Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Love’s Bitterest Cup
A Sequel to “Her Mother’s Secret”

By

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

AUTHOR OF

“The Lost Lady of Lone,” “The Trail of the Serpent,” “Nearest and Dearest,” “A Leap in the Dark,” “A Beautiful Fiend,” Etc.

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers       New York

POPULAR BOOKS

By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

In Handsome Cloth Binding

Price per volume,       60 Cents

Beautiful Fiend, A

Brandon Coyle’s Wife

Sequel to A Skeleton in the Closet

Bride’s Fate, The

Sequel to The Changed Brides

Bride’s Ordeal, The

Capitola’s Peril

Sequel to the Hidden Hand

Changed Brides, The

Cruel as the Grave

David Lindsay

Sequel to Gloria

Deed Without a Name, A

Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret

Sequel to A Deed Without a Name

“Em”

Em’s Husband

Sequel to “Em”

Fair Play

For Whose Sake

Sequel to Why Did He Wed Her?

For Woman’s Love

Fulfilling Her Destiny

Sequel to When Love Commands

Gloria

Her Love or Her life

Sequel to The Bride’s Ordeal

Her Mother’s Secret

Hidden Hand, The

How He Won Her

Sequel to Fair Play

Ishmael

Leap in the Dark, A

Lilith

Sequel to the Unloved Wife

Little Nea’s Engagement

Sequel to Nearest and Dearest

Lost Heir, The

Lost Lady of Lone, The

Love’s Bitterest Cup

Sequel to Her Mother’s Secret

Mysterious Marriage, The

Sequel to A Leap in the Dark

Nearest and Dearest

Noble Lord, A

Sequel to The Lost Heir

Self-Raised

Sequel to Ishmael

Skeleton in the Closet, A

Struggle of a Soul, The

Sequel to The Lost Lady of Lone

Sweet Love’s Atonement

Test of Love, The

Sequel to A Tortured Heart

To His Fate

Sequel to Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret

Tortured Heart, A

Sequel to The Trail of the Serpent

Trail of the Serpent, The

Tried for Her life

Sequel to Cruel as the Grave

Unloved Wife, The

Unrequited Love, An

Sequel to For Woman’s Love

Victor’s Triumph

Sequel to A Beautiful Fiend

When Love Commands

When Shadows Die

Sequel to Love’s Bitterest Cup

Why Did He Wed Her?

Zenobia’s Suitors

Sequel to Sweet Love’s Atonement

For Sale by all Booksellers or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price.

A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS

New York

Copyright, 1882, 1889

By Robert Bonner

Renewal granted to Mrs. Charlotte Southworth Lawrence, 1910

“LOVE’S BITTEREST CUP”

Printed by special arrangement with Street & Smith

LOVE’S BITTEREST CUP

CHAPTER I
A WEDDING FROLIC AT FOREST REST

The good folk of our county always seized with gladness any fair excuse for merry-making, especially in the dead of winter, when farm work was slack.

Now the marriage of the popular young doctor with the well-liked young teacher was one of the best of excuses for general outbreak into gayety.

True, the newly married pair wished to settle down at once in their pretty cottage home, and be quiet.

But they were not to be permitted to do so.

Every family to whom the young doctor stood in the relation of attendant physician gave either a dinner or a dancing party.

Judge Paul McCann, an old bachelor, who was one of his most valuable patients—a chronic patient dying of good living, and taking a long, long time to do it in—gave a heavy dinner party, to which he invited only married or middle-aged people—such as the elder Forces, Grandieres, Elks, and—Miss Bayard, who did not attend.

This dinner came off on the Monday after the marriage, and was a great success.

Every one was pleased, except the young people who had nothing to do with it.

“Selfish old rhinoceros! Wouldn’t give a dancing party because he’s got the gout! And Natty so fond of dancing, too!” growled Wynnette, over her disappointment on that occasion.

But the Grandieres consoled her and all the young people by giving a dancing party at Oldfields on the following Wednesday, and inviting all the members, young and old, of every family in the neighborhood.

This party was but a repetition, with improvements, on the New Year’s Eve party, just four weeks previous; for again there was a full moon, a deep, level snow, frozen over, and fine sleighing, and all circumstances combined to make the entertainment a most enjoyable one.

This frolic was followed on Friday with a dancing party given by the Elks at Grove Hill, to which the same people were invited, and where they talked, laughed and danced as merrily as before.

And do you think that the descendant of the “Dook of England” was one to neglect her social duties, or to be left behind in the competition of hospitable attentions to the bride and groom because her house was small and her means were even smaller?

Not at all! So she determined to give a dancing party on the next Tuesday evening, and invite all the neighborhood with his wife and children, and “his sisters, aunts and cousins.”

“But, great Jehosophat, Aunt Sibby, if you ask all these people, what are you going to do with them? They can’t all get into the house, you know!” exclaimed Roland Bayard, while his aunt and himself were forming a committee of ways and means.

“That’s their business! My business is to invite them to a party, and to open the door. Their business is to get in the house—if they can. Do your duty, sez I! Without fear or favor, sez I! Do the proper thing, sez I! unregardless of consequences, sez I! My duty is to give a party to the bride and groom, and I’m a-going to do it! Take your own share of the world’s play, sez I, as well as the world’s work, sez I! We can’t live our lives over again, sez I!

“‘Live while you live, the sacred preachers say,

And seize the pleasures of the passing day.’”

“I think you have got that quotation wrong, auntie,” said Roland.

“’Tain’t quotation, you ignomanners! It’s verses out of the ‘English Reader’ as I used to study when I went to school to young Luke Barriere, when he was young Luke, and before he left off teaching and divested all his yearnings into a grocery.”

“Well, you have got the lines wrong, anyway, Aunt Sibby.”

“I tell you I ain’t! What do you know about it? I’ve read more verse books than ever you knew the names of! But that ain’t nothing to the point! What I want you to do is to take the mule cart and drive round the neighborhood, and invite all the company—everybody that we saw at all the other parties! Every one of ’em—childun and all! When you do a thing, sez I, do it well, sez I! What’s worth a-doing of at all, sez I, is worth doing well, sez I!”

“I might as well start at once, as it will take me all day to go the rounds. I’ll go harness up the mule now.”

“Yes, go; and wherever you happen to be at dinner time there you stop and get your dinner. I shan’t expect you home till night, because after you have given out all the invitations, you know, I want you to call at old Luke Barriere’s grocery store and fetch me——Stop! have you got a pencil in your pocket?”

“Yes, Aunt Sibby.”

“Well, then, put down—Lord! where shall I get a piece of writing paper? Hindrances, the first thing! It’s always the way, sez I!”

“It need not be writing paper. This will do,” said Roland, tearing off a scrap of brown wrapper from a parcel that lay on the table.

“Now, then, write,” said Miss Sibby.

And she gave him a list for sugar, spices, candies, “reesins” and “ammuns,” “orringes” and “lemmuns.”

“Is this all?” inquired Roland.

“Yes, and tell Luke Barriere he must charge it to me, and tell him I’ll pay him as soon as I get paid for that last hogshead of tobacco I shipped to Barker’s.”

“All right, auntie.”

“And, mind, as I told you before, I shan’t expect you home to dinner. You won’t have time to come. And I shan’t get no dinner, neither, ’cause all the fireplace will be took up baking cakes. Soon’s ever you’re gone, me and Mocka is a-going right at making of ’em. Thanks be to goodness as we have got a-plenty of our own flour, and eggs, and milk, and butter! And when you have got plenty of flour, and eggs, and milk, and butter, sez I, you’ll get along, sez I!”

“Very well, Aunt Sibby.”

“And don’t you forget to invite Luke Barriere to the party, mind you! You mustn’t forget old friends, sez I!”

“Oh! And must I invite Judge Paul McCann?” inquired the sailor, with a twinkle in his eye, for you see

“They had been friends in youth.”

“No!” emphatically replied the old lady. “No! Them as has the least to do with old Polly McCann, sez I, comes the best off, sez I! There! Now go! You ain’t got a minute more to lose!”

The young man went out to the little stable behind the house, and put the mule to the cart, and drove around to the front door, to come in and get his overcoat and cap.

“Oh! I forgot to tell you, Roland! Hire the nigger fiddlers while you are out,” said Miss Sibby.

“I’ll remember, aunt,” replied the young man, drawing on his “surtout,” and, with cap and gloves in hand, hurrying out to the cart.

In another moment Miss Sibby heard the mule cart rattle away on its rounds.

She then tied on a large apron, rolled up her sleeves, washed her hands, and went into the kitchen to make cakes.

And all that day her two servants, Mocka and Gad, had a time of it!

Late in the evening Roland came back with a cargo of groceries, and the report that all the neighborhood had been invited to her party, and had accepted the invitation.

“And now, Aunt Sibby, it is getting awfully serious! If they all come—and they will all come—where are you going to put them? Here are only three rooms on this floor—the kitchen, the parlor and the parlor bedroom,” said Roland, in real concern.

“Le’s see,” mused the old lady, looking around. “‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’ sez I! And, Lord knows, as I have got the will, I must find the way! The party is given to the young bride and groom, and for the sake of the dancers, and they must have the preference. Le’s see, now: The bed must be took out’n the parlor bedroom and put upstairs. The folks as don’t dance must sit in the parlor bedroom, with the door open, so as they may see the dancing and hear the music. Then the dancers must dance in this parlor, and the nigger fiddlers can play in the kitchen, with the door open, so the music can be heard all over the house. The two rooms upstairs can be used for the ladies’ and gentlemen’s dressing rooms. Oh, there’s ample space! ample! And we shall have a grand time, Roland!” said the old lady of sixty-one with the heart of sixteen.

And her words came true. Everything was propitious. To be sure, the moonlight was gone; but the sky was clear and cold, and the stars sparkling with the brilliancy that is only to be seen in just such winter weather, and the snow was deep and frozen hard, and the sleighing was “hevvingly,” as the lady from Wild Cats’ described it.

And when all the company were assembled in Miss Sibby’s little, hospitable house, and divided into rooms according to her plan, there was really no uncomfortable crowd at all.

Roland Bayard received all the guests at the door.

Gad showed the gentlemen upstairs into the little north bedroom, and Mocka conducted the ladies up into the little south bedroom.

Both these small attic chambers had been neatly prepared as dressing rooms.

As the guests came down, Miss Sibby, in her only black silk dress and Irish gauze cap, received them at the foot of the stairs, and took them in turn to their appointed places.

The negro fiddlers were seated in the kitchen near the door, which was opened into the parlor.

The young people formed a double set on the parlor floor.

The elders sat on comfortable seats in the parlor bedroom, with the door open, so that they could see the dancers and hear the music, while gossiping with each other.

“The fun grew fast and furious”

as the witches’ dance at Kirk Alloway.

“Miss Sibby!” cried Wynnette, in one of the breathless pauses of the whirling reel—“Miss Sibby, for downright roaring fun and jollification your party does whip the shirt off the back of every party given this winter.”

“I’m proud you like it; but, oh, my dear Miss Wynnette Force, do not put it that there way! Wherever did you pick up sich expressions? It must a been from them niggers,” said Miss Sibby, deprecatingly.

“I reckon it was from the niggers I ‘picked up sich expressions,’ Miss Sibby, for the words and phrases they let fall are often very expressive—and I take to them so naturally that I sometimes think I must have been a nigger myself in some stage of pre-existence,” laughed Wynnette.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, child; but I do know as you sartainly ought to break yourself of that there habit of speaking.”

“I do try to, Miss Sibby! I correct myself almost every time,” said Wynnette, and then craning her neck with dignity, she added—“What I meant to say about your entertainment, Miss Bayard, was that it is far the most enjoyable I have attended this season.”

“Thank y’, honey, that’s better! A young lady can’t be too particular, sez I!” concluded Miss Sibby. But before she finished speaking the whirl of the reel had carried Wynnette off to the other end of the room.

The dancing continued until ten o’clock.

The fiddlers rested from their labors and took their grog.

The dancers sat down to recover their breath and to partake of refreshments in the form of every sort of cake, candy, nut and raisin, to say nothing of apple toddy, lemon punch and eggnogg.

When all had been refreshed the music and dancing recommenced and continued until midnight, when they wound up the ball with the giddy Virginia reel.

The hot mulled port wine was handed round and drunk amid much laughing, talking and jesting.

Then the company put on their wraps, took leave of their happy hostess, re-entered their sleighs and started merrily for their homes.

The lady from the gold diggings had partaken so heartily of all the good things provided by Miss Sibby, and had tested so conscientiously the rival merits of apple toddy, lemon punch, eggnogg and mulled port, that she went sound asleep in the sleigh and slept all the way to Mondreer and on being roused up to enter the house she addressed the dignified squire as Joe Mullins, and remarked that she thought the lead was running out at Wild Cats’, and they had better vamose the gulch and go prospecting some’eres else.

However, she slept off the effects of the party and was her own happy and hearty self at breakfast the next morning.

CHAPTER II
ODALITE

Among all the merry-makers there was one sad face—Odalite’s—which no effort of self-control could make otherwise than sad.

Odalite, for the sake of her young sisters, had joined every party, but she took no pleasure in them.

Now that all the distracting excitement was over, and she could think calmly of the circumstances, they all combined to distress, mortify and humiliate her. The remembrance of that scene in the church, of which at the time it transpired she was but half conscious, was to her so shameful and degrading that she secretly shrank from the eyes of friends and neighbors whom she was obliged to meet at the various gatherings in the neighborhood.

Then the doubt of her real relations to the Satan who had entered her Eden, the uncertainty of her true position, and the instability of her circumstances, all gathered around her like heavy clouds and darkened, saddened and oppressed her spirits.

That Anglesea had no moral claim on her she was perfectly well assured. That her father would protect her against him she felt equally certain. But that the man might have a legal claim upon her—supposing his marriage with the Widow Wright to have been an irregular one—and that he might give her dear mother and herself trouble through that claim, she was sorely afraid.

And then there was Le—her dear, noble, generous Le—who had pardoned her apparent defection and had sworn to be faithful to her and share her fate to the end of life, even though that fate should oblige them to live apart in celibacy forever. Her heart ached for Le. She had had but one letter from him since he left the house, a month before. In it he told her that he had reached his ship only six hours before she was to sail, and that he had only time to write a few farewell lines on the eve of departure. But these lines were, indeed, full of love, faith and hope. He told her that he should keep a diary for her, and send it in sections by every opportunity. And he renewed all his vows of fidelity to her through life.

That was his first and last letter up to this time. But now she was looking for another.

This daily expectation and the weekly visits to Greenbushes helped to occupy her mind, and enabled her to endure life.

Old Molly, the housekeeper there, who did not understand, and could not appreciate, the comfort and consolation that Odalite derived from these weekly inspections, remonstrated on the subject, saying:

“’Deed, Miss Odalite, ’tain’t no use for you to take all dis yere trouble for to come ober yere ebery week to see as de rooms is all opened and aired and dried—’deed it ain’t. You can trust me—’deed you can. Now did you eber come ober yere on a Wednesday morning, and not find a fire kindled into ebery room in de house, and de windows all opened, ef it was clear? And likewise, if you war to come at night, you’d find the fires all out, and the windows all shut, and the rooms all dry as a toast.”

“I know I can trust you thoroughly, Molly, but you see I like to come. It seems to bring me nearer Le, you know,” Odalite replied, in her gentle and confiding way.

“Yes, honey, so it do, indeed. Well, it was a awful set-down to us w’en dat forriner come yere an’ cut Marse Le out, an’ him a married man, too, Lord save us!”

“Hush, Molly. You must not speak of that person to me,” said Odalite, sternly.

