CHAPTER II.

_ODEYNE'S HOME._

Odeyne stepped out of the long French window which opened upon the lawn, but instead of joining the family party, grouped together beneath the sweeping boughs of the great cedar tree, she shrank away into the friendly shadow of the willow arbour hard by, and looked across the sunny vista, with eyes in which there was a sparkle of suspicious moisture, albeit there was no look of unhappiness in the girl's fair face, but rather an expression of deep content.

And yet, now that the last day in the old home had really come, Odeyne found it in her heart to wonder how she had ever made up her mind to leave it, and to go out into the great unknown world, even with Desmond at her side. It was a great mystery to her even now, the strange, new, overpowering love which had crept into her life and changed its whole tenor--had made her willing to leave her sheltered home and all the tender associations of her childhood--father, mother, sisters, and brothers, including even Guy, her dearly-beloved twin, from whom she had vowed a hundred times that no power on earth should ever part her. Sometimes it seemed as if it could only be a dream, from which she should soon awake; but, then, Desmond was no dream; he had grown to be as the girl's second self, and it had become an impossibility to picture life without him.

She wanted a little time for quiet thought. She had been indoors writing the last letters (in all probability) that would ever be signed Odeyne Hamilton, and she had promised to join the others at afternoon tea beneath the old cedar; but the tray was not yet brought out, though the party had all assembled in the cool retreat, and she wanted to sit a few minutes looking at them all, herself unobserved, so as to carry away with her a picture that would ever after be a source of pleasure and tender satisfaction.

For there was not one face missing in the dear group. There was the father, with the snowy head--the typical clergyman, even to the beautiful benevolent sweetness of expression, which surely ought to characterise the faces of those whose lives are specially dedicated to the feeding of Christ's flock; the mother, all gentle seriousness, with unselfish love shining in her eyes, and making lovely the whole countenance, even though some anxious fears could not but mingle in sympathy with her child's happiness. Then there was tall, manly Edmund--every inch the soldier--and Walter, his father's curate, so good and steady, who had never given his parents one hour of real anxiety or pain. There was bright, capable Mary, a model eldest daughter and sister, and the three girls yet in the schoolroom and nursery--Patty, Flossy, and Nesta, the pets and plagues of the house. And last, though by no means least, there was Guy--Guy with the thin, pale, intellectual face, the broad brow, beautiful dark eyes, and the ever-changing lights and shades flickering always in them.

It was upon Guy's face that Odeyne's glance rested most long and most lovingly, for it was after all Guy who would miss her most.

For Guy had lived always at home, on account of his delicate health, and his twin sister had shared alike in his studies and his amusements, had been his nurse in sickness and his comrade in health, till the two had grown to be almost shadows of one another.

It had always seemed to the girl as if Guy's lack of physical strength had been in some sort her fault, as if she had taken an undue share of it, rather to his detriment.

One delicate child in a pair of twins was nothing uncommon; but it seemed to her as if it ought to have been the girl, not the boy, who should be called on to take the extra burden of ill-health, whereas, in this case, she was endowed with an unusually strong physique, and had hardly known a day's illness in her life, whilst Guy had gone through pretty well every misery to which flesh is heir.

There was a strong likeness between this brother and sister. Both had the same straight level brows, the same expressive eyes of dark grey, that looked almost black in shadow, and the same delicate, regular features.

But the smooth, rounded cheek of the girl was tinged with a beautiful bloom, and her every movement spoke of an overflowing vitality and power of enjoyment.

It was pleasant to watch Odeyne walk, or carry on any active employment: there was a dainty grace and precision in her movements, as characteristic as it was unstudied, which gave a subtle gratification to the spectator, and showed an amount of healthy physical training of a perfectly feminine kind that it is refreshing to meet with in these days of extremes.

Guy's movements, on the contrary, were slow and languid, and his oval face wore the pallor of confirmed ill-health. At the same time he was stronger and better than he had ever been in his life before, and, but for this marked improvement of the past year, it may be doubtful whether even handsome and gallant Desmond St. Claire would have urged his suit with any measure of success.

It was Guy's keen eyes that detected his sister in her shady retreat, and detaching himself unobserved from the group beneath the cedar, he took a circuitous path that brought him at length to her side.

"Well, Odeyne, in maiden meditation lost? A penny for your thoughts, _Schwesterling mein_."

But at the caressing touch of his hand upon her shoulder, and the sound of the old familiar pet name, the moisture on the girl's long eyelashes resolved itself into very decided drops, which made her brother's face and the sunny garden swim before her in a golden mist.

"Oh, Guy, I don't know how I have ever done it. I don't know how to go through with it now. It seems almost wicked to go away and leave you all. Am I right? Oh, I wish I were sure."

