge to boot. So if you take my advice, you will keep your boy away. He is young enough now to learn better, but he will not be so long."

Odeyne made but little reply, quietly thanking Beatrice for her advice, but not dropping a hint as to her own anxieties—she was far too loyal a wife; but she turned the counsel over many times in her mind, and went home with the feeling that the first little cloud had come into her sky to dim the sunshine of her great happiness.

CHAPTER V.

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.

CHAPTER VI.

AUTUMN DAYS.

"What, Alice, so soon?" said Odeyne, with something of surprise and gentle reproof in her tone. "I do not wish to stand in the way of your happiness, as I think you know, but is it not rather sudden?"

Pretty Alice stood before her young mistress, twisting the corner of her apron in her fingers, her face rosy-red with the stress of her feelings—shame, pleasure, and gratified vanity all blended together—not unmixed, Odeyne hoped, with deeper and more lasting emotion.

"If you please, ma'am, it does not seem sudden to us. He has been courting me a good while now. We met each other at Goodwood, where you and the master went for the races. He is everything that is respectable, and I think mother would be pleased. But I wanted to tell you first of all, as you've always been so kind."

"What is his name, Alice? and what do you know about him? Do you quite understand what a serious step you are taking in thinking of marriage? I only speak like this for your own good. It seems as if I were in a manner responsible for you, as you are so far away from your own relations, and have left them all to be with me."

"Oh yes, ma'am, I know that, and I know you are always kind. But if you were to see him, I am sure you would be satisfied. Why, he is almost a gentleman, and he earns his two pounds a week regular. He is what they call a clerk, and he wants, above everything, to get into the master's office. He has very good references, he says, and I thought maybe you would speak up for him."

"Well, Alice, the master shall certainly hear all about it, and no doubt he will do all that is kind and right, and I should be very glad for your husband to be in our employ. But if he is a clerk, what took him down to Goodwood in race week? It was not the best place for him, surely?"

"You see, ma'am, we like our little bit of amusement as well as our betters. Poor folks have the same kind of feelings as rich ones, I think. It isn't a bad place—you and the master were there. It was as good a way of spending his little bit of holiday as any other."

Odeyne made no reply.

There were times when she felt a momentary sinking at heart, for which she could not entirely account.

Instead of answering, she asked a question.

"What is his name? You have not told me that."

"Walter Garth, ma'am; and if you would please see him I think you would not object any more. He has no father or mother, and his sisters and brothers are all married and scattered, and he has nobody depending upon him. We should be very happy and comfortable. He has saved a little money, and he says if I like it better, he will live in the country and go into town every day. Oh, he is very, very kind, and will do anything if I will only marry him. I do hope, ma'am, that you will let me."

Odeyne smiled a little at the girl's simplicity.

"It is hardly for me to decide such a point, Alice. I will give you the best advice in my power, but you must be the one to decide. All I hope is that you will not act in a hurry, but will insist on at least six or eight months' engagement. If he really cares for you he will not mind the delay very much, if you ask it, and it will give you time to know more of one another."

Alice looked a little disappointed; she hesitated, and then said, as she twisted her apron still more—

"He will think that a long time to wait. He wants to be married at Christmas—and thought that rather long. Folks like us do not care for waiting such a time. When it's all settled it seems more sensible like to get it all over and done with—leastways Walter thinks so—he said so the other day."

"And are you in such a great hurry to leave me?"

A different look came into the girl's face at once. She was not really ungrateful or callous, and she loved her mistress dearly; but she had been thinking of her own affairs of late to the exclusion of all else, and at such a crisis of a woman's life such self-absorption is natural and pardonable enough.

"Oh no, ma'am; sometimes it half breaks my heart to think of leaving you. But what can I do? I can't say I don't care for Walter when I do, and if he would but let us live somewhere near here, where I could see you often, I think I should be quite happy again. Oh, if you would but see him yourself, I am sure you would help us."

"Well, Alice, I will. You know I always wish to stand your friend. And I should be very glad to have you near, if the distance from town is not too great. I will certainly do what I can to promote your happiness. You had better write to this Walter Garth to come over next Saturday afternoon. I will pay his expenses."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Alice, brightening up at once; "he is sure to come. He often does run over for the Sunday. I know you will be pleased with him, and he is truly fond of me."