“Lord, honey, I ain’t a-blamin’ of you. Well I knows as you couldn’t help it. Well I knows as he give you witch powders, or summut, to make you like him whedder or no. W’ite people don’t believe nuffin ’bout dese witch powders, but we dem colored people we knows, honey. But now he is foun’ out an’ druv away, we dem all sees as you is a fo’gettin’ de nonsense, honey, ’cause he can’t give you no mo’ witch powders. Lor’! why, if it had been true love you feeled for him, you couldn’t a got ober it as soon as you has, eben if yer had foun’ him out to be de gran’ vilyun as he is, ’cause it would a took time. But as it war not true love, but only witch powders, you see you got ober it eber since he went away. Lor’! I knows about witch powders.”

“Please, Mollie,” pleaded Odalite.

But the negro woman, having mounted her hobby, rocked on:

“Neber mind, honey. You and Marse Le is young ’nough to spare t’ree years, an’ next time he come home, please de Lord, we’ll all ’joy a merry marridge, an’ you an’ him to come to housekeeping ’long of us.”

Odalite took leave, and went home. That was the only way in which she could escape the painful subject.

She found a letter from Le on her return. It was dated last from Rio de Janeiro. It contained the daily record of the young midshipman’s life on the man-of-war, and no end to the vows of love and constancy.

This letter came under cover to her mother. It cheered Odalite up for days.

But again her spirits sank.

At length her health began to suffer, and then her parents took into consideration a plan that had been discussed a month before. This was to leave the plantation under the competent direction of their long-known overseer and their family solicitor, and to take a furnished house in Washington City for three years, during which time they could place their two younger daughters at a good finishing school, and introduce their eldest into society.

It was Mrs. Force who had first proposed the plan, and it was she who now recurred to it.

“You know, dear Abel,” she said to her husband, while they were sitting together one morning in her little parlor, “you know that two considerations press on us now—the health of Odalite and the education of Wynnette and Elva. I really fear for Odalite, and so does Dr. Ingle, if she should be permitted to remain in this neighborhood, where everything reminds her of the distress and mortification she has suffered. Odalite must have a thorough change. And no better change can be thought of for her than a winter in Washington. The gay season is just commencing in that city, and with all that we could do for her there Odalite would be sure to improve. Think what a contrast Washington in its season—Washington with its splendid official receptions, its operas and concerts, every day and night—would be to the secluded life we all lead here. And especially what a contrast in the conception of Odalite, who will see the city for the first time.”

“I appreciate all that; but, my love, your simple wish to go to the city would be quite sufficient for me,” said the squire.

Mrs. Force turned away her head and breathed a sigh, as she often did at any especial mark of love or trust from her good husband.

“I should not express the wish on my own account, dear Abel. I have always been well content with our retired life and your society alone. I spoke only for the children’s sake. I have told you why Odalite needs the change, and now I wish to tell you how our residence in Washington will benefit her younger sisters. Wynnette and Elva must go on with their education. We would not like to engage a stranger to come and take charge of them here, just after such a public event as that of the broken marriage, even if we could get one to replace Natalie Meeke, or suit us as well as she did, which I am sure we could not. Nor, on the other hand, could we consent to send our children away from us. So I see no better plan for them, as well as for all, than that we should all go to Washington, where we can give our Odalite the social life that she so much needs just now, and where we can enter Wynnette and Elva as day pupils in a first-class school.”

“My dear, I see that you are right,” said Mr. Force. “You are quite right in regard to the wisdom of going to Washington, so far as the benefit of our children is concerned; nor do I see any hindrance to our leaving this place without our care. Barnes is an invaluable farm manager, and Copp is as capable an agent as any proprietor could desire. We will leave the place in their care. We can go at once, or just as soon as you can pack up. If we cannot secure a furnished house at once we can go to a hotel and stay until we can get one.”

“But—what shall we do with Mrs. Anglesea?” demanded Mrs. Force, in sudden dismay as the vision of the lady from Wild Cats’ arose in her mind’s eye.

Abel Force gave a long, low whistle, and then answered:

“We must invite her to go with us to Washington.”

“To——Invite Mrs. Anglesea to join our party to Washington?” gasped the lady.

“Yes. She will be charmed to accept, I am sure,” replied the gentleman, with a twinkle of humor in his eye.

“But, good heavens, Abel! how could we introduce that woman into Washington society?”

“Very well, indeed. Very much better than we could into any other society on the face of the earth. The wives of the high officers of the government are the leaders of society; the latter are under the dominion of the sovereign people, who flock to the city in great numbers, and from all parts of the country, and all ranks and grades of the social scale; and you will find the drawing rooms of cabinet ministers and foreign ambassadors filled with companies more mixed than you could find elsewhere in the world. Our lady from the gold mines will find plenty to keep her in countenance.”

“For all that,” said Mrs. Force, “I shall try to evade the necessity of taking her with us.”

“My dear, we cannot, in decency, turn our guest out of doors; so the only alternative we have is to take her with us or stay at home.”

“I think—she is so simple, good-humored and unconventional—that I think I may explain to her the necessity of our going to Washington for the sake of the children, and then give her a choice to go with us or to remain here.”

“That’s it!” exclaimed Mr. Force. “And let us hope that she will elect to remain.”

A little later in the day Mrs. Force had an explanation with her guest, and put the alternative before her.

“You will understand, dear Mrs. Anglesea, the cruel necessity that obliges us to leave our home at this juncture; and now I wish you to be guided by your own impulses whether to go with us to Washington or to remain here as long as it may suit you to do so,” said the lady, in conclusion.

“You say you’re all a-gwine to a hotel?” inquired the visitor.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, you don’t catch me leavin’ of a comfortable home like this, where there’s plenty of turkeys, and canvas-back ducks, and game of all sorts, as the niggers shoot and sell for a song, and feather beds, and good roaring fires, and cupboards full of preserves and sweetmeats, to go to any of your hotels to get pizened by their messes, or catch my death in damp sheets. No, ma’am, no hotels for me, if you please. I got enough of ’em at the Hidalgo. I know beans, I do; and I stays here.”

“Very well. I shall be glad to think of you here; and I shall leave Lucy and Jacob in the house to take care of it, and they will wait on you,” said the well-pleased lady of the manor.

“I’ll make myself comfortable, you bet, ole ’oman! and I’ll take good care of the house while you’re gone—you may stake your pile on that!”

And so this matter was satisfactorily settled.

Preparations for departure immediately began, and soon the news got abroad in the neighborhood that the Forces were going to leave Mondreer and live in Washington.

CHAPTER III
ROSEMARY

“Rosemary, my dear, I wish you would not dance all the time with young Roland Bayard when you happen to be at a party with him,” said the grave and dignified Miss Susannah Grandiere to the fair little niece who sat at her feet, both literally and figuratively.

The early tea was over at Grove Hill, and the aunt and niece sat before the fire, with their maid Henny in attendance.

Miss Grandiere was knitting a fine white lamb’s wool stocking; Rosemary was sewing together pieces for a patchwork quilt; and Henny, seated on a three-legged stool in the chimney corner, was carding wool.

“Why not, Aunt Sukey?” inquired the child, pushing the fine, silky black curls from her dainty forehead and looking up from her work.

“Because, my dear, though you are but a little girl, and he is almost a young man, yet these intimate friendships, formed in early youth, may become very embarrassing in later years,” gravely answered the lady, drawing out her knitting needle from the last taken off stitch and beginning another round.

“But how, Aunt Sukey?” questioned the little one.

“In this way. No one knows who Roland Bayard is! He was cast up from the wreck of the Carrier Pigeon, the only life saved. He was adopted and reared by Miss Sibby Bayard, and I think, but am not sure, he was educated at the expense of Abel Force, who never lets his left hand know what his right hand does in the way of charity. But Miss Sibby has hinted as much to me.”

“Aunt Sukey, he may be the son of a lord, or a duke, or a prince,” suggested romantic Rosemary.

“Or of a thief, or pirate, or convict,” added Miss Grandiere, severely.

“Oh, Aunt Sukey! Never! Never! Dear Roland! Aunt Sukey, I like Roland so much! And I have good reason to like him, too, whatever he may be!” exclaimed the child, with more than usual earnestness.

“Oh! oh! oh!” moaned Miss Grandiere, sadly, shaking her head.

“Aunt Sukey, no one ever has the kindness to ask a little girl like me to dance except dear Roland. Other gentlemen ask young ladies; but dear Roland always asks me, and he never lets me be neglected. And I shall never forget him for it, but shall always like him.”

“Um, um, um!” softly moaned the stately lady to herself.

“And Roland told me he was named after a knight who was ‘without fear and without reproach,’ and that he meant always to deserve his name, and to be my knight—mine.”

“Dear, dear, dear!” murmured Miss Grandiere.

“What is the matter, Aunt Sukey?” inquired Rosemary, again pushing back her silky, black curls, and lifting her large, light blue eyes to the lady’s troubled face.

“Rosemary, my child,” began Miss Grandiere, with out replying to the little girl’s question, “Rosemary, you know the Forces are going to Washington next week?”

“Oh! yes; everybody knows that now.”

“And Wynnette and Elva are going to be put to school there?”

“Yes, everybody knows that, too, Aunt Sukey.”

“Well, how would you like to be put to the same school that they are going to attend?”

“Oh, so much! So very much, Aunt Sukey! I never dreamed of such happiness as that! I do so much want to get a good education!” exclaimed the little girl, firing with enthusiasm.

“Well, my dear child, I think the opportunity of sending you to school with Wynnette and Elva, and under the protection of Mr. and Mrs. Force, is such an excellent one that it ought not to be lost. I will speak to my sister Hedge about it, and if she will consent to your going I will be at the cost of sending you,” said the lady, as she began to roll up her knitting, for the last gleam of the winter twilight had faded out of the sky and it was getting too dark even to knit.

For once in her life Rosemary had forgotten to call for the curtains to be let down and the candle to be lit and the novel brought forth. For once the interests of real life had banished the memory of romance.

But Henny knew what was expected of her, and so she put up her cards, went and lighted the tallow candle, pulled down the window blinds, replenished the fire, and reseated herself on her three-legged stool in the chimney corner.

Rosemary, recalled to the interests of the evening, went and brought forth the “treasured volume” from the upper bureau drawer and gave it to her aunt to read. Then she settled herself in her low chair to listen.

It was still that long romance of “The Children of the Abbey” that was the subject of their evening readings. And they had now reached a most thrilling crisis, where the heroine was in the haunted castle; when suddenly the sound of wheels was heard to grate on the gravel outside, accompanied by girlish voices.

And soon there came a knock at the door.

“Who in the world can that be at this hour, after dark?” inquired Miss Grandiere, as Henny arose and opened the door.

Odalite, Wynnette and Elva came in, in their poke bonnets and buttoned coats.

“Oh, Miss Grandiere, excuse us, but yours was the only light we saw gleaming around the edges of the blinds, and so we knocked at your door,” said Wynnette, who always took the initiative in speaking, as in other things.

“My dear child! how is it that you children are out, after dark?” inquired the lady.

“We have been making the rounds to bid good-by to the neighbors. Mamma and papa went out yesterday, and we to-day. We are going to Washington next week, and we have come to bid you good-by now,” said Wynnette, still speaking for all the others.

“But who is with you for protection? Who drove the carriage?”

“Jake drove and Joshua came as bodyguard; but we are so late that I am afraid Mr. and Mrs. Elk and the girls are asleep.”

“They are, my dears; and it is so late that I do not think it right for you three children to be driving through the country with no better protection than Jake and the dog. You must send them home and stay all night here. Then you will have an opportunity of bidding good-by to William and Molly and the children to-morrow morning.”

“Oh, Miss Grandiere, how jolly! I have not spent a night from home for ages and ages and ages!” exclaimed Wynnette.

“But what will mamma say?” doubtfully inquired Elva.

“I fear, Miss Grandiere, that we ought to return home to-night,” suggested Odalite.

“Nonsense, my dear child! You must do nothing of the sort. I will write a note to your mother and send it by Jake,” replied Miss Grandiere, who immediately arose and went to get her portfolio.

“If it hadn’t been for Miss Sibby Bayard keeping us so long talking about her ancestor the ‘Duke of England’—she means the Duke of Norfolk all the time, but flouts us when we hint as much—we should have been here two hours ago, and been home by this time,” said Wynnette.

Miss Grandiere finished her note, put a shawl over her head and went out herself to speak to the coachman and send him home to Mondreer with her written message.

“Now take off your hats and coats, and tell me if you have had tea,” she said, when she came back into the room and closed the door.

“Oh, yes! we took tea with Miss Sibby while she told us how a certain ‘Duke of England’ lost his head for wanting to marry a certain Queen of Scotland,” replied Wynnette.

That question settled, the girls drew chairs around the fire, and began to make themselves comfortable.

Rosemary could not bear to give up her reading, just at that particular crisis, too! So she thought she would entice her company into listening to the story.

“We were reading—oh! such a beautiful book!” she said. “Just hear how lovely it begins!”

And she took the book up, turned it to the first page and commenced after this manner:

“‘Hail! sweet asylum of my infancy! Content and innocence abide beneath your humble roof!—hail! ye venerable trees! My happiest hours of childish gayety——’”

“What’s all that about?” demanded Wynnette, the vandal, ruthlessly interrupting the reader.

“It is Amanda Fitzallan, coming back to the Welsh cottage where she was nursed, and catching sight of it, you know, raises fluttering emotions in her sensitive bosom,” Rosemary explained, with an injured air.

“Oh! it does, does it? But she wouldn’t hold forth in that way, you know, even if she were badly stage struck or very crazy,” said Wynnette.

“Oh! I thought it was such elegant language!” pleaded Rosemary.

“But she wouldn’t use it! Look here! Do you suppose, when I come back from school, years hence, and catch sight of Mondreer, I should hold forth in that hifaluting style?”

“But what would you say?”

“Nothing, probably; or if I did, it would be: ‘There’s the blessed old barn now, looking as dull and humdrum as it did when we used to go blackberrying and get our ankles full of chego bites. Lord! how many dull days we have passed in that dreary old jail, especially in rainy weather!’ I think that would be about my talk.”

“Oh, Wynnette! you have no sentiment, no reverence, no——”

“Nonsense!” good-humoredly replied the girl, finishing Rosemary’s halting sentence.

The little girl sighed, closed the book and laid it on the table.

“The style of that work is very elegant and refined; and it is better to err on the side of elegance and refinement than on their opposites,” said Miss Grandiere, with her grandest air.

“As I do every time I open my mouth. But I can’t help it, Miss Susannah. ‘I am as Heaven made me,’ as somebody or other said—or ought to have said, if they didn’t,” retorted Wynnette.

As it was now bedtime it became necessary to attend to the sleeping accommodations of these unexpected guests. But first it was in order to offer them some refreshments. Henny was not required to draw a jug of hard cider, or to make and bake hoe cakes in the bedroom that night. Such “orgies” were only enacted by the aunt and niece in the seclusion of their private life.

But the corner cupboard was unlocked, and a store of rich cake and pound cake, with a cut-glass decanter of cherry bounce, all of which was kept for company, was brought forth and served to the visitors.

Meanwhile, Henny went upstairs to kindle a fire in the large, double-bedded spare room, just over Miss Sukey’s chamber.

“Miss Susannah,” said Odalite, while the group sat around the fire nibbling their cake and sipping their bounce, “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Anything in the world that I can do for you, Odalite, shall be done with the greatest pleasure,” earnestly replied the elder lady.

“I thank you very much, dear friend; and now I will explain: I promised Le, before we went away, that I would go to Greenbushes once a week to see that the rooms were regularly opened, aired and dried. I have kept the promise up to the present; but now, you know, I have to go with the family to Washington. I have no alternative, and for that reason I would like you to be my proxy.”

“I will, with great pleasure, my dear.”