"My dearest child, you must not encourage these foolish thoughts," was the calm rejoinder, spoken in Guy's low, even tones, that despite their quietness and evenness betrayed to the girl, who knew every cadence of his voice, an amount of feeling that he would never openly display. "You are only doing what every woman does at one time or another in her life--or at least the great majority of them. What is it that troubles you at the last? You have not quarrelled desperately with Desmond since the morning?"

But Odeyne's glance was serious and grave, and tinged with a sort of wistful anxiety.

"You know it is not that. It is no fear of Desmond. I think it is fear of myself. Guy, do you remember how I so often grew almost discontented and cross because our lives were so quiet, so shielded, so far removed from the struggle and battle of life? Well, those thoughts of rebellion are troubling me now--now that I am going out into the world to be my own mistress, as people say. You do not know what I would give to feel that there would always be mother to turn to. I wish I had never been discontented. How is it one never values what one has until it is going to be taken away?"

Guy put his arm caressingly round her neck, as he knelt on one knee beside her. The slanting light from the westering sun twinkled into their leafy retreat in a myriad golden shafts, interspersed with flickering shadows, the breeze rustled the leaves overhead, the birds began to twitter softly after their midday silence. A sort of restful hush seemed over all the world, and the sense of farewell was fast stealing over the heart of brother and sister alike.

"Odeyne," he said tenderly, "you have little enough to reproach yourself with, I am sure. I suppose it is implanted in our very nature--that longing to go out and try conclusions with the world. Even I know something of it, though I should make so poor a figure there. I think you will give us all reason to be proud of you. You were always cut out more or less for the part of the great lady. You must let me soon come to you in the new home. I want to see you at the head of your own table, queening it in your own house."

She smiled then, but the look on her face did not change.

"That is part of the trouble, I think. It is only lately I have realised that Desmond is rich, and has a large house, and a lot of servants, and that things will be very different from what I have been accustomed to here. I feel so small and inexperienced, and so young. If only it were not so far away! If only I could have mother to go to for advice!"

"You will have Desmond."

There was a soft light in the girl's eyes. She looked very lovely at that moment, her brother thought.

"Yes, I shall have Desmond; but that is not quite what I mean. I want somebody who will tell home-truths to me--Desmond always says everything I do is right. You will be a help when you come, Guy, in many ways; but I shall want mother dreadfully sometimes, I know."

"After you have been married some time, possibly Desmond will indulge your taste for home-truths more freely."

"Oh yes, I daresay he will. He has plenty of will of his own; I do not like men who have not. But, Guy, I am so distrustful of myself. I am afraid I may grow too fond of pleasure and luxury, and the things that seem to be coming to me. Do you remember all my castles in the air about the big house I was to have some day, and the horses and carriages, and grand way of living, and how I always said that that was just what I should like? Well, now that Desmond has talked to me about the Chase, and all the things that go on there, and what will be expected of us, it is just as if I were getting everything I had coveted--if that is not too strong a word to use--and I am afraid I may grow too fond of pleasure, and the bright, butterfly life that we seem to be going to lead. You know, Guy, I am very fond of pleasure--very fond of it indeed--though here, with father and mother and all the influences round us, I have not done anything to make them fear for me. Oh, I wish it did not seem all quite so strange! Suppose I grow careless and vain and idle, and become a trouble to you all, how sad it would be!"

"I do not think there is very much fear of that, _Schwesterling_; you have your sheet-anchor fast, I am sure."

A new look crossed the girl's face.

"Oh, I hope so, Guy; that is the great comfort of all. I could never dare to go away but for that"; then after a little pause she added very softly: "You will pray for me always when I am gone, Guy; for I know there will be so many more temptations, and I feel so ignorant and so weak."

He pressed her hand by way of answer. Even to each other this brother and sister were reserved as to their deeper feelings, though they knew them to be in accord. Guy stood looking straight out before him with a look of fine concentration on his face, whilst the girl wiped the tears from her cheek, and presently looked up with a smile in her sweet eyes.

"There, I am better now. I think I just wanted a little talk with you all to myself. Let us go to the others now. I must not be long away. Every hour is precious to-day."

"Ah, yes, let us come. We shall think of this afternoon when to-morrow comes, and there is a great blank in the house. You will be the best off; you will not be aware of it. No, no, little one, do not look like that. It is all right, and I shall like to think of you and Desmond having a good time together. You have been cooped up quite long enough in one place. It is right that some of the birds should leave the nest. Only I suppose you do not want me to say I shall not miss you at first. It would be but a poor compliment after all these long years of willing service. Am I to be allowed to thank you for them before you take wing, little sister?"