Then Odeyne finished her toilet quickly and went downstairs, for she was expecting her mother-in-law and Maud on a visit of some days, and they might arrive at any time now.

Mrs. St. Claire and her daughter had been among the number of those who had been absent from home during the past weeks, so that Odeyne had seen but little of them. She had made the most of the opportunities presented during the first month of life at the Chase, and in many ways she seemed to know them pretty well; but so far no real intimacy of thought or feeling had been established between them, and she hoped that a residence beneath the same roof would bring about this desirable consummation.

But as she reached the hall a cry of pleasure escaped her lips, for she saw her brother Edmund standing there, muffled up in a thick overcoat and comforter, his portmanteau at his feet.

She ran towards him with a face full of sunshine. She had seen nothing of him for nearly a fortnight, and his visits had so far been altogether too few and far between to satisfy her, though she knew that he could not help it.

"Edmund, delightful! And have you really come to stop? What a dear boy you are! Do you know how pleased I am to see you?"

He stooped and kissed her warmly. His face was very bright too.

"Well, you see, I have taken you at your word. You said there would always be a bed for me whenever I liked to turn up. I hope I have not exceeded my prerogative in taking you by surprise."

"Edmund, how hoarse you are! You must have a horrid cold."

"I have, but do not scold it or me, for it has got me this unexpected week's leave of absence. Yes, Odeyne, I have positively come for a whole week, and you had better make up your mind to the infliction. I am supposed to want a little nursing, so you see what you are let in for."

She laughed as she led him into the cosy drawing-room, and established him in the armchair by the fire. He was in the best of spirits, despite his hoarseness and trifling indisposition, and neither brother nor sister were disposed to find fault with it, as it had brought them so much pleasure.

"I hope you will not mind, Edmund, but mamma and Maud are coming to-day to stay for a little while. I am very glad to have you, for mamma likes to be talked to and amused, and I am sure Desmond will be delighted; for of course it is a little dull for him when my time is taken up so much more by visitors. I do not think you have ever seen any of Desmond's relations, have you?"

"No, never. What kind of an old lady is she? Very formidable, eh? Does she bully you?"

"Oh no, Edmund. She is very kind. She makes us beautiful presents, and is not the least bit captious or interfering. Sometimes I almost wish she would make more criticisms. But she always says complimentary things about all we do."

"Ah, well, I think she would be rather hard to please if she found fault with your ménage. Well, I will do my best to be civil to the old lady. What is the sister like? Is she as pretty as Mrs. Vanborough? I saw her once, driving with her husband in a very extensive turn-out. She was a regular stunner."

"Maud is not much like Beatrice—not nearly so easy to get on with at first, but I am not sure that I should not really like her better if I could only get to know her; but I do not think she likes me, and that makes it more difficult."

"She must have rum taste, then."

Odeyne laughed and shook her head.

"You think so, dear boy, but people are so different. I cannot hope to please them all, I am afraid. Hark! that is Desmond's step. Oh, how good of him! He has come home by an earlier train, to be here when mamma arrives."

Desmond it was, and as he entered the room his face lighted up with pleasure, for he liked immensely to have a man-guest, and he had already heard that his brother-in-law had arrived with luggage.

"This is capital, isn't it, Odeyne? So the mater has not turned up yet? Well, she will not be long now. And how does the world wag with you, Edmund? You come in good time to give us the Ashford gossip. My mother loves a little military news."

The two men plunged into talk at once, and Odeyne sat listening, with her face bright with pleasure and interest. She felt that it was a very happy chance that had brought Edmund to the Chase at this particular juncture. Mrs. St. Claire was sure to like him—she was fond of anyone who would talk in a bright, animated way, and Odeyne had a good deal of sisterly admiration of, and pride in, her handsome soldier brother. Perhaps he was the one out of the whole family group most likely to produce a favourable impression on the old lady, and it was a relief to have him in the house upon this first visit.

Nor was Odeyne disappointed by the result of her expectations. Mother-in-law and sister-in-law alike seemed pleased and aroused by the gaiety of the two young men, as they sat over the fire making merry together and entertaining the ladies by their jokes and stories.