“I could not ask you to go every week, that would be too much; but if you can go occasionally and see that all is right, and drop me a note to that effect, it will—well, it will relieve my conscience,” concluded Odalite, with a wan smile.

“I certainly will go every week, unless prevented by circumstances; and I will write to you as often as I go, to let you know how all is getting on there.”

“Oh, you are very kind, Miss Susannah; but I fear you will find it a tax upon your time and patience.”

“Not at all. I shall have plenty of time, and little that is interesting to fill it up with. For let me tell you a secret. I intend to avail myself of the opportunity of your parents being in Washington to send my little Rosemary to the same school that Wynnette and Elva will attend.”

“Oh, that will be jolly!” “Oh, that will be lovely!” exclaimed Wynnette and Elva, in the same instant.

“That is, if Mr. and Mrs. Force will not consider the addition of Rosemary to their party an intrusion.”

“Why, Miss Susannah! How dare you slander my father and mother right before my two looking eyes?” exclaimed Wynnette. “They will be just set up to have Rosemary! Besides, where’s the intrusion, I’d like to know? The railroad and the hotel and the boarding school are just as free for you as for me, I should think.”

“Rosemary would board at the school, of course,” continued Miss Grandiere.

“So shall Elva and I. If papa could have got a furnished house we should have lived at home, and entered the academy as day pupils; but, you see, as papa could not get a house he and mamma and Odalite will live at one of the West End hotels, and Elva and I at the academy.”

“And, oh! won’t it be lovely to have dear Rosemary with us? We should not feel half so strange,” said little Elva.

“You will speak to your father and mother on the subject when you go home, Odalite, my child; and I will call on them later. If they will take charge of Rosemary on the journey, and enter her at the same school with yourselves, I will be at all the charges, of course, and I shall feel very much obliged,” said Miss Susannah.

“You may rest assured that papa and mamma will be very glad to take charge of dear little Rosemary; not only for her sake and for your sake, but for our sakes, so that we may have an old playmate from our own neighborhood to be our schoolmate in the new home,” said Wynnette.

“There is something in that,” remarked Miss Grandiere.

As for Elva and Rosemary, they were sitting close together on one chair, with their arms locked around each other’s waist, in fond anticipation of their coming intimacy.

Henny now came in and said that the spare room was all ready for the young ladies.

Miss Grandiere lighted a fresh candle, and conducted her visitors to the upper chamber, saw that all their wants were supplied, and bade them good-night.

Soon after, aunt and niece also retired to bed; but Rosemary could not sleep for the happiness of thinking about going to boarding school in the city along with Wynnette and Elva.

Early in the morning William and Molly Elk, their little girls, and in fact the whole household, with the exception of Miss Sukey, her niece and her maid, were astonished to hear that there were visitors in the house who had arrived late on the night before.

They prepared a better breakfast than usual in their honor, and gave them a warm welcome.

Soon after breakfast, Jake arrived with the family carriage to fetch the young people home, and also with a message from Mr. and Mrs. Force, thanking Miss Grandiere for having detained their imprudent children all night.

“You and Rosemary go home with us, Miss Susannah. There’s plenty of room inside the carriage for six people, and we would only be five. Do, now! And let us have this matter of going to school settled at once,” urged Wynnette.

Miss Grandiere hesitated, even though Elva joined in the invitation. But when Odalite, the eldest and grown-up sister, added her entreaties to those of the others, Miss Sukey yielded, because she wanted to yield.

The girls then took leave of all their friends at Grove Hill and entered the capacious carriage, accompanied by Miss Grandiere and Rosemary—that is, two of them did. One was missing.

“Where is Wynnette?” inquired Miss Grandiere, as she sank into the cushions.

“She is on the box, driving, while Jacob is sitting with folded arms beside her,” answered Odalite.

“It is highly improper.”

“You cannot do anything with Wynnette, Miss Susannah. She will drive as often as she can. And Jacob’s presence beside her makes it safe, at least. He is ready to seize the reins at any emergency.”

“Yes, but really—really—my dear Odalite——”

The sudden starting of the horses at a spanking pace jerked Miss Grandiere’s words from her lips, and herself forward into little Elva’s arms.

However, they arrived safely at Mondreer, where they were very cordially welcomed by Mr. and Mrs. Force.

When Miss Grandiere proposed her plan of sending Rosemary with them, to go to school with their own children, the lady and gentleman responded promptly and cordially.

“We have not selected our school yet,” Mr. Force explained. “We wish to get the circulars and personally inspect the schools before we make our choice, but if you leave your niece in our hands, we shall do by her exactly as by our own.”

“I am sure you will. And I thank you from my soul for the trouble you take. I shall sign some blank checks, for you to fill out, for any funds that may be required for Rosemary,” gratefully responded Miss Grandiere.

The aunt and niece, at the cordial invitation of the Forces, stayed to dinner, and were afterward sent home in a wide buggy driven by Jacob.

One day later Miss Grandiere broached to Mrs. Hedge the subject of sending Rosemary to school with Wynnette and Elva Force, at her own—Miss Grandiere’s—expense.

This consultation with the mother was a mere form, Miss Susannah knowing full well that it was the great ambition of Mistress Dolly’s heart to send her daughter to a good boarding school, and that she would consider the present opportunity most providential.

All the arrangements were most satisfactorily concluded, and by the end of the following week, the Forces, with little Rosemary in their charge, had left Mondreer.

CHAPTER IV
AFTER A LAPSE OF TIME

It was three years after the Forces left Mondreer, and they had never returned to it.

The farm was managed by Jesse Barnes, the capable overseer, and the sales were arranged by Mr. Copp, the family agent, who remitted the revenues of the estate in quarterly installments to Mr. Force.

The lady from the gold mines remained in the house, taking such excellent care of the rooms and the furniture that she had gradually settled down as a permanent inmate, in the character of a salaried housekeeper.

“I’m a-getting too old to be bouncing round prospecting with the boys, and so I reckon I had better sit down in this comfortable sitiwation for the rest of my life,” she confided to Miss Bayard, one February morning, when that descendant of the great duke honored her by coming to spend the day at Mondreer.

“That’s just what I sez myself. When you knows you’re well enough off, sez I, you’d better let well enough alone, sez I. And not take after them unsettled people as are allus changing about from place to place, doing no good,” assented Miss Bayard.

“It’s a habit dey gibs deirselves. ’Deed it is, ole mist’ess. Nuffin’ ’t all but a habit dey gibs deirselves,” remarked Luce, who had just come in with a waiter, on which was a plate of caraway-seed cake and a decanter of blackberry cordial to refresh the visitor.

“Just like my neffy, Roland. He was restless enough after Le went to sea, but after the Forces left the neighborhood and took Rosemary Hedge with ’em, ropes nor chains wouldn’t hold that feller, but he must go off to Baltimore to get a berth, as he called it. Thanks be to goodness, he got in ’long of Capt. Grandiere as first mate; but Lord knows when I’ll ever see him ag’in, for he is gone to the East Indies,” sighed Miss Sibby. And then she stopped to nibble her seed cake and sip her blackberry cordial.

“It’s a habit he gibs hisself, ole mist’ess. ’Deed it is. Nuffin’ ’t all but a habit he gibs hisself, and you ought to try to break him of it,” said Luce, as she set the waiter down on the table and left the room.

“Do you expect Abel Force ever to come home to his own house again?” inquired Miss Sibby, between her sips and nibbles.

“Oh, yes, I reckon so, when the gals have finished their edication, but not till then. You see they have a lovely house in Washington, according to what Miss Grandiere and little Rosemary Hedge tells us, and the children are at a fine school, so they live there all the year until the three months summer vacation comes round, and then when Miss Grandiere goes to Washington to fetch her little niece home to spend the holidays here, why, then Mr. and Mrs. Force takes their three daughters and go traveling. And this next summer they do talk about going to Europe, but I don’t know that they will do it.”

“What I sez is that they ought to spend their summers at Mondreer. When a family is blessed with the blessing of a good, healthy country home, sez I, they ought to stay in it, and be thankful for it, sez I.”

Even while the two cronies spoke the door opened, and Jacob came in, with a letter in his hand.

“There! That’s from the ole ’oman now. I know her handwriting across the room. And now we shall hear some news,” said Mrs. Anglesea, with her mouth full of cake.

And she took the letter from the negro’s hands, and opened it without ceremony, and began to read it to herself, without apology.

“Is it anything confidential?” demanded Miss Sibby, who was full of curiosity.

“No. I will read it all to you as soon as ever I have spelled it out myself. I never was good at reading writing, particularly fine hand, and, if I must say it, the ole ’oman do write the scrimble-scramblest fine hand as ever I see,” said Mrs. Anglesea, peering at the letter, and turning it this way and that, and almost upside down.

Presently she began to read, making comments between the words and phrases of the letter.

“Well, it’s ‘Washington City, P Street, N. W., and February 8th.’ Why, it’s been four days coming. Here you, Jake! When did you get this letter out’n the post office?” She paused to call the negro messenger, who stood, hat in hand, at the door.

“W’y, dis mornin’, in course, ole mist’ess,” replied the man.

“Don’t ‘ole mist’ess’ me, you scalawag! Are you sartain you didn’t get it Saturday, and forget all about it, and leave it in your pocket until to-day?”

“Hi, ole—young—mist’ess, how I gwine to forget w’en you always ax me? No, ’deed. I took it out’n de pos’ office dis blessed mornin’, ole—young mist’ess.”

“How dare you call me young mist’ess, you——”

“What mus’ I call you, den?” inquired the puzzled negro.

“Ma’am. Call me ma’am.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s better. Well, now the next time you go to the village, Jake, you just tell that postmaster if he keeps back another letter of mine four days, I’ll have him turned out. Do ye hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, now you may go about your business, and I will go on with my letter.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The man left the room, and the housekeeper resumed her reading:

“‘My Dear Mrs. Anglesea’: I wish she wouldn’t pile that name upon me so! If she knowed how I hated it she wouldn’t. ‘I write to ask you to have the house prepared for our reception on the eighth of June. You will know what is necessary to be done, and you may draw on Mr. Copp for the needful funds. He has instructions to honor your drafts.

“‘The girls expect to grad—grat—gral—gual——’

“Lord ’a’ mercy! what is this word? Can you make it out, Miss Sibby?” inquired the reader, holding the letter under the nose of the visitor.

Miss Bayard, who had resumed her knitting after moderately partaking of cake and cordial, dropped her work, adjusted her spectacles and inspected the word.

“It’s graduate, ma’am. That means finish their edication, honorable. Young Le Force graduated offen the Naval ’Cademy before he ever went to sea as a midshipman, and my scamp, Roland Bayard, graduated offen the Charlotte Hall ’Cademy before he ran away and went to sea as a common sailor. I s’pose these girls is a-going to graduate offen the ‘cademy where they are getting their edication, and I hope they will do theirselves credit. When your parents do the best they can for you, sez I, you ought to try to do the best you can for yourself, sez I, which is the best return you can make them, sez I.”

“To do the best you can for them, I should think would be the first thing to think about, and, likewise, best return to make them. But now I’ll go on with my letter:

“‘The girls expect to graduate at the academic commencement, on the first of June’—graduate at the commencement! I thought pupils graduated at the end!—‘after which we expect to come down to Mondreer for the summer, previous to going to Europe. I have much news of importance to tell you, which concerns yourself as much as it affects us; but it is of such a nature that it had best be reserved for the present. Expecting to see you, I remain your friend,

Elfrida Force.’”

“So they are actually coming home at last,” said Miss Sibby.

“Yes, actially coming home at last,” assented the housekeeper. “But, look here. What does she mean by that news as she has got to tell me which concerns she and I both? I reckon it must be news of my rascal. Lord! I wonder if it is? I wonder if he’s been hung or anything? I hope to gracious he has! And then she wouldn’t mention it in a letter, but wait until she could tell me all about it! It must be that, ole ’oman—my rascal’s hung!”

“I reckon it is! When a man lives a bad life, sez I, he must expect to die a bad death, sez I.”

“Well, I shan’t go in mourning for him, that’s certain, whether he’s hung or drowned. But we shall hear all about it when the folks come home. Lord! why, the place will be like another house, with all them young gals in it!”

“I might ’a’ knowed somethin’ was up t’other Sunday, when I heard Miss Grandiere tell Parson Peters, at All Faith Church, how she and Mrs. Hedge were both going to Washington on the first of June. Of course, it is to the commencement they’re going, to see Rosemary graduate along with the others.”

“But to hear ’em call the end of a thing its commencement, takes me,” said Mrs. Anglesea.

“So it do me. And if people don’t know what they’re a-talking about, sez I, they’d better hold their tongues, sez I.”

“Young Mrs. Ingle will be mighty proud to have the old folks and the gals back. Lord! how fond she was of them two little gals. To think of her naming her two babies after them—the first Wynnette and the second Elva. Let’s see; the first one must be two years old.”

“Wynnie is twenty-three months old, and Ellie is nine months; but they are both sich smart, lively, sensible children that any one might think as they was older than that. But I don’t hold with children being took so much notice of, and stimmerlated in their intellects so much. Fair an’ easy, sez I; slow and sure, sez I, goes a long way, sez I.”

So, talking about their neighbors, as usual, but not uncharitably, the gossips passed the day. At sunset they had tea together; and then Gad brought around the mule cart—the only equipage owned by the descendant of the great duke—who put on her bonnet and shawl, bid good-by to her crony, got into her seat and drove homeward.

“Well, the ole ’oman has give me long enough notice to get ready for ’em; but she knows there’s a good deal to be done, and country workmen is slow, let alone the niggers, who is slowest of all,” ruminated Mrs. Anglesea, who resolved to begin operations next day.

CHAPTER V
THE FORTUNES OF ODALITE

To explain the mysterious letter written by Elfrida Force to her housekeeper, we must condense the family history of the last three years, which had passed without any incident worth recording, and bring it up to the time when events full of importance for good or evil followed each other in rapid succession.

Mr. Force, on removing his family to Washington, in the month of February three years before, took apartments in one of the best hotels for himself, his wife, and their eldest daughter, while he placed his two younger daughters and his little ward at a first-class boarding school.

The Forces had some friends and acquaintances in the city, and to these they sent cards, which were promptly honored by calls.

For the sake of Odalite, Mrs. Force chose to enter the gay society for which she herself had little heart.

The trousseau prepared for the girl’s luckless, broken marriage came well into use as an elegant outfit for the fashionable season in the gay capital.

Mr. Force escorted his wife and daughter to all the receptions, concerts, balls and dinners to which they were invited, and everywhere he felt pride and pleasure in the general admiration bestowed upon his beautiful wife and their lovely daughter.

But the instinct of caste was strong in the breast of Elfrida Force. She and her daughter were recipients of many elegant entertainments, and she wished to reciprocate, but could not do so while living at a hotel.

His wife’s wishes, joined to his own longing for the freedom of domestic life, added zeal to Abel Force’s quest of a house.

But it was at the end of the session of Congress before his desire was gratified. Then a United States senator, whose term of office had expired, offered his handsome and elegantly furnished house for rent.

Mr. and Mrs. Force inspected the premises, and leased them for three years.

They did not wish to go in at once, as the season was at an end, and the summer at hand.

But as soon as the retiring statesman and his family had vacated the house Mr. Force sent in a squad of housecleaners to prepare the place for the new tenants.

When the schools closed for the long summer vacation he gave little Rosemary Hedge into the hands of Miss Grandiere, who had come to Washington to fetch her home, and with his wife and three daughters left the city for an extensive summer tour.

After three months of varied travel the family returned to Washington in September, and took possession of the beautiful town house, near the P Street circle, in the northwest section of the city.

Then they replaced their daughters and their little ward at the same school—not as boarders, however, but as day pupils, for Mr. and Mrs. Force wished to have their girls as much as possible under their own care, believing home education to be the most influential for good—or for evil—of all possible training.

When Congress met, and the season began, Mrs. Force took the lead by giving a magnificent ball, to which all the beauty, fashion, wealth and celebrity of the national capital were invited, to which they nearly all came.

The ball was a splendid success.

The beautiful Elfrida Force became an acknowledged queen of society, and her lovely young daughter was the belle of the season.

Had no one in the city then heard of her disastrous wedding broken up at the altar?

Not a soul had heard of it. Not one of those friends and acquaintances of Mrs. Force whom she had met in Washington, for, be it remembered, she had written to no one of her daughter’s approaching marriage, and had bid to the wedding only the nearest neighbors and oldest friends of her family.

Odalite was saved this unmerited humiliation, at least—though many who admired the beautiful girl wondered that the lovely, dark eyes never sparkled, the sweet lips never smiled.

In this season she had several “eligible” offers of marriage—one from a young officer in the army; another from a middle-aged banker; another from an aged cabinet minister; a fourth from a foreign secretary of legation; a fifth from a distinguished lawyer; a sixth from a brilliant congressman; a seventh from a fashionable preacher; and so on and so on.

All these were declined with courtesy.

Odalite took very little pleasure in the gay life of Washington, and very little pride in her conquests.

Her sole delight was in Le’s letters, which came to her under cover to her mother; but were read and enjoyed by the whole family.

Le certainly was a faithful servant of the great republic, and never neglected his duty; but yet his “most chiefest occupation” must have been writing to Odalite, for his letters came by every possible opportunity, and they were not only letters, but huge parcels of manuscript, containing the journal of his thoughts, feelings, hopes and purposes from day to day. And all these might have been summed in one word—“Odalite.”

She also sent letters as bulky and as frequently; and all that she wrote might have been condensed into a monosyllable—“Le.”

These parcels were always directed in the hand of her mother.

Ah! mother and daughter ever felt that the eyes of an implacable enemy were secretly watching them, so that they must be on their guard against surprise and treachery.

They suffered this fear, although they never heard one word from, or of, Angus Anglesea. He might be dead, living, or imprisoned, for aught they knew of his state, condition, or whereabouts.

In the distractions of society, however, they forgot their secret fears, for indeed they had no time for reflection. This was one of the gayest seasons ever known in the gay capital; reception, ball and concert followed ball, concert and reception in a dizzy round; and the Forces were seen at all! If they had purposely intended to make up for all the long years of seclusion at Mondreer they certainly and completely succeeded.

At the end of the season they took a rest; but they did not leave Washington until June, when the schools closed, and then they placed little Rosemary Hedge in the hands of Miss Grandiere, who came to the city to receive her, and they went to Canada for the summer.

As this first year passed, so passed the second and nearly the whole of the third.

It was in September of the third year that the monotony of winter society and summer travel was broken by something of vital interest to all their lives.

They had just returned to Washington; replaced their youngest daughters and their ward at school, and settled themselves, with their eldest daughter, in their town house, which had been renovated during their absence.

It was a season of repose coming between the summer travel and the winter’s dissipations. They were receiving no calls, making no visits, but just resting.

One morning the father, mother and daughter were seated in the back piazza which faced the west, and was therefore, on this warm morning in September, cool and shady. The piazza looked down upon a little back yard, such as city lots can afford. But every inch of the ground had been utilized, for a walk covered with an arbor of latticework and grapevines led down to a back gate and to the stables in the rear. On the right hand of this walk was a green plot, with a pear tree and a plum tree growing in the midst, and a border of gorgeous autumn flowers blooming all around. On the other side of the walk was another plot with a peach tree and an apple tree growing in the midst, and a border of roses all around. And the grapevine and the fruit trees were all in full fruition now, and supplied the dessert every day.

Mr., Mrs. and Miss Force were all seated in the pleasant Quaker rocking-chairs with which this back piazza was furnished.

Mr. Force had the morning paper in his hands and he was reading aloud to the two ladies, who were both engaged in crochet work, when the back door opened and a manservant came out and handed an enveloped newspaper to his master, saying:

“The postmaster has just left it, sir.”

“And nothing else?” inquired the gentleman.

“Nothing else, sir—only that.”

“Only a newspaper,” said Mr. Force, laying it down carelessly, without examination, as he resumed the Union and the article he had been engaged in reading.

No one felt the slightest interest in the paper that lay neglected on the little stand beside Mr. Force’s chair. Many newspapers came by mail, and but few of them were opened. Mr. Force went on with his reading, and Mrs. and Miss Force with their embroidery. And the neglected newspaper, with its tremendous news, lay there unnoticed and forgotten with the prospect of being thrown, unopened, into the dust barrel; which must certainly have been its fate, had not Odalite chanced to cast her eye upon it and to observe something unfamiliar in its style and character. In idle curiosity she took it up, looked at it, and gave a cry.

CHAPTER VI
NEWS FROM COL. ANGLESEA

“What is it, my dear?” inquired her father, as Odalite, with trembling fingers, tore off the envelope and opened the paper.

“It—it is—it is postmarked Angleton,” she faltered.

“Angleton! Give it to me!” peremptorily exclaimed Abel Force, reaching his hand and taking the sheet from his daughter, who yielded it up and then covered her eyes with her hands, while her father examined the paper and her mother looked on with breathless interest.

“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed Abel Force, as his eyes were riveted on a paragraph he had found there.

“What—what is it?” demanded Elfrida Force, in extreme anxiety, while Odalite uncovered her eyes, and gazed with eager look and lips apart.

“A scoundrel has gone to his account! The earth is rid of an incubus! Listen! This is the Angleton Advertiser of August 20th, and it contains a notice of the death of Angus Anglesea.”

“Anglesea—dead!” exclaimed mother and daughter, in a breath, and in tones that expressed almost every other emotion under the sun, except sorrow.

“Yes, dead and gone to—his desserts!” exclaimed Abel Force, triumphantly; but catching himself up short, before he ended in a word that must never be mentioned, under any circumstances. “Here is a notice of his death.”

“Read it,” said Mrs. Force, while Odalite looked the eager interest, which she did not express in words.

Abel Force read this paragraph at the head of the death list:

“Died.—On Monday, August 10th, at Anglewood Manor, in the forty-fourth year of his age, after a long and painful illness, which he bore with heroic patience and fortitude, Col. the Hon. Angus Anglesea.”

“Dead!” muttered Elfrida Force, thoughtfully.

“Dead!” echoed Odalite, gravely.

“Yes! dead and—doomed!” exclaimed Abel Force, catching himself up before he had used an inadmissible word.

“Then, thank Heaven, I am free! Oh! I hope it was no sin to say that!” exclaimed Odalite.

Her father stared at her for a moment, and then said:

“My dear, you were always free!”

“I could not feel so while that man lived,” she said.

“Why, what claim could the husband of another woman set up on you?” demanded Mr. Force, in surprise.

“None whatever,” replied Elfrida Force, answering for her daughter; “but after all that she has gone through, it is perfectly natural that a delicate and sensitive girl, like Odalite, should have felt ill at ease so long as her artful and unscrupulous enemy lived, and should feel a sense of relief at his departure.”

“I suppose so,” said Abel Force, who was scanning the first page of the Angleton paper. “And I suppose, also, that none of us exactly share ‘the profound gloom’ which, according to this sheet, ‘has spread like an eclipse over all the land, on the death of her illustrious son.’ The leading article here is on the death of Anglesea, with a brief sketch of his life and career, and such a high eulogium as should only have been pronounced upon the memory of some illustrious hero, martyr, Christian, or philanthropist. But, then, this Angleton paper was, of course, his own organ, and in his own interests, and in those of his family, or it would never have committed itself to such fulsome flatteries, even of the dead, whom it seems lawful to praise and justifiable to overpraise.”

“Read it, Abel,” said Mrs. Force.

“Yes, do, papa, dear,” added Odalite.

Mr. Force read:

“THE GREAT SOLDIER OF INDIA IS NO MORE

“A profound gloom, a vast pall of darkness, like some ‘huge eclipse of sun and moon,’ has fallen upon the land at the death of her illustrious son. Col. the Hon. Angus Anglesea died yesterday at his manor of Anglewood.

“The Hon. Angus Anglesea was born at Anglewood Manor, on November 21, 181—. He entered Eton at the early age of twelve years and Oxford at seventeen. He graduated with the highest honors, at the age of twenty-two. He succeeded his father on December 23, 182—. His tastes led him to a military career, and he entered the army as cornet in the Honorable East India Company’s service, in his twenty-fifth year. His distinguished military talents, his heroism and gallantry, his invaluable services during the Indian campaign, are matters that have passed into national history; and become so familiar to all that it would be impertinent to attempt to recapitulate them here.

“Col. Anglesea married, firstly, on October 13, 184—, Lady Mary Merland, eldest daughter of the sixth Earl of Middlemoor; by whom he has one son, Alexander, born September 1, 184—, now at Eton. Her ladyship died August 31, 185—. Col. Anglesea married, secondly, December 20, 185—, Odalite, eldest daughter of Abel Force, Esq., of Mondreer, Maryland, United States, by Lady Elfrida Glennon, eldest daughter of the late Earl of Enderby, who survives him. There is no issue by the second marriage.”

Abel Force finished reading, dropped the paper and stared at his wife and daughter, who were also staring at him. All three seemed struck dumb with astonishment at the audacity of the last paragraph.

“Who is responsible for that?” demanded Mrs. Force, who was the first to find her voice.

“The reckless braggart who has gone to the devil, I suppose! No one else could be,” said Abel Force, indignantly.

“You are right. No one but Anglesea could have been the originator of such a falsehood.”

“And here is no mention made at all of the real second marriage and of the real widow; whom, by the way, he must have married within a few weeks after the death of his wife. Yet! let us see! Great Heaven! unless there is a misprint, there has been an infamous crime committed, and a heinous wrong done to that Californian widow, whose marriage with Col. Anglesea was registered to have taken place on August 1, 185—, full six weeks before the death of Anglesea’s wife, which took place on August 25th! And in that case—yes, in that case the diabolical villain had the legal right, if not the moral right, to marry our daughter! Great Heaven! how imperfect are the laws of our highest civilization, when men have the legal right to do that which is morally wrong!”

“Oh! oh! I will never acknowledge the validity of that marriage ceremony! I will never call myself that man’s widow, or wear a thread of mourning for him!” exclaimed Odalite, who could be very brave now that her mother’s great enemy was dead, and her mother forever safe from his malignity.

“You need not, my dear. Nor need the poor Californian woman ever suspect that any darker wrong than the robbery of her money has been done her. Why, either, should we be so excited over this discovery? It is no new villainy that has come to light. It is simply that he really wronged the Californian widow instead of you. The man is dead. Let us not harbor malice against the dead. He can harm us no more,” said Abel, in his wish to soothe the excited feelings of his wife and daughter. But ah! he knew nothing of the greater cause those two unhappy ladies had had for their detestation of their deadly enemy.

But now he was gone forever, and they were delivered from his deviltries. It was

“The thrill of a great deliverance”

that so deeply moved them both. All felt it, even Mr. Force, who soon arose and went out for a walk to reflect coolly over the news of the morning.

Elfrida and Odalite went into the house and tried to occupy themselves with the question of luncheon and other household matters, but they could not interest themselves in any work; they could think of nothing but of the blessed truth that a great burden had been lifted from their hearts, a great darkness had passed away from their minds.

Late in the afternoon Wynnette, Elva and Rosemary came in from school.

Odalite told them that Col. Anglesea was dead, and showed them the paper containing the notice of his death and the sketch of his life.

At first the children received the news in silent incredulity, to be succeeded by the reverential awe with which the young and happy hear of death and the grave.

Wynnette was the first to recover herself.

“Oh! Odalite, I am glad, for your sake, that you are freed from the incubus of that man’s life. I hope it is no sin to say this, for I cannot help feeling so,” she said.

“I hope the poor sinner truly repented of his iniquity and found grace even at the eleventh hour,” breathed the pitiful little Elva.

“I don’t know,” sighed quaint little Rosemary, folding her mites of hands with sad solemnity. “I don’t know. It is an awful risk for any one, more particularly for a man like Col. Anglesea.”

“‘The vilest sinner may return,’ you know,” pleaded Elva.

“Yes, he may, but he don’t often do it,” said Wynnette, putting in her word.

“Let me read the notice of his death and the sketch of his life,” suggested Odalite, for she had only shown them the paper containing these articles.

“Yes, do, Odalite,” said Wynnette.

Odalite read the brief notice, and then she turned to the sketch and said:

“This is longer, and I need not read the whole of it, you know.”

“No. Just pick out the plums from the pudding. I never read the whole of anything. Life is too short,” said Wynnette.

The other two girls seemed to agree with her, and so Odalite began and read the highly inflated eulogium on Col. Anglesea’s character and career.

The three younger ones listened with eyes and mouths open with astonishment.

“Why, they seem to think he was a good, wise, brave man!” gasped little Elva.

“That’s because they knew nothing about him,” exclaimed Wynnette.

“Isn’t there something in the Bible about a man being a good man among his own people, but turning into a very bad man when he gets into a strange city where the people don’t know who he is?” inquired Rosemary, very gravely.

“I believe there is, in the Old Testament somewhere, but I don’t know where,” answered Elva.

“That was the way with Anglesea, I suspect. He was a hypocrite in his own country; but as soon as he came abroad he cut loose and kicked up his heels—I mean he threw off all the restraints of honor and conscience,” explained Wynnette.

Odalite resumed her task, and read of Anglesea’s birth, his entrance into Eton, and afterward at Oxford, his succession to his estates, his entrance into the army, his marriage to Lady Mary Merland, the birth of his son, and the death of his wife.

There she stopped. She did not see fit to read the paragraph relating to herself; and to prevent her sisters from seeing it, she rolled up the paper and put it into her pocket.

They did not suspect that there had been any mention made of his attempted marriage to Odalite, far less that it had been recorded there as an accomplished fact; but they wondered why his marriage to the lady of ‘Wild Cats’ had not been mentioned.

“And is there not a word said about his Californian nuptials?” demanded Wynnette.

“No, not a word,” replied Odalite.

“Ah! you see, he wasn’t proud of that second wife! She wasn’t an earl’s daughter!”

“I wonder how Mrs. Anglesea will take the news of her husband’s death, when she hears of it,” mused Elva.

“Ah!” breathed Wynnette.

Their talk was interrupted by the entrance of their father, who had just come in from his long walk.

“Oh, papa!” exclaimed Wynnette, “we have just heard the news! Oh! won’t Le be glad when he hears it?”

“My dear children,” said Mr. Force, very solemnly and also a little inconsistently, “we should never rejoice at any good that may come to us through the death or misfortune of a fellow creature.”

“But, oh, papa! in this case we can’t help it.”

“There’s the dinner bell,” said Abel Force, irrelevantly.

CHAPTER VII
THE EARL OF ENDERBY

Washington City in the month of September is very quiet and sleepy. The torrid heat of the summer is passing away, but has not passed.

It returns in hot waves when the incense of its burning seems to rise to heaven.

No one goes out in the sun who is not obliged to go, or does anything else he or she is not obliged to do.

The Forces lived quietly in their city home during this month, neither making nor receiving calls.

The subject of Col. Anglesea’s death and of Le’s return very naturally occupied much of their thought.

Le was expected home at the end of the three years voyage—then, or thereabouts, no one knew exactly the day, or even the week.

Letters notifying him of the death of Angus Anglesea were promptly written to him by every member of the family, so eager were they all to convey the news and express themselves on the subject.

Even little Elva wrote, and her letter contained a characteristic paragraph:

“I am almost afraid it is a sin to be so very glad, as I am that Odalite is now entirely free from the fear that has haunted her and oppressed her spirits and darkened her mind for nearly three years. I cannot help feeling glad when I see Odalite looking so bright, happy and hopeful, just as she used to look before that man bewitched her. But I know I ought to be sorry for him, and indeed I am, just a little. Maybe he couldn’t help being bad—maybe he didn’t have Christian parents. I do hope he repented and found grace before he died. But Rosemary shakes her head and sighs over him. But, then, you know, Rosemary is such a solemn little thing over anything serious—though she can be funny enough at times. Oh, how I wish it was lawful to pray for the dead! Then I would pray for that man every hour in the day. And now I will tell you a secret, or—make you a confession: I do pray for him every night, and then I pray to the Lord that if it is a sin for me to pray for the dead He will forgive me for praying for that man. Oh, Le! how we that call ourselves Christians should try to save sinners while they live!”

It was on a Saturday, near the middle of October, when answering letters came from Le—a large packet—directed to Mr. Force, but containing letters for each one. They were jubilant letters, filled full of life, and love, and hope. Not one regret for the dead man! not one hope that he had repented and found grace, as little Elva expressed it. Clearly, Le was one of those Christians who can rejoice in the just perdition of the lost.

His ship was at Rio Janeiro, on her return voyage, he wrote, and he expected to be home to eat his Christmas dinner with the uncle, aunt and cousins who were soon to be his father, mother, wife and sisters. The New Year’s wedding that was to have come off three years ago should be celebrated on the coming New Year with more éclat than had ever attended a wedding before. Now he would resign from the navy, and settle down with his dear Odalite at Greenbushes, where it would be in no man’s power to disturb their peace.

Le wrote in very much the same vein to every member of the family, for, as has been seen in the first part of this story, there never was such a frank, simple and confiding pair of lovers as these two who had been brought up together, and whose letters were read by father, mother and sisters, aunt, uncle and cousins.

To Elva, in addition to other things, he wrote: “Don’t trouble your gentle heart about the fate of Anglesea. Leave him to the Lord. No man is ever removed from this earth until it is best for him and everybody else that he should go. Then he goes and he cannot go before.”

“That is all very well to say,” murmured poor Elva; “but, all the same, when I remember how much I wished—something would happen to him—for Odalite’s sake, I cannot help feeling as if I had somehow helped to kill him.”

“Well, perhaps you did,” said Wynnette. “I believe the most gentle and tender angels are all unconsciously the most terrible destroyers of the evil. I have read somewhere or other that the most malignant and furious demon from the deepest pit will turn tail and—no, I mean will fly, howling in pain, wrath and terror, from before the face of a naked infant! Ah! there are wonderful influences in the invisible world around us. You may have been his Uriel.”

“But I didn’t want to be—I didn’t want to be!” said Elva, almost in tears.

“No, you didn’t want to be while you were awake and in your natural state; but how do you know, now, what you wanted to be when you were asleep and in your spiritual condition?”

Elva opened her large, blue eyes with such amazement that Wynnette burst out laughing.

And nothing more was said on the subject at that time, because Mr. Force, who had left a pile of other unopened letters on the table while they read and discussed Le’s, now took up one from the pile, looked at it, and exclaimed:

“Why, Elfrida, my dear, here is a letter from England for you. It is sealed with the Enderby crest. From your brother, no doubt.”

“The first I have had for years,” said the lady, as she took the letter from her husband’s hands.

It was directed in the style that would have been used had the earl’s sister lived in England:

“Lady Elfrida Force,

“Mondreer, Maryland, U. S.”

It had been forwarded from the country post office to the city:

Elfrida opened it and read:

“Enderby Castle, October 1, 186—

“My Dear and Only Sister: I have no apology to offer you for my long neglect of your regular letters, except that of the sad vis inertia of the confirmed invalid. That I know you will accept with charity and sympathy.

“I am lower in health, strength and spirits than ever before. I employ an amanuensis to write all my letters, except those to you.

“I shrink from having a stranger intermeddling with a correspondence between an only brother and sister, and so, because I was not able to write with my own hand, your letters have been unanswered.

“In none of them, however, have you mentioned any present or prospective establishment of any of your girls, except that, years ago, you spoke of an early, very early betrothal of your eldest daughter to a young naval officer. You have not alluded to that arrangement lately. Has that come to nothing? It was scarcely a match befitting one who will some day, should she live, be my successor here.

“Your girls must have grown up in all these years. Let us see. Odalite must be nineteen, Wynnette seventeen, and little Elva fifteen. Two of them, therefore, must be marriageable, according to Maryland notions. Write and tell me all about them. And tell me whether you will come into my views that I am about to open to you.

“I am lonely, very lonely, not having a near relative in the world, except yourself and your family. I want you all to come over and make me a long visit, and then try to make up your minds to the magnanimity of leaving one of your girls with me for so long as I may have to live; or, if one girl would feel lonesome, leave two, to keep each other company. You and your husband might be quite happy with one daughter at home.

“So I think. What do you?

“My plan may be only the selfish wish of a chronic sufferer, who is nearly always sure to be an egotist. Consult your husband, and write to me.

“Give my love to my nieces, and kindest regards to Mr. Force, and believe me, ever, dear Elfrida,

“Your affectionate brother,

“Enderby.”

Mrs. Force having read the letter to herself, passed it over without a word of comment to her husband.

Mr. Force also read it in silence, and then returned it to his wife, saying:

“This matter requires mature deliberation. We will think over it to-night, and decide to-morrow.”

“Or, as to-morrow is the Sabbath, we will write and give my brother our answer on Monday,” amended the lady.

“Yes, that will be better. It will give us more time to mature our plans,” assented Mr. Force.

“What is it?” inquired Wynnette, drawing near her parents, while Elva and Rosemary looked the interest that they did not put into words.

“A letter from your Uncle Enderby, my dears, inviting us all to come over and make him a long visit.”

“Oh! that would be delightful, mamma. Can we not go?” eagerly inquired Wynnette.

“Perhaps. You will all graduate at the end of this current term, and then, perhaps, we can go with advantage, but not before.”

“Oh, that will be joyful, joyful, joyful!” sang Wynnette, in the words of a revival hymn.

“But what will Le and Odalite do?” inquired little Elva, who always thought of everybody.

“Why, if Le and Odalite are to be married in January they can go over there for the bridal trip, you know,” said Wynnette. “They will have to go somewhere on a wedding tour—all brides and grooms have to—and the reason why is because for the first few weeks after marriage they are such insupportable idiots that no human beings can possibly endure their presence. My private opinion is that they ought to be sent to a lunatic asylum to spend the honeymoon; but as that cannot be done, we can send our poor idiots over to Uncle Enderby. Maybe by the time they have crossed the ocean seasickness may have brought them to their senses.”

“Thank you, for myself and Le,” said Odalite, laughing.

“Without joking, I really think your plan is a good one,” said Mrs. Force. “Whether we all follow in June or not, it will be an acceptable attention to my brother to send our son and daughter over to spend their honeymoon at Enderby Castle.”

There was more conversation, that need not be reported here, except to say that all agreed to the plan of the wedding trip.

On the following Monday, Mr. and Mrs. Force, having come to a decision, wrote a joint letter to the Earl of Enderby, cordially thanking him for his invitation, gladly accepting it, and explaining that the marriage of their daughter, Odalite, with Mr. Leonidas Force, would probably come off in January, after which the young pair would sail for England on a visit to Enderby Castle. That if all should go well, after the two younger girls should have graduated from their academy, the whole family would follow in June, and join at the castle.

It would be curious, at the moment we close a letter to some distant friend, could we look in and see what, at that moment, the friend might be doing.

At the instant that Mr. Force sealed the envelope to the Earl of Enderby, could he have been clairvoyant, he might have looked in upon the library of Enderby Castle and seen the sunset light streaming through a richly stained oriel window upon the thin, pale, patrician face and form of a man of middle age, who sat wrapped in an Indian silk dressing gown, reclining in a deeply cushioned easy-chair, and reading a newspaper—the London Evening Telegram.

And this is what the Earl of Enderby read:

“We take pleasure in announcing that Col. the Hon. Angus Anglesea has been appointed deputy lieutenant governor of the county.”

CHAPTER VIII
ANTICIPATIONS

With the assembling of Congress, in the first week of December, the usual crowd of officials, pleasure-seekers, fortune hunters, adventurers and adventuresses poured into Washington. Hotels, boarding houses and private dwellings were full.

The serious business of fashion and the light recreation of legislation began.

Mr. Force went down to the capitol every day to listen to the disputes in the House or in the Senate.

Mrs. Force and Odalite drove out to call on such of their friends and acquaintances as had arrived in the city, and to leave cards for the elder lady’s “day”—the Wednesday of each week during the season.

Letters came from Le. His ship was still delayed for an indefinite time at Rio de Janeiro, waiting sailing orders, which seemed to be slow in coming.

Le’s letters betrayed the fact that he was fretting and fuming over the delay.

“Don’t know what the navy department means,” he wrote, “keeping us here for no conceivable purpose under the sun. But I know what I mean. I mean to resign as soon as ever I get home.

“If there should come a war I will serve my country, of course; but in these ‘piping times of peace’ I will not stay in the service to be anybody’s nigger, even Uncle Sam’s!”

Odalite, Wynnette and Elva cheered him up with frequent letters.

Christmas is rather a quiet interlude in the gay life of Washington.

Congress adjourns until after New Year.

Most of the government officials—members of the administration and of both houses of Congress, and many of the civil service brigade, leave the city to spend their holidays in their distant homesteads.

In fact, there is an exodus until after New Year.

The gay season in Washington does not really begin until after the first of January.

The public receptions by the President and by the members of the cabinet take the initiative.

Then follow receptions by members of the diplomatic corps, by prominent senators and representatives, and by wealthy or distinguished private citizens.

Mr., Mrs. and Miss Force went everywhere, and received everybody—within the limits of their social circle.

Odalite, for the first time in her short life, enjoyed society with a real youthful zest.

There was no drawback now. Her mother’s deadly enemy had passed to his account, and could trouble her no more, she thought. Le was coming home, and they were to be married soon, and go to Europe and see all the beauties and splendors and glories of the Old World, which she so longed to view. They were to sojourn in the old, ancestral English home which had been the scene of her mother’s childhood—ah! and the scene of so many exploits of her ancestors—sieges, defenses, captures, recoveries, confiscations by this ruler, restorations by that—events which had passed into history and helped to make it. She would see London—wonderful, mighty London!—St. Paul’s, the Tower. Oh! and Paris, and the old Louvre!—Rome! St. Peter’s! the Coliseum! the Catacombs!—places which the facilities of modern travel have made as common as a market house to most of the educated world, but which, to this imaginative, country girl, were holy ground, sacred monuments, wonderful, most wonderful relics of a long since dead and gone world.

And Le would be her companion in all these profound enjoyments! And, after all, they should return home and settle down at Greenbushes, never to part again, but to be near neighbors to father, mother, sisters and friends; to give and receive all manner of neighborly kindnesses, courtesies, hospitalities.

Odalite’s heart was as full of happy thoughts as is a hive of honey bees. Her happiness beamed from her face, shining on all who approached her.

If Odalite had been admired during the two past seasons when she was pale, quiet and depressed, how much more was she admired now in her fair, blooming beauty, that seemed to bring sunshine, life and light into every room she entered.

Mrs. Force felt all a mother’s pride in the social success of her daughter.

But to Odalite herself the proudest and happiest day of the whole season was that on which she received a letter from Le, announcing his immediate return home.

“This letter,” he wrote, “will go by the steamer that leaves this port on the thirteenth of January. We have our sailing orders for the first of February. On that day we leave this blessed port homeward bound. Winds and waves propitious, we shall arrive early in March, and then—and then, Odalite——”

And then the faithful lover and prospective bridegroom went off into the extravagances that were to be expected, even of him.

Odalite received this letter on the first of February, and knew that on that day Le had sailed, homeward bound.

“He will be here some time in the first week of March,” said Mrs. Force, in talking over the letter with her daughter. “Congress will have adjourned by the fourth. All strangers will have left. The city will be quiet. It will be in the midst of Lent also. I think, Odalite, that, under all the circumstances, we had better have a very private wedding, here in our city home, with none but our family and most intimate friends present. Then you and Le will sail for Europe, make the grand tour, and after that shall be finished, go to my brother at Enderby Castle, where we—your father, and sisters, and myself—will join you in the autumn. What do you think?”

“I think as you do, mamma, and would much prefer the marriage to be as quiet as possible,” Odalite assented.

“After you and Le leave us we shall still remain in the city until the girls shall have graduated. Then we will go down to the dear old home for a few weeks, and then sail for Liverpool, to join you at Enderby Castle.”

“That is an enchanting program, mamma! Oh! I hope we may be able to carry it through!” exclaimed Odalite.

“There is no reason in the world why we should not, my dear,” replied the lady.

Odalite sighed, with a presentiment of evil which she could neither comprehend nor banish.

“And now,” said her mother, “I must sit down and write to Mrs. Anglesea and to Mr. Copp. The house at Mondreer will need to be prepared for us. It wanted repairs badly enough when we left it. It must be in a worse condition now; so I must write at once to give them time enough to have the work done well.”

And she retired to her own room to go about her task.

When Wynnette, Elva and Rosemary came home in the afternoon, and heard that Le had sailed from Rio de Janeiro, and would certainly be home early in March, they were wild with delight.

When, upon much cross-examination of Odalite, they found out that the marriage of the young lovers was to be quietly performed in the parlor of their father’s house, and that the newly married pair would immediately sail for Europe in advance of the family, who were to join them at Enderby Castle later on, their ecstasies took forms strongly suggestive of Darwin’s theory concerning the origin of the species. In other words, they danced and capered all over the drawing room.

“We want Rosemary to go with us, papa, dear,” said Elva.

“We must have Rosemary to go with us, you know, mamma,” added Wynnette.

“That is not for us to say,” replied Mr. Force.

“It is a question for her mother and her aunt,” added Mrs. Force.

But the little girls did not yield the point. Rosemary’s three years’ association with them had made her as dear to Wynnette and Elva as a little sister. And when they found out that Rosemary was heartbroken at the prospect of parting from them, and “wild” to accompany them, they stuck to their point with the pertinacity of little terriers.

Now what could Abel Force—the kindest-hearted man on the face of the earth, perhaps—do but yield to the children’s innocent desire?

He wrote to Mrs. Hedge and to Miss Grandiere, proposing to those ladies to take Rosemary with his daughters to Europe, to give her the educational advantage of the tour.

In due time came the answer of the sisters, full of surprise and gratitude for the generous offer, which they accepted in the simple spirit in which it was made.

And when Wynnette, Elva and Rosemary were informed of the decision there were not three happier girls in the whole world than themselves.

The same mail brought a letter from the housekeeper at Mondreer, who was ever a very punctual correspondent.

She informed Mrs. Force that such internal improvements as might be made in bad weather were already progressing at Mondreer—that all the bedsteads were down, and all the carpets up, the floors had been scrubbed, and the windows and painting washed, and the kalsominers were at work.

But she wanted to know immediately, if Mrs. Force pleased, what that news was that she was saving for a personal interview. If it concerned her own “beat,” she would like to know it at once.

“Why, I thought you had told her, mamma,” said Odalite, when she had read this letter.

“No, my dear. I did not wish to excite any new talk of Angus Anglesea until you and Le should be married and off to Europe. I shrink from the subject, Odalite. I am sorry now that I hinted to the woman having anything to tell her.”

“But, mamma, ought she not be told that he is dead?”

“He has been dead to her since he left her. In good time she shall know that he is dead to us also. And, my dear, remember that he was not her husband, after all, but——”

“Oh! don’t finish the sentence, mamma! What will Le say?” sighed Odalite.

“Nothing. This will make no difference to you or to Le. That ceremony performed at All Faith, three years ago, whether legal or illegal, was certainly incomplete—the marriage rites arrested before the registry was made. You have never seen or spoken to the would-be bridegroom since that hour; and now the man is dead, and you are free, even if you were ever bound. Let us hear no more on that subject, my dear. Now I shall have to answer this letter, and—as I have been so unlucky as to have raised the woman’s suspicions and set her to talking—I must tell her the facts, I suppose. And—as for her sake as well as for our own, I choose to consider her the widow of Angus Anglesea—I shall send with the letter a widow’s outfit,” concluded the lady, as she left the room.

The whole remainder of that day was spent by Mrs. Force in driving along Pennsylvania Avenue and up Seventh Street, selecting from the best stores an appropriate outfit in mourning goods for the colonel’s widow.

These were all sent home in the evening, carefully packed in a large deal box, which, with a letter at its bottom, was dispatched by express to Mrs. Angus Anglesea, Charlotte Hall, Maryland.

CHAPTER IX
VALENTINES AT MONDREER

It was the fourteenth of February, St. Valentine’s Feast and All Birds’ Wedding Day!

It was a bright morning, with a sunny blue sky, and a soft breeze giving a foretaste of early spring.

Miss Sibby Bayard had come by special invitation to dine, and take tea with the housekeeper at Mondreer.

The two ladies were seated in Mrs. Force’s favorite sitting room, whose front window looked east upon the bay, and whose side window looked north into the woods.

A bright, open wood fire was burning in the wide fireplace, at which they sat in two rocking-chairs with their feet upon the brass fender.

Mrs. Anglesea had the edge of her skirt drawn up as usual, for, as she often declared, she would rather toast her shins before the fire than eat when she was hungry, or sleep when she was sleepy.

Miss Sibby was knitting one of a pair of white lamb’s-wool socks for her dear Roland.

Mrs. Anglesea was letting out the side seams of her Sunday basque.

“It is the most aggravating thing in this world that I seem to be always a-letting out of seams, and yet always a-having my gown bodies split somewhere or other when I put them on!” said the widow, apropos of her work, as she laid the open seam over her knee and began smoothing it out with her chubby fingers.

“You’re gettin’ too fat, that’s where it is. You’re gettin’ a great deal too fat,” remarked plain-spoken Miss Sibby.

“Well! That’s just what I’m complaining of! I’m getting so fat that the people make fun of me behind my back; they’d better not try it on before my face, I can tell them that!”

“How do you know they make fun of you at all?”

“By instick! I know it. And besides, this very morning, when Jake came from the post office, what did he fetch me? Not the letter from the old ’oman, as I was a-hoping and a-praying for! No! but a big onwelope with a impident walentine in it!”

“A walentine!”

“Yes, ma’am! A most impident one! A woman—no—a haystack dressed up like me, with impident verses under it! I wish I knowed who sent it! I’d give ’em walentines and haystacks, too, for their impidence.”

“Oh, don’t yer mind that! It was some boys or other! Boys is the devil, sez I, and you need never to expect nothing better from them, sez I! You can’t get blood out’n a turnip, sez I! nor likewise make a silk purse out’n a sow’s ear, sez I, and no more can’t you expect nothing out’n boys but the devil. Why, la! I got a wuss walentine than yourn! Found it tucked underneath of the front door this morning. Jest look at it!” said Miss Sibby, drawing a folded paper out of her pocket, opening and displaying it to her companion.

“See here,” she continued, pointing out its features as she spread it on her knee. “Here a tower, with a man on the top of it and a crown on the head of him, and his arms stretched out just as he has chucked an old ’oman over the wall! And here’s the old ’oman halfway down to the ground with her hands and feet flying. And onderneath of it all is wrote, ‘Descended from a duke.’ That’s meant for me, you know! It’s a harpoon on me and the Duke of England! But I don’t mind it! Not I! It’s nothing but their envy, sez I. The birds will pick at the highest fruit, sez I!”

“I think they ought to be well thrashed! Wish I had hold of ’em!”

“Lemme see yourn!” said Miss Sibby.

Mrs. Anglesea stood up and took a folded paper from under one of the silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece and handed it to her visitor.

A haystack, dressed in Mrs. Anglesea’s style and crowned with her head, and not a very violent caricature of her face. Evidently, like Miss Sibby’s valentine, the work of some waggish amateur.

“It’s the truth of the thing that gets me. I am getting to be a haystack,” said Mrs. Anglesea.

“Well, what do you do it for?” inquired Miss Sibby.

“How can I help it?” demanded her companion.

“Reggerlate your habits. Do by yourself as you do by the animyles, sez I!”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Well, I’ll try to ’splain. When we want to fatten fowl, we shut ’em up in coops so they can’t move round much; and we feed ’em full, don’t we?”

“Yes.”

“And when we want to fatten pigs, we shut ’em up in pens so they can’t run round much, and we feed ’em full, don’t we?”

“Yes! But what of that?”

“Well, them innicent fowls and quadruples are our kinfolks in the flesh, if they ain’t in the spirit anyways, and what’s law to them is law to us.”

“You’re too deep for me, ole ’oman!”

“Well, then, to come to the p’int——”

“Yes, down to hard pan.”

“If you want to get fatter and fatter, till you can’t pass through ne’er a door in this house, you keep eating as much as you can, and sitting into rocking-chairs as long as possible!”

“Oh, Lord!”

“And you’ll keep on a-getting fatter and fatter, until—until you’d do to go round the country in a show.”

“Oh, Lord! Next time I see young Dr. Ingle I’ll ask him wot sort o’ vittels produces fat and wot’ll make only skin and bone and muscle,” said the widow, in dismay.

“Yes, I reckon you’d better do that! It’s getting dangerous in your case, you know! As for me, I am fat enough; but never too fat. I always wariate betwixt a hund’ed and twenty-five to a hund’ed and thirty. But I never go beyond a hund’ed and thirty. Moderation is a jewel, sez I! Lord! here’s somebody a-coming! Who is it, I wonder?” exclaimed Miss Sibby, breaking off in her discourse and going to the front window. “Why, it’s Tommy Grandiere! And he and Jake a-bringin’ in of a big box!” she continued, as the “carryall” stopped before the door, and the farmer and the servant lifted down a box.

“It’s new curtains, or rugs, or something for the house. They’re alluss a-coming,” observed Mrs. Anglesea.

As she spoke the door opened, and Jake’s head appeared, while Jake’s voice said:

“’Ere’s Marse Tom Grander, mum.”

Mr. Grandiere entered the room.

“Good-day, Mrs. Anglesea! Miss Sibby, glad to see you! I was up at Charlotte’s Hall this morning, and saw a box at the express office for you. As I was coming down this way, and thought maybe it would be a convenience to you for me to fetch it along, I just gave a receipt for it and fetched it. So here it is in the hall.”

“I thank you, sir, which it is a convenience! Not knowing as there was a box there for me, I might have left it for a week. Thanky’, sir! Won’t you sit down?” inquired Mrs. Anglesea, placing a chair for the newcomer.

“No, I thank you, ma’am. I have to go. But I would like to ask: Have you heard from Mr. and Mrs. Force lately?”

“Not for ’most a fortnight. But they are coming down in June.”

“In June? Yes, so I heard. Good-morning, Mrs. Anglesea. Good-morning, Miss Sibby.”

And the visitor hurried away.

“What’s in that box, do you think?” inquired Miss Sibby.

“Oh, curtains, or stair carpet, or rugs, or something for the house! They are allus a-coming! Only I ’most in general get a letter first to tell me where to send for them,” said Mrs. Anglesea.

“I would like to see the pattern o’ them rugs and curtains and things! Fashions do change so much, I would ralely like to see what the present fashion is! Ef you don’t keep up with the times, sez I, the times will leave you behind, sez I!”

“Well, we’ll open the box after dinner, Miss Sibby, but we can’t before. Dinner is ready to go on the table now, and it mustn’t be spoiled by keeping. It’s spring lamb and spinach, raised under glass——”

“Spring lamb and spinach the fourteenth of February! Never!” exclaimed the descendant of the Howards.

“Yes, but it is. Having the conveniences to do it with, I don’t see why we shouldn’t have the luxuries. Having the hotbeds, why not the spinach? That’s what I say to Jake and to Luce. And let me tell you them niggers live just as well as I do.”

“Lamb and spinach!” gasped Miss Sibby.

“And that ain’t all. Fresh fish, caught in the bay this morning, to begin with. And meringo pudding to finish off with. And a good bottle of wine to go all the way through with it. It isn’t often as I meddle with the wine cellar, though the ole man and ’oman did tell me to help myself—give me carte wheel, as they called it, to do as I please with what’s left in the vault. Most of it, to be sure, was took to Washington. Still I never makes free with the wine, ‘cept on high days and holidays. And there’s the bell, so now we’ll go in to dinner.”

CHAPTER X
THE BOX

The tête-à-tête dinner was greatly enjoyed by these gossips. They lingered over it as long as it was possible to do so.

“Talkin’ o’ walentines,” said Miss Sibby, apropos of nothing, “when I was young there wa’n’t no walentines made to sell. They was only made by ladies with fine taste for the work. They were cut out of fine paper, heart-shaped when folded, and scalloped circle when open, and finified off with ‘lilies and roses and other fine posies,’ and with written verses. Ah! I have known old Mrs. Grandiere—Miss Susannah’s mother—spend days and days cutting out and decorating walentines for the young people to send to their sweethearts. And they was all complimentary, and never impident. No sich thing as buying of a walentine ever heard of. And now they’ve got ’em in every shop window. But times changes, sez I, and them as lives the longest, sez I, sees the most, sez I.”

“I don’t think as your valentine or mine came out of the shops, Miss Sibby. I never seen any like them in shops. I think they was handmade by some young vilyun or other.”

“That is so. And the same scamp as made yourn, sez I, likewise made mine, sez I. And now as we’ve got done our dinner, hadn’t we might as well go and see them new-fashioned rugs and things in the box? If you have got anything to do, sez I, why, go and do it at once, sez I. Ain’t that so?”

“Yes, and we will go and open the box. Jake, bring a chisel and a clawhammer here, and life that big box out o’ the hall into the little parlor,” said the widow, calling to the one manservant, and then leading the way back to the sitting room.

Jake soon appeared with the box—a heavy deal case, four feet square—on his shoulder, and carefully lowered it to the floor.

“Now rip off the lid,” said the widow.

Jake, with considerable labor, opened the box.

“And now we shall see them new-fashioned rugs. And if I like ’em, I’ll send to Baltimore by Mark Truman’s schooner, and buy one to lay before my fireplace, soon’s ever I get paid for that last hogshead of tobacco,” said Miss Sibby, as the lid of the box flew up under Jake’s vigorous applications of the clawhammer.

The two women stooped over the open case.

First came a roll of coarse brown paper; then a layer of finer paper; then a large, folded parcel of bombazine and crape, which, on being unwrapped, turned out to be a made-up, deep mourning dress.

“Oh, this must be a mistake!” said Mrs. Anglesea. “This box must have been intended for somebody else.”

And she turned up the lid and read the direction again.

“No! It is directed to me, sure enough, but it must be a mistake, all the same. And I reckon the mistake was made at the store where all the things was bought, and they misdirected the box, and sent me these things, and sent them rugs to the party these was intended for. Lord! how careless people is, to be sure! But now let us see for curiosity what is in the box.”

And while Miss Sibby looked on with the greatest curiosity, Mrs. Anglesea unpacked the case.

More tissue paper; then a folded mantle of bombazine, trimmed with crape; then a black merino shawl; then half a dozen pair of black kid gloves; then another dress of black cashmere; then half a dozen pairs of black hose; then an inner wooden box, which, being lifted out and opened, was found to contain two compartments. In one was a widow’s black crape bonnet, with long, heavy black crape veil; and in the other a widow’s cap of crêpe lisse, and another of fine, white organdie.

When all these were laid out on the table the two women stood on either side of it, looking at each other and at the articles before them.

“Well, I reckon I’d better put ’em all back again, and wait till I hear from the owner,” said Mrs. Anglesea.

“I reckon maybe you better read this letter first. I think it must have been flung out accidental when the paper was took off the top of the things in the box,” said Miss Sibby, as she stooped and picked up a white envelope from among the waste paper under the table, and which had just caught her eye.

“To be sure! This is directed to me, too, and in the handwriting of the ole ’oman, too. Now I wonder I didn’t see this before. I do reckon now she has sent these here things down to me to give to some one who is going in mourning.”

So saying, Mrs. Anglesea opened the letter, and being a frank soul, spelled it out aloud:

“Washington, February 12, 1882.

“My Dear Mrs. Anglesea: I received your letter, and hasten to reply. I should have preferred to give you my serious news in person, but since you insist on it, I give it you now in writing. Under all the circumstances, I need not fear even to give you a shock, when I tell you that Col. Angus Anglesea died at——”

“Good Lord! then the man is dead, sure enough!” exclaimed the widow, breaking off from her readings and looking up at her companion.

“Lord ’a’ mercy! So he is! But read on! Don’t stop! Let’s hear all about it!” exclaimed Miss Sibby.

“Oh, I can’t! I can’t! It seems so strange! He was so strong and healthy I thought he’d live forever almost! I thought he’d outlive me, anyways. And now he’s dead! It don’t seem possible, you know,” said the widow, with a total change of manner.

“Why, Lord! I thought you suspicioned as it was your husband’s death as Mrs. Force was a-keeping from you.”

“No, I didn’t. It was all my nonsense. I hadn’t a notion as he could die, and he the perfect pictor of life and health. And to be cut off in his prime!”

“Why, woman, you seem like you was sorry for the man as robbed and deserted you!”

“Don’t speak of that now, Miss Sibby. It’s mean to speak ill of the dead, who can’t answer you back again!” said the widow.

“And now I know you are sorry for him. And yet you ’lowed if he was dead you would not go into mourning for him!”

“Yes, but I didn’t think he was dead then, or that he would ever die in my lifetime. I—I didn’t know,” said the widow, in a breaking voice that she tried hard to steady.

“Well! them as would understand a widdy, sez I, need to have a long head, sez I! I knowed as you was awful tender-hearted and pitiful, Mrs. Anglesea. But I ralely didn’t think as you’d take on about him.”

“I’m not taken on about nobody. But a woman needn’t be a wild Indian, or a heathen, or cannibal, I reckon. A Christian’s ’lowed to have some sort o’ feelin’s. Now let me read the rest of my letter.”

And she resumed the perusal of her epistle, but in silence. She read all the particulars of Anglesea’s death as they were given by Mrs. Force in her own writing, and also in the slips cut from the Angleton Advertiser and inclosed in the letter. All except the concluding paragraph of the eulogy, giving the statement of his two marriages. These were cut off, in kindness to her, who thought herself his lawful wife.

When she had finished she gave all into Miss Sibby’s hands, and sat and watched in moody silence while the old lady adjusted her spectacles and slowly read them through.

“They speak very highly of the poor man in that there newspaper. He must have repented of his sins and made a good end, after all,” said Miss Sibby, very solemnly, as she returned letters and papers into Mrs. Anglesea’s hands.

“It was very thoughtful of Mrs. Force to send me down this box of mourning—very thoughtful. And I am very thankful to her for it,” murmured the widow, as if speaking to herself.

“Then you will go in mourning for him?” said Miss Sibby.

“Of course I shall.”

No more was said just then.

Miss Bayard stayed to tea. And then, seeing that her friend was very much depressed in spirits, she volunteered to stay with her all night; a favor for which the widow was really very grateful.

The next morning, however, the elastic spirits of the lady from the mines had risen to their normal elevation, and Miss Sibby, with relieved feelings, left Mondreer to spread the news of Angus Anglesea’s death far and wide through the neighborhood.