"Please not, Guy, unless you want to make me cry again, and I hate to cry. If one once begins there is no leaving off, and tears are so perilously near one's eyes to-night," with a tremulous little laugh. "Besides, Desmond will soon be here, and he would be distressed. Men cannot quite understand what leaving home is like to us."

"And I do not think he has ever known a home like this either," answered Guy, as they moved away together. "You will have to develop the domestic instinct in him, Odeyne."

There was laughter and the soft sound of happy voices round the tea-table that evening, for all were determined that to-morrow's bride should not be saddened on her last day at home, by the thought of the regrets her absence could not but cause.

She was marrying, with the full consent of her parents, a man who was passionately attached to her, and of whom the whole family was very fond.

He had come for six months to the Rectory last year to read with Mr. Hamilton for an examination, and had in that time made himself beloved by all, for his never-failing flow of happy spirits, his warm-hearted, affectionate disposition, and for the way in which he had grown into the family circle, and shared their joys and sorrows almost as if they were his own. Of his "people," as he called them, and his prospects he had spoken but little. Not that there was any mystery about the matter: he was very open about himself and his own affairs. He had lost his father when he was seventeen, and his mother had elected to go abroad with his two sisters whilst he spent his time first at a tutor's and then at college. Meantime the family house was let to strangers; for it was entailed on Desmond, the only son, and he did not see any use in living there alone. Since his coming of age things had not materially changed until about a year ago, when Mrs. St. Claire had returned to England, and had settled down in a smaller house, about half-way between her old home and the house where her elder daughter spent much of her time.

Beatrice St. Claire had made a fairly brilliant marriage, and was now the Hon. Mrs. Vanborough, with a town house and a country house, being herself a leader in a small social circle. Maud was still at home with her mother, and both were naturally anxious that Desmond should return and settle near them. They had never come to the remote Devonshire village to see his future wife--they were very busy at home, and shrank, as it seemed, from the long journey; but both had written in a kind and genial fashion, and Maud would have certainly been present at the wedding, had it not been that Mrs. St. Claire had been overtaken by a sharp attack of illness the previous week, which kept both her and her daughter at home.

It was a disappointment to all parties, though not what it would have been had Desmond known more of his nearest relatives. But though he always spoke of them with warm affection he had been too much separated from them and their life of late years, to have very much in common; and the home of his betrothed was far more of a home for him than the residence of his mother. Perhaps Mrs. Hamilton was the most disappointed at the absence of Desmond's mother. She felt a great anxiety to know what manner of woman it was who would be henceforth the nearest confidante and adviser of her dearly-loved daughter. She often found herself wishing that she knew more about the life into which her child was about to step--more about the man himself, into whose hands they were about to commit their treasure. True, in one sense of the word, they knew everything--he kept nothing back--not even the fact that at Oxford he had been more than a little extravagant, and had been in serious disgrace more than once with the authorities for his wild pranks and misdemeanours of various kinds. No one could be more open than Desmond was, and no one could express more contrition for past follies, or a livelier determination to amend in the future. And then he and Odeyne loved one another. There could be no manner of doubt as to that, and when all was said and done there was nothing in the young man's past career to justify the loving parents from withholding their consent, despite sundry fears and forebodings on the part of the anxious mother. Indeed, from a worldly standpoint, Odeyne was doing very well for herself, as young Desmond was very well off, and would be likely to add to his income as time went on, for he had finally decided, mainly through the advice of his future father-in-law, to enter the large mercantile house in which his own father's fortune had been made, and to be more than a mere name upon the books. Mr. Hamilton had a not ungrounded horror of an idle man, and as Desmond showed no special leaning towards any profession the Rector strongly urged him to take the place open to him in the business house, and make himself a power there. He need not give his whole time to it; but at least it would save him from some of the temptations that so closely beset a wealthy man actually without employment. The Chase was so situated that it was easy to run up to town from it three or four times a week, and Desmond, after a little vacillating, and not unnatural distaste of "harness," had decided to take the advice pressed upon him, and was by this time quite pleased at the prospect, and full of the wonders he was going to accomplish when once he had his hand on the reins.

His bright, sanguine temperament was one of his great charms. Perhaps he owed it in part to the Irish blood that ran in his veins--though for several generations his immediate ancestors had been English--at any rate he had a happy buoyancy of disposition that made his company delightful, and endeared him to all with whom he came in contact.

There was certainly something peculiarly winning and attractive in the face that was bent over Odeyne an hour later, as the lovers, so soon to be united, stood together in the dewy garden, not talking much, but pacing side by side in quiet contentment, glancing now and then at each other with eyes that were eloquent of love. Desmond St. Claire was just four-and-twenty, tall, broad-shouldered, but with plenty of suppleness and grace in the free movements of his strong limbs, as also in his whole bearing and carriage, particularly the pose of the head, which had a very characteristic set of its own, that might have been called haughty but for the open, smiling brightness which was the prevailing expression of the handsome, bronzed face. The young man looked like one of Fortune's favourites. Guy used to tell him he also looked like an only son.