Edmund did his best, for his sister's sake, to please her new relations, and Mrs. St. Claire remarked, as Odeyne accompanied her to her room that night, that it must be a great advantage to have her brother so near at hand. Odeyne assented warmly, and listened to her mother-in-law's little compliments about Edmund with far more pleasure than when the soft speeches were addressed to herself.

Even Maud had been quite lively and talkative that evening, and Desmond, who had been a little disposed to grumble about the visit of his relatives, now declared that Odeyne had been quite right in suggesting it, and that she was a first-rate little mistress and hostess.

Odeyne was still almost childishly pleased at any compliments from her husband, and glowed with a happy satisfaction. Then, as they sat over their fire sociably together, she told him of little Alice's petition of that afternoon, and asked him what he thought of it.

Desmond listened, and seemed struck by a happy idea.

"Tell you what it is, Odeyne, if that fellow Garth is any good, and has a good character, and all that, it strikes me he might be uncommonly useful to me. And in that case I would engage him almost at once."

"Oh, Desmond, I am so glad. Have you really an opening for him? How very fortunate."

"You see, it's like this. I want a trustworthy fellow to act as a sort of confidential clerk, to live near here and go up with messages and letters on the days I don't go in to business. Several of these horrid, wet, foggy days I might have stayed cosily at home with my little wife, if I could have sent a confidential messenger up to the City house. And now, with the hunting just beginning, I may be a little less regular again, and it would be no end of a convenience then to have a fellow like that at one's own gates, to send in every morning with instructions for the day. And in the winter, when the weather may be perfectly beastly, it would be a great relief to feel less tied, eh, wifie? You would be glad sometimes to keep me at home, when the snow was on the ground, and the whole place reeking in frost-fog?"

"I should indeed, Desmond. I cannot bear you going by rail when it is foggy. I am not so used to trains as people who have lived amongst them all their lives. And I should be very pleased indeed to keep Alice still under my eye, so to speak; only you know, dearest, I should not like to see you grow slothful over your business on the strength of this new arrangement."

Desmond laughed lightly as he bent to kiss her.

"No danger of that, so long as I have so faithful a monitor as my little wife at home. Are you in such a great hurry to get rich, dearest, that you are determined I shall not let the grass grow under my feet?"

Odeyne smiled and shook her head, but made no other answer. She had no wish to put into words the vague feelings that prompted her to urge her husband to keep as far as possible to some steady occupation, be it what it might.

Next day the young wife took Mrs. St. Claire all over the house. She had never really seen it since she had left it many years ago, and it interested her to note all that had been done in the intervening time. Odeyne was half afraid that there might be something painful to her in thus going over the place; but either she did not feel it so, or else she was most successful in hiding the feeling. She admired and praised—not without a few shrewd comments that partook of the nature of criticism—and Odeyne was both glad and grateful for any hints, both because she knew her own inexperience, and because she felt it more like real intimacy to be criticised as well as praised. In the course of their peregrinations they reached the nurseries, which had been left almost untouched since the elder Mrs. St. Claire's time. They were bright, cheerful rooms, with plenty of light and space, and Odeyne paused here and hesitated, the colour rising in her face as she looked round her, for she had a little confidence she wished to make to Desmond's mother, and it seemed almost easier to make it now.

"We have done nothing here so far, but I wanted to ask you—do you think they should be freshly papered and painted? I think they look a little dingy and neglected, and I think—I hope—if all goes well, that we shall want them in the spring."

Mrs. St. Claire was much pleased and gratified, though she said little. There was just one quick, bright glance, and warm pressure of the hand that brought the blood to the girl's face, and nearly brought the tears to her eyes too, and then the mother-in-law turned into the woman of business, and began to give very sound and practical advice as to what would be needed in the doing up of the rooms themselves.

Certainly, after that morning a better understanding existed between the elder and younger Mrs. St. Claire. Odeyne was always ready to meet advances more than half way, and the feeling that she had become more to Desmond's mother, and had risen in her estimation, was very pleasant. Maud was not sensibly changed; she spent every available moment with Desmond, and when he was out, Edmund showed a disposition to monopolise her. When Maud was in her better moods she could be very amusing and interesting, with her quick observation, keen tongue, and remarkably vivid descriptive powers. But in Odeyne's presence she seldom unbent like this, and it was only by hearsay that she learned how different others found her.

Edmund was of great service at this time, and the days flew by only too fast. His cold mended apace, and he was deprived, as he said, of the only decent excuse he might have alleged as the reason for an extension of his absence from duty.

"By-the-by, do you hunt?" asked Desmond, on the last day of Edmund's stay at the Chase; "if you do we shall often meet. The season will begin almost directly."

Edmund laughed at the question.

"Soldiers who have little but their pay to live on, can't afford to hunt."

"Oh, if that is all, I can give you a mount any day you like to arrange to be at the meet, if you will give me a day's notice. You must ride half a stone lighter than I. Any of my horses would carry you easily."

Edmund's face brightened. Like all country-bred men he enjoyed a day with the hounds immensely; but it was a pleasure that was very rarely attainable.

"It's awfully good of you to say so, but really I should hardly like to take advantage of your offer. You must want your hunters yourself."

"Oh, I've more than I want. I have a couple coming down from Leicestershire next week. I meant to give my old hunter, whom I can trust down to the ground, to my wife to hunt this season; but she does not approve of ladies in the hunting-field—and perhaps she is right—so really I have a spare animal very much at your service. It will be a charity to ride him, for he loves the work, and would take it very ill to be left time after time in his stable when the hounds were out. You'll really do me a favour if you'll use him as often as you can. Send me a line at any time and he shall be brought to the meet for you, unless you will come overnight and ride him across yourself."

"Well, really you are awfully kind. I don't know what to say. Suppose I bring the animal to grief?"

"Well, we'll put it down to Odeyne's account. One always reckons to lose one horse a season if a lady hunts it. If it doesn't go lame, it gets a sore back, and anyway is no more good."

"Well, Desmond, if you persist in making such good offers you can't expect a fellow to decline them—it's not in human nature. I shall be only too pleased to come as often as I have the chance. What kind of runs do you get round here?"

"Well, regular hunting men from the Midlands would call them execrable—not worth calling runs at all; but we residents try to make the best of things, and enjoy our sport very well. Of course it isn't hunting country, it doesn't take two eyes to see that; but all the same we get very fair runs from time to time, and it is always pleasant to meet one's friends, and all that kind of thing. You will get to know a lot of jolly fellows, and that alone is worth something. And I shall like introducing you and making you feel at home here. If you have five years of it, it is worth while to know the people about, and soldiers are always popular, eh, Odeyne?"

Odeyne looked back with a smile, yet her husband's last words had caused her a momentary anxiety. Would this hunting throw Desmond into the company of Beatrice and her set once more? And would Edmund make friends amongst them too? She had felt so pleased to hear the offer which was to give him so much pleasure, and already her satisfaction was a little damped. But then she took heart again, for if Edmund were with him surely Desmond would not be so dependent on Beatrice and her friends. Perhaps all would turn out for the best, and she must not encourage idle fears, but rather resolve that his home should be full of sunshine, so that he always came back to it with renewed pleasure.

When their visitors had left them, husband and wife turned their attention to Alice Hanbury's love affairs. Walter Garth presented himself duly, and produced a most favourable impression. He was good-looking in a manly fashion, and was evidently very much in earnest in his courtship. He was better educated than most men of his class, and far more refined in manner. Alice had had some cause to speak of him as "almost a gentleman," though at the time Odeyne had thought it anything but in his favour. However, his refinement proved to be that of nature, not a mere veneer assumed for a purpose; and as Desmond took a decided fancy to him, and his employers gave him an excellent character, all went smoothly for the lovers. It was arranged that they should live at one of the lodges, that Alice should continue certain little offices for her mistress as long as she cared to do so, and that Garth himself should go up daily to town in the capacity of Desmond's confidential clerk. His salary was liberal, his duties more responsible than onerous, and nothing could have seemed more delightful to the happy Alice. The wedding was fixed for Christmas, as Desmond took the part of the sighing swain, and declared that it would be cruel to ask him to defer his happiness longer; and Alice looked forward to her future life without the smallest misgiving of any kind.