And it is perfectly safe to say that the woman whom he had so deeply wronged was the only individual in the whole community who felt the least pity for his premature departure.

CHAPTER XI
“MERRY AS A MARRIAGE BELL”

Congress adjourned on the fourth of March, and within a week from that time the crowd that always follows in their wake left Washington, and the city dropped into comparative repose; for not only were all the receptions over, the multitude departed, but the season of Lent was on.

The Forces enjoyed this time of rest from the world. They attended old St. John’s Church three times a week, and lived quietly between whiles, looking forward with pleasant anticipations to the arrival of Le, and to all the delights that were expected to follow that event.

Le arrived on Easter Sunday morning. His ship had reached New York on the day before. He had obtained leave of absence, and he had only time to catch the latest train to Washington, “on the run,” leaving all his luggage behind him and having not a moment to telegraph his friends of his approach.

He reached the city at twelve o’clock midnight, and not wishing to wake the family up at that hour, he took a room at a hotel.

But by sunrise the next morning he was up and dressed, had paid his bill, taken a hack from the sidewalk, and was on his way to P Street Circle, to look up his uncle’s city house.

That Easter Sunday the family were assembled around the table in the pleasant breakfast room of their house, which looked out upon the circle, where already the parterres were brilliant and fragrant with the earliest spring flowers—hyacinths, pink, blue and white; daffodils golden; tulips flame and fire color; jonquils, like golden cups in silver saucers; bridal wreath; yellow currant burning bush—all budding, but not yet blooming. All the grass of a tender emerald green. All the trees just bursting into leaf. Birds singing only as they sing on a spring morning.

“What a beautiful Easter Sunday is this! Not a cloud in all the sky!” said Odalite, as she turned from the window to take her seat at the table.

Mr. Force stood up to ask a blessing, but the doorbell rang sharply and he sat down again.

And before any one could put a question the door flew open and Le rushed in like the wind.

Every one jumped so suddenly from the table that chairs were overturned in their haste to welcome the wanderer.

There followed much handshaking, hugging and kissing, rather mixed and confused, until Le found Odalite in his arms. Then he came to a stop and held her there while he answered questions.

“Hadn’t an idea your ship was near port. When did you get in?” inquired Mr. Force.

“Anchored yesterday at half-past two, got leave, and caught the three train. Hadn’t time to telegraph, or even to pack a portmanteau. Can any one lend me the loan of a clean change of linen?” inquired Le, with a look of distress.

“Of course! You shall go to my room and help yourself. But you don’t look much in want,” replied his uncle.

“Now sit down, Le. We were just about to begin breakfast when you came in,” said Mrs. Force, as the manservant in attendance placed another chair at the table for the newcomer.

There was silence for a few moments while Mr. Force said the grace.

Then the confusion of Babel began again. All asked questions, and without waiting for them to be answered, asked others. Wynnette and Elva, who were home for the Easter holidays, seemed to run a race with their tongues as to which could talk fastest and most. Mr. and Mrs. Force had much to ask and to tell. Odalite, and even quaint, little Rosemary, put in a word when they could get a chance.

It is always so when a sailor returns from a long voyage to his family circle.

There was but little breakfast eaten that morning, though they lingered long at the table—so long that, at length, Mrs. Force felt obliged to ask the question:

“Are you going to church with us this morning, Le?”

“Of course I am, auntie. I should be worse than a heathen not to go, if it were only to give thanks for my safe and joyful arrival at home,” replied the young man.

“That is right, my boy. I like to see you hold fast to the faith and practice of your forefathers in this untoward generation,” said Mr. Force.

“Well, then, since you are going with us, Le, dear, you had better get ready. We have but little time,” advised the lady.

“Come with me to my room, Le. My underclothing will fit you well enough, I am sure. Bless you, my boy! you have caught up to me in size,” said Mr. Force, as he arose from the table to conduct the midshipman.

The ladies of the circle also went to their chambers to get ready for church.

And this was Le’s welcome home.

Wynnette, Elva and Rosemary had a week’s holiday with which they were all the more delighted because of their dear Le’s presence.

Although, as in love and duty bound, he devoted himself almost exclusively to Odalite, yet he found time to take a little notice of his younger friends—to tell them how much they had grown, how greatly they had improved, how womanly they had become since he saw them three years before, and so on and so on.

During this week the preparations for Leonidas and Odalite’s marriage were discussed.

It was decided that the wedding should take place on the first of April.

“All Fools’ Day! What a commentary!” exclaimed Wynnette, when she learned the decision.

No one had thought of its being All Fools’ Day when the date was fixed; and now that it was so fixed, the circumstance was somewhat too trivial to warrant any change in the time. So on the first of April the happy event was appointed to come off.

“I should like to ask Roland Bayard to come up to be my groomsman,” said Le, to no one in particular, since he spoke in full family council.

“Why, I thought he was at sea!” said Mr. Force.

“No, uncle, he has just got home. I had a letter from him this morning. He had seen the arrival of my ship in the papers and naturally addressed his letters here. I suppose his aunt gave him your address.”

“Quite likely. She knew it.”

“Queer, isn’t it?” ruminated Le. “Roland and I do happen to make our voyages and returns simultaneously, or nearly so, and without any possibility of intended concert of action.”

“Well, if you happen to start about the same time for a voyage of the same length, you will be apt to return about the same time, I suppose!”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“And now, Le, my boy, in regard to inviting young Bayard here, do so, by all means. Ask any of your particular friends. And ask them to come a day or so beforehand, so as to be ready for the occasion.”

“Thank you, Uncle Abel; but I think Roland is the only one whom I care to invite.”

“Does the liberty you have given Le include us all, papa, dear?” inquired Wynnette.

“In what respect, my dear? I don’t understand you.”

“May each of us invite one or more very particular friends?” Wynnette inquired.

“You must consult your mother and Odalite about that,” replied Mr. Force, good-humoredly.

“Whom do you wish to ask, Wynnette?” inquired her mother.

“Why, only the Grandieres and the Elks.”

“You mean the young people, of course?”

“Yes, mamma, dear.”

“Let me see. There are about eight of them, all counted—six girls and two boys. Well, my dear, you know this wedding is to be a private one, in our own parlor, and no company is to be specially invited to the wedding. But you may write and ask your young friends to come and make us a visit for a week or two, so that they may be in the house about that time.”

“Oh, thank you, mamma, dear! that will be best of all!” exclaimed Wynnette, in delight.

And that same day she wrote to Oldfield and to Hill Grove to ask the young Grandieres and Elks to come up to Washington about the last of March to make a visit, mentioning that Leonidas had got home from sea, and that he and Odalite were to be married on the first of April, and hoping that they would come in time to witness the wedding, which was to be a very quiet one in their own parlor.

Wynnette knew that such letters as these would insure a visit from those to whom they were written. And she was right. In a very few days came answers from Oldfield and Grove Hill. All the invited accepted the invitations, and would report in Washington on the thirtieth of March, two days before the wedding.

“Let us see,” again reflected Mrs. Force. “There are nine guests coming in all—counting six Grandieres, two Elks and young Bayard. Of them six are young girls, and three are young men. How shall we dispose of them?”

“Oh, mamma, dear, we must pack, like we used to do in the country. Elva and Rosemary and myself can sleep in one room. The four Grandiere girls can sleep in the large double-bedded room. The two little Elks can have the little hall chamber and sleep together. And Roland Bayard and the Grandiere boys and Le can have the large attic room, and sleep on cots. Never mind where you put young men and boys, you know!” said this little household strategist.

“Well, we must do the best we can for them,” replied the lady, and she turned her attention to other matters—to the details of Odalite’s simple trousseau, which was only to consist now in a white silk wedding dress, a gray poplin traveling dress, a navy-blue cloth suit for the voyage across the ocean, and a few plain, home dresses and wrappers, with plenty of underclothing.

All the preparations were completed on the morning of the thirtieth. Even Odalite’s trunk was packed, nothing being left out but her bridal dress and traveling suits.

Just before tea on the afternoon of the thirtieth, there was the expected inroad of the Goths and Vandals, in the forms of the young people from Oldfield, Grove Hill and Forest Rest.

They all traveled by the same train and arrived at the same hour—a laughing, talking, hilarious, uproarious troupe.

They were met with a joyous and affectionate welcome.

“And where is my little Rosemary? Where is my quaint, small, young woman?” inquired Roland, when he had shaken hands with all the rest.

“Why, here she is! Here she has been all the while!” exclaimed Wynnette, dragging the shy girl forward.

“What! not that tall young lady? Miss Hedge, I beg ten thousand pardons. I was looking for a little girl I used to ride on my shoulder!” exclaimed Roland, in affected dismay, as he took her tiny hand and raised it to his lips.

Now, Rosemary was not tall, except in comparison to what she had once been. Rosemary was still small and slight—“a mere slip of a girl,” as every one called her. She colored and cast down her eyes when her old friend pretended to treat her as a young lady.

He saw her slight distress and vexation, and immediately changed his tune.

“Why!—yes!—sure enough! This is my little Rosemary, after all!” he exclaimed.

And then she looked up shyly and smiled.

“Come! Let me show you your rooms, girls. And you, Leonidas, convey these young men heavenward. You young Shanghais will have to roost in the loft at the top of the house. Beg pardon. I mean you young gentlemen will be required to repose in the attic chambers of the mansion. Indeed, we shall all have to be packed like herrings in a barrel. Beg pardon, again. I mean like guests at a hotel on Inauguration Day. But the more the merrier, my dears,” sang Wynnette, as she danced upstairs in advance of her party.

Have you ever been in the aviary at the zoo, when all the birds have been singing, chattering and screaming at once?

If you have, you will have some idea of the condition of Mrs. Force’s house on this first evening of their young guests’ arrival.

They chattered in their rooms, they chattered all the way down the stairs, and they chattered around the tea table.

The extension table in the dining room had been drawn out to its full length to accommodate the party of sixteen that sat down to tea.

All these young people sitting opposite each other at the long board, and under the full blaze of the chandeliers, showed how much they had grown, changed and improved during the three years which had elapsed since their last meeting and parting in the country.

Odalite was the most beautiful of the group. She was now nineteen years of age; her elegant form was rather more rounded, her pure complexion brighter, her eyes darker, and her hair richer; her voice was deeper and sweeter; and all her motions more graceful than before.

Wynnette was seventeen; tall, thin and dark; with the same mischievous eyes, snub nose, full, ripe lips, and short, curly, black hair.

Elva was fifteen, tall for her age, thin, fair, with soft, blue eyes, and light, flaxen hair.

Rosemary Hedge was also fifteen years old, but very tiny for her age, with slender limbs and little mites of hands and feet, a small head covered with fine, silky black hair, a fair, clear, bright complexion, and large, soft, tender blue eyes.

The four Grandiere girls—Sophy, Nanny, Polly and Peggy—whose ages ranged from fourteen to twenty, were all of the same type, with well-grown and well-rounded forms, fair complexions, red cheeks and lips, blue eyes, and brown hair; except for difference in age and size, never were four sisters more alike.

The two Grandiere boys, whose ages were nineteen and twenty-two, were like the girls, with the same well-knit forms, blooming complexions, blue eyes and brown hair—only their features were on a larger and coarser scale, and their faces were freckled and sunburned.

The two Elk girls, Melina and Erina, were respectively thirteen and sixteen years old, and both bore a certain family likeness to Rosemary Hedge, except that they were not so tiny in form or dainty and delicate in features and complexion. They had the large blue eyes and the fine black hair, but their faces were thin and their complexions sallow.

Perhaps the most improved of all these young people during the preceding three years were the two gallant young sailors, Leonidas Force and Roland Bayard, with their tall forms, broad shoulders, deep chests, fine heads, handsome faces and full beards—only with a difference; for Le’s hair and beard were of a rich, silky brown, while Roland’s, alas! were of a rough, fierce red.

Upon the whole, the group of young folk around the table was very fair.

CHAPTER XII
THE MARRIAGE MORN

Up, up, fair bride, and call

Thy stars from out their several spheres—take

Thy rubies, pearls and diamonds forth, and make

Thyself a constellation of them all.—Donne.

The first of April was a perfect day. The sky was a canopy of deepest, clearest blue. The sun shone in cloudless splendor. The trees in all the parks were in full leaf or blossom. The grass was of that fresh and tender green only to be seen at this season. The spring flowers were all in bloom, with radiance of color and richness of fragrance. Birds were singing rapturously from every bush and branch.

“A lovely day! Just the day for a wedding!” said Nanny Grandiere, as she threw open the shutters of her bedroom window, that looked out upon one of the most beautiful parks of the city.

Her three sisters, who occupied the same double-bedded room with herself, sleeping two in a bed, jumped up and ran across the room to join her.

“Yes, a beautiful day! ‘Blessed is the bride that the sun shines on,’ you know. Oh! I am so glad we all came here!” said Polly.

“And I am glad it is going to be a quiet wedding, with only ourselves. Oh, girls! I should not have wanted to come if they had been going to have a grand wedding, after the manner of these fashionable city people. I should have been scared to death among so many fine strangers. But now it will be real jolly!” said Peggy.

“And Mr. Force says that as there are enough of us we may have a dance, after the bride and groom have gone,” chimed in Sophy.

“‘After the bride and groom have gone!’” echoed Nanny. “That will be ‘Hamlet’ without the Prince of Denmark.”

“Well, it can’t be helped. We must have the dance without them or not at all. You know the ceremony is to be performed at half-past seven, the refreshments served at eight o’clock, and the bride and groom will leave the house at nine to catch the nine-thirty train to Baltimore, where they will stop. To-morrow morning they go on to New York, and the day after that they sail for Liverpool,” exclaimed Sophy.

“Yes, I know; but I don’t know why it should be so. I think they might just as well stay here and dance all night with us, and take an early train straight through to New York, as to start from here this evening and stop all night in Baltimore. I think it would be kinder in them, considering how far they are going, and how long they will be away.”

“But it would be so fatiguing to Odalite. At least, Mrs. Force said so. This is her plan,” Polly explained.

“Well, we had better hurry and dress. It is very warm in this room. Think of feeling summer heat on the first of April in a room where there is no visible fire! Oh! this heating by steam and lighting by gas is just wonderful!” exclaimed Sophy.

“I like open wood fires and astral lamps best,” said Nanny.

“Oh! but the modern improvements are so clean and tidy!” put in Peggy.

“I wonder what our colored servants would say to them,” mused Polly, aloud.

“And even others—Miss Sibby, for instance. What would Miss Sibby say to gas and steam?” suggested Sophy.

“Oh! I can tell you what she would say,” exclaimed Wynnette, who suddenly entered the room, and mimicked the old lady. “She would say: ‘Them as has the least to do with gas and steam, sez I, comes the best off, sez I.’ That would be her ipse dixit, for she don’t believe in newfangled notions, as she calls our boasted modern improvements.”

“Oh, Wynnette! Already dressed! and we not half ready! We shall be late, I fear,” exclaimed Sophy.

“You will that, if you don’t stir your stumps—I mean accelerate your action,” replied frank Wynnette.

“Well, don’t wait for us. You go down to breakfast, and don’t let them wait. I always lose my senses when I try to dress in a hurry,” said Nanny, sitting down on a hassock to put on her gaiters. “There! I said so! I have gone and put my right foot on my left boot!—I mean, my left foot on my right boot!—I mean——I don’t know what I mean! Please go down, and don’t bother!”

“Don’t go crazy; there’s time enough. Breakfast won’t be ready for half an hour yet,” laughed Wynnette, as she danced out of the room.

The flurried girls composed themselves as well as they could, and completed their toilets. Then they went downstairs to the parlor.

They found all the family and guests assembled.

“I hope we did not keep you waiting,” said Sophy, the eldest sister, after the morning greeting had been exchanged.

“Now, papa, don’t flunk. Beg pardon. I mean, don’t sacrifice truth to politeness. Let me reply. Yes, Miss Grandiere, you did keep us waiting just one minute and a half,” said Wynnette, pointing to the clock on the mantelpiece.

But Mr. Force had already given his arm to Miss Grandiere, and was leading the way to the breakfast room.

The others followed.

It was a merry breakfast. Yet the two happiest ones at the table were the most silent. Leonidas and Odalite neither originated a joke nor laughed at the joke of any other.

“Such is selfishness of love and joy,” whispered Wynnette to Rosemary, who was her next neighbor at the breakfast table.

When the meal was over, the young people—with the exception of the betrothed pair, who were away somewhere mooning by themselves—returned to the parlor, to discuss the duties and pleasures of the day.

“We must decorate the drawing room,” said Wynnette. “No, Messrs. Grandiere and Bayard, you are not to go to the capitol, or the departments, or to the White House, or to the patent office, or to the Smithsonian, or to the arsenal, or to the Navy Yard, or to the United States jail, or to the National Insane Asylum—that, I think, includes ‘the whole unbounded continent’—nor to any other public institution; no, nor on any other sightseeing expedition. You are just to get a Washington directory for your guide, and you are to make the round of all the conservatories in the city, and you are to bring us loads and loads and loads of the very best flowers to be had, and you are to order a marriage bell in orange flowers, with ropes of orange flowers, and you are to order——Take out your tablets, if you have any; if not, tear the margin off the morning paper, and make a memorandum, for I know the weakness of your minds and memories. Now, then you are to order the most æsthetic bouquet in the world for the bride, and you are to order nine of the next most utterly utter for the bridesmaids—for the Lord forbid that the bridesmaids’ bouquets should be equal to that of the bride!”

“Ten bouquets! Nine bridesmaids, you say! Why, I thought—I thought—this was to be a private wedding,” said Roland Bayard, driving his fingers through his red hair.

“And so it is, my dear. We are a very small company of family friends, and that is the very reason why every man-jack and woman-jenny in the company must be an officer. Like the village militia, don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t see, and I don’t understand.”

“Well, then, to come down to the level of your poor little wits, here are ten of us girls—Odalite, Wynnette, Elva, Rosemary, Melina, Erina, Sophy, Nanny, Polly and Peggy. Only one of us—Odalite, to wit—can be the bride, or the captain, say, but all the rest of us mean to be bridesmaids or officers, say!”

“Ah! And where are your rank and file?”

“Oh, the outside world, who are not invited to this entertainment. The officers must not be too familiar with the privates. And we are going to have an exclusive jollification. And now I hope you understand. And you had better be off at once, because we want all the flowers delivered by noon. And don’t attempt to go anywhere or do anything until you have executed this order,” said Wynnette, in conclusion.

Roland Bayard and the two Grandieres walked off.

Then little Elva whispered to her sister:

“Oh, Wynnette, those flowers will cost from thirty to fifty dollars. You know what awful prices mamma had to pay for decorating her rooms every time she had a party.”

“Well, what then?” inquired the thoughtless one.

“Why, those poor fellows will have to pay for them, and I don’t believe they have five dollars apiece.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Wynnette. “What a scatter-brain I am!”

And she ran out without bonnet or shawl, and was so fortunate as to catch the three young men, who had stopped at the gate to buy a paper from a newsboy.

“Say!” called Wynnette. “Come here, you Roland!”

And he came.

“I forgot to tell you. Have those flowers charged to my father. Mr. Abel Force, you know. They will understand. They have all supplied mamma for all her parties. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand. All right,” said Roland.

And Wynnette ran into the house, and Roland walked on and joined his companions.

But the deceitful, double-dealing young spendthrift never had bud or blossom charged to his host, but paid cash for all the flowers, thus making a deep hole in his savings of three years.

The day was spent in making the small final preparations for the wedding.

At noon the flowers came, fresh and blooming and fragrant, because just taken from their stalks. Besides the bouquets, there were—according to orders—“loads and loads and loads” of flowers to decorate the drawing room and the supper table.

The girls carefully laid away the bouquets, and went to work to decorate the rooms.

In the sliding doors between the front and rear drawing rooms they made an arch with festoons of orange blossoms, and from the middle of the arch hung a beautiful wedding bell of orange flowers. Under this they meant that the marriage ceremony should be performed. They meant to have everything their own way, or, to tell the literal truth, Wynnette meant to have everything her way, and to have every girl back her in that determination.

The arch finished, they decorated every available part of the room with flowers, until the place looked less like an apartment in a dwelling house than a bower in fairyland.

When their labor of love was completed the girls joined the family at an early dinner.

And when this was over they flew away to dress for the evening.

Still Wynnette had everything her own way. It was she who had decided that the six girls from the country should be enlisted as extra bridesmaids, “because,” she said, “it will please them, and give them something pleasant to talk about for a long time to come.”

She had said to her mother:

“They are going to be Odalite’s bridesmaids.”

And Mrs. Force had not objected. It was a matter of such little import.

She had said to Odalite:

“These girls have all brought their white organdie dresses, white roses, white gloves, and the rest, to wear to the wedding! And they want to stand up with you and smile every time you smile, and sigh every time you sigh, and howl every time you cry! You know! they want to back you in this game! I mean they wish to be and—they are to be your supernumerary bridesmaids!” said Wynnette, emphasizing the last clause, so there might be no possible misunderstanding.

Odalite was so happy that in answer to this she only quoted from Edmund Lear’s delicious “Book of Nonsense”:

“I don’t care,

All the birds in the air

Are welcome to roost in my bonnet.”

And so it was settled that there were to be one groomsman and nine bridesmaids. A most unheard-of arrangement; but as Wynnette emphatically declared—there was no law against it.

And now the girls were off to their rooms to dress for the occasion.

CHAPTER XIII
“A QUIET WEDDING”

At seven o’clock they were all assembled in Mrs. Force’s room, waiting for the summons to go down.

They were all dressed with the simple elegance that became the occasion.

Odalite wore a white silk-trained dress, with a lace overdress looped with lilies of the valley, and a lace veil fastened to her hair by a spray of the same delicate flower. She wore no jewelry. It was a whim of the bride to wear nothing on this occasion that she had worn on that of her first broken bridal—not even the same sort of materials for her dress, or the same sort of flowers for ornaments. Her bridal was very plain and inexpensive. But no flowers could have bloomed more beautifully than her cheeks and lips, and no diamonds shone more brilliantly than her eyes. The light of happiness irradiated her face and form—her whole presence and atmosphere.

The nine bridesmaids were all dressed very nearly alike.

Wynnette, Elva and Rosemary had white tulle dresses trimmed with rose-colored ribbon.

Sophy, Nanny, Polly and Peggy Grandiere wore white organdie dresses trimmed with light blue ribbon; and Erny and Milly Elk, white swiss muslin suits trimmed with bright yellow ribbon.

Mrs. Force wore a pale mauve damasse silk.

No one except the young bride wore any headdress but their own tastefully arranged hair.

It was to be a quiet wedding, you know—a very quiet wedding, with none but the family friends.

There came a rap at the door.

Wynnette, who was nearest at hand, opened it.

“Tell your mother, my dear, that the Rev. Dr. Priestly has come,” said Mr. Force, who stood without.

But Mrs. Force had heard the voice, and answered for herself:

“We are ready and waiting. Come in.”

He entered, smiling on the bevy of beauties that met his eyes.

He singled out his daughter, kissed her on the forehead, and drew her arm in his to take her downstairs, mentally applying to her the pretty line of Tennyson:

“Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.”

He led her down and the others followed in pairs.

He led her into the parlor, where stood the portly form of the Rev. Dr. Priestly, in full canonicals, and surrounded by a small group of four young men—to wit: Leonidas Force, the bridegroom; Roland Bayard, his best man; and Messrs. Ned and Sam Grandiere, nothing in particular.

The bridegroom advanced, bowed and received the bride from her father’s hand and led her up before the minister, who now stood under the floral arch between the front and rear drawing rooms, and from which the floral wedding bell hung.

The bridegroom and the bride stood before the minister—Roland Bayard, best man, stood on his right; Wynnette, first bridesmaid, stood on her left; behind them the eight white-robed girls formed a semicircle. Mr. Force stood on their right, with Mrs. Force on his arm. She was pale and trembling. He perceived her state, and whispered:

“I suppose every mother suffers something in seeing her daughter married, even under the most auspicious circumstances! But look at Odalite and Le! See how happy those children are, and recover your spirits.”

She glanced up in her husband’s kind face and smiled.

The doorbell rang sharply. Perhaps it was the utter stillness of the house—in the solemn pause of expectancy, as the minister opened his book—which made that sound reverberate through the air like a sudden and peremptory summons.

Mrs. Force looked up anxiously.

“It is of no consequence, my dear. Some chance caller, who does not know what is going on here. But I prepared for such an event by giving orders to the hall boy not to admit any one, but to tell all and sundry who might come that we are engaged,” whispered Mr. Force.

“Hush!” she murmured, but she looked relieved. “Hush! Dr. Priestly is about to begin.”

The minister, in fact, began, in a very impressive manner, to read the opening exhortation, and every eye was fixed upon him and every ear bent to hear him.

There was some movement in the hall outside. Mrs. Force started and turned her head. Her husband stooped and murmured low:

“Don’t tremble so, my dear! It is only the servants pressing close to the door to steal a look at the wedding. They would not let any visitors in. And even if they should make such a mistake, it would be no great matter!”

“Hush!” she answered, in the lowest murmur. “Do not talk! Attend to the ceremony.”

Uninterrupted by the inaudible whisper between husband and wife, the ceremony was proceeding. And no one moved or spoke, until the minister, lifting his eyes from the book in his hands, inquired gravely:

“‘Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?’”

“‘I do,’” answered Abel Force, stepping forward, taking his daughter’s hand with tender solemnity and placing it in that of Leonidas, who bowed with deep reverence as he received it.

Then Abel Force retreated to the side of his pale and agitated wife, whispered with a smile:

“Just what your father did for me, my love! Just what Leonidas may have to do for Odalite’s daughters some twenty years hence! The order of nature, dear wife! And we must smile and not cry over it.”

But Elfrida Force was not grieving over the marriage of her daughter. There was nothing in that marriage to give her pain; everything to give her satisfaction. Odalite was marrying no stranger, but Leonidas, who had been brought up in her home, who loved her, and was beloved by her as an only son. And Odalite was not to be taken away from her, but was to live on the adjoining plantation to their own, where, if they pleased, mother and daughter might meet every day. Altogether a most perfectly satisfactory marriage, in which her soul would have delighted but for a nameless dread of approaching evil—a dread which she could neither comprehend nor conquer—a dread of impeding ill which was fast growing into terror of an immediate death blow.

“Oh!” she breathed. “When it is entirely over—‘finished, done and sealed’—and they are off at sea, then, and then only, shall I be able to breathe freely.”

Meanwhile the solemn rites went on to the conclusion, and once more Odalite, with her hand safely clasped in that of her bridegroom, heard spoken over them the awful warning: “Those whom God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.”

There was a pause, but no interruption on this occasion—a short pause, and then the solemn, pathetic, beautiful benediction was pronounced upon the newly married and indeed happy pair.

And then Leonidas took his bride by her hand, to give her the sacred, sealing kiss, when—before his lips could meet hers—he was suddenly seized from behind and violently hurled to the other end of the room.

CHAPTER XIV
A MEAN RETALIATION

Revenge is now my joy. She’s not for me,

And I’ll make sure, she ne’er shall be for thee.

—Dryden.

The intruder was Col. Angus Anglesea, who caught Odalite to his breast, and with his arm firmly clasping her waist, stood, haughty, insolent and defiant, in the midst of the thunderstruck group.

A scene of indescribable confusion followed. The bride fainted, the bridesmaids shrieked, the old minister dropped his book, and fell back in the nearest chair, in a state bordering on apoplexy.

The men, panic-stricken by amazement for a moment, now pressed forward.

Anglesea glared at them.

“This woman is my wife!” he said.

Le instantly recovered himself, and dashed madly forward.

Heaven only knows what he might have done, but he was intercepted, and held as in a vise by Mr. Force, who sternly said:

“Le, there must be no violence here. This madman must be dealt with by law, not by violence.”

“‘This madman!’” shouted the infuriated youth, struggling desperately to free himself. “‘This madman,’ is it? This scoundrel, steeped to the lips in vice and crime! This——”

“Le, be quiet! Would you murder, or be murdered?” demanded Mr. Force, holding the young maniac firmly. Then turning to the intruder, he said, in a calm, commanding tone: “Col. Anglesea, leave the house.”

“When I have accomplished that for which I came here,” answered the intruder, smiling superior.

Young Bayard made a dash at him.

“Roland!” exclaimed Mr. Force, in a peremptory tone that arrested the steps of the young man. “Stop! I will have no struggle in my house. If the man does not leave quietly, he shall be taken off by a policeman.”

But now all Abel Force’s attention and energy were required to control the young lion whom he held.

“Let me get at him! The thief, who married a rich widow only to rob and desert her! The bigamist, who, having a living wife, tried to deceive and marry a wealthy, betrothed maiden, only to rob and ruin her! The forger, who invented and published a false account of his own death that he might entrap his victim into another marriage, and take a mean revenge by coming here with pretended claims to stop it! Oh! but he shall die for this!” roared the youth, foaming with rage and struggling fiercely to free himself.

“Le! Le! be quiet, I say! You are stark, staring mad!” exclaimed Abel Force, holding the young man fast, though it took all his strength to do it.

He might as well have talked to a cyclone.

“This felon!” thundered the youth—“this felon, who has broken every law of God and man! This felon, I say, who should have been in the State prison twenty years ago, serving out a life term! And you see him with my wife in his arms, and you will not let me go! Oh!”

Here Mrs. Force, commanding herself by a great effort, went up to where Col. Anglesea stood holding Odalite to his bosom, and clasped her hands, raised her eyes to him, and pleaded:

“Oh! for dear mercy’s sake, give me my poor child! Don’t you see that she is fainting, dying?”

Somewhat to her surprise, Anglesea placed Odalite in her arms, saying, lightly:

“So that you do not take her out of the room! You know that she is my wife! And——”

“Edward Grandiere! Be kind enough to step and bring in a policeman—two of them, if possible,” said Mr. Force, who had all he could do to hold Leonidas.

“Uncle! uncle! I don’t want to hurt you, but, by my soul, if you don’t let me go, I shall be compelled to hurt you!” exclaimed the maddened and writhing youth.

But the strong, mature man held him in arms that were like iron cable chains.

“I tell you I shall hurt you, uncle!”

“Very well, Le! Hurt me! But I shall hold you all the same.”

“Why won’t you let me kill him?” yelled Le.

“Because, though he deserves death, you would commit a crime.”

“Oh, Heaven! must I bear this?”

“Be patient, Le! Let the law deal with this man! Edward Grandiere, I asked you to go for a policeman!”

“Yes, sir! I only stopped to ask Roland where I should find one,” said the young countryman, apologetically, as he hurried away.

At this point Mrs. Force had led Odalite to an easy-chair, where she recovered from her fainting fit only to fall into a paroxysm of hysterical sobs and tears. Her heartbroken mother sat by her side. Her bridesmaids stood all around her, too much frightened to offer the least comfort or assistance.

Col. Anglesea approached this group.

Odalite, who was sobbing convulsively, shuddered, and covered her eyes with her hands.

The bridesmaids, who all knew him, for he had dined often at the tables of their parents, regarded him in fear and horror, and cast down their eyes to avoid looking at him.

But Angus Anglesea ignored them all, passed them, and, addressing Mrs. Force, said, almost apologetically:

“I did not wish or intend to make a scene. But it was more than even my self-possession could endure to see my wife in the arms of another man, who was about to kiss her