"One can see you've had no brothers to bully you, or take you down a peg every now and then," he said to him early on in their acquaintance; "it's easy to see you have always been surrounded by adoring women-folk." And though this last statement was hardly correct in its literal sense, it was none the less true that Desmond had been used from childhood to be made much of, and to consider himself a personage of some importance; nor had his training done very much, so far, to eradicate the idea; though it is but fair to say the young man was hardly aware that he held it. There was no bumptious self-assertion about him. On the contrary, he was more disposed to under-value his own attainments, and to admire others above himself. Still, notwithstanding all this, he could not rid himself of the air of a prosperous and rather important personage, and Odeyne found no fault with the little air of distinction that he wore with so much of boyish ease and grace. She liked, too, above all else, the tender, protecting manner he always assumed towards herself when they were alone together. Odeyne had won the reputation at home of being slightly independent, and anything but desirous of constant protection in the little details of her daily life; indeed, she seemed rather protector than in need of care herself, in her relations not only with Guy, but also with her mother and little sisters. Yet none the less did she find a great sweetness in depending upon Desmond, and feeling that he was watching over her and upholding her in all their mutual relations. Odeyne was too true a woman not to delight in this feeling, however little it might seem to some to be a part of her nature.

To-night Desmond was in an unusually serious mood, but the girl was content that it should be so. They walked for some time in silence, and then he said tenderly and softly--

"You have had a very happy home here, my darling; sometimes I feel half afraid of taking you away. Suppose I fail to make you happy. Suppose the day should come when you should repent that you had ever married me."

"That day never could come, Desmond," answered the girl in clear, low tones, with an upward glance more eloquent than words.

"I trust not, dearest; but one never knows what may happen----"

"Nothing that happens could bring that to pass," was the quick reply. "I know we may have trouble and sorrow--no lives are quite exempt from that; and why should we expect it? But do you not know that trouble shared with you would be sweeter than any ease and pleasure enjoyed alone? The more sorrow fell to your lot, the more I should want to be with you to share it."

He turned and clasped her in his arms.

"God bless you, sweet love, for those words," he said, with a quiver in his voice. "I only trust I may be worthy of the treasure I shall take to myself to-morrow."

"If God does bless us," answered Odeyne in a whisper, "we need not be afraid of the future, or what it will bring. I am so glad you said that, Desmond. I can't talk about things, but I want us--oh, so much, to feel alike in everything."

"My darling, we will. You shall teach me to be like your own sweet self. This home has always been a living lesson to me. If we can make our own like it I shall be content."

"Oh, if we could!" cried the girl with beaming eyes. "Ah, Desmond, let us try. We may come a good deal short of our ideal, but at any rate we will try."

He smiled as he caressed her curly hair. The old brightness had come back to his face. Desmond's grave moods were seldom of long continuance.

"By all means, dearest, let us try. Only you may not find it quite such an easy matter as you think now, to model our future household upon that of a rustic rectory. Here we live in Arcadia; there it will be--well, different."

There was a sweet, grave brightness upon Odeyne's face on the morrow, as she stood before the altar of the quaint little parish church where she had been christened, and repeated after her father the solemn words that made her the wife of Desmond St. Claire. Behind her stood her sisters, and those nearest and dearest; whilst at her side stood the man of her choice, and before her was the strange future life, which seemed to stretch itself out in rainbow tints.

The bells clashed out a merry peal as she left the church; all the village was _en fête_ to see Miss Odeyne's wedding. In the absence of the bridegroom's relations every face was familiar and beloved--for Desmond was mighty popular in the little village he knew so well.

It seemed a wedding all smiles and no tears, and even when the moment of farewell came the smiles predominated, despite the mist that obscured the visions of some of the party who watched the departure of the bride.

"They are all your brothers and sisters now, Desmond," said the young wife, leaning forward to take one last view of the crowd of dear, familiar faces.

"Of course they are," he answered, his fingers closing upon hers, his hat in his hand, waving a glad farewell salute. "I never had any brothers of my own, and all yours are mine now. We will have them all down to the Chase for our first Christmas there, if we don't get them before. You shall never feel that marriage has made the least bit of a barrier between you, my loyal little wife; only you will give yourself to me for just a little while without any rivals in your heart, will you not?"

At that question Odeyne turned to her husband with a beautiful light in her eyes, and answered--

"Desmond, you know that you are always first now. Whatever lies before us in the future you will always find me by your side. We have taken each other for better for worse."

He took her hand and carried it to his lips.

"It shall never be for worse, my darling!" he cried, "I will promise you that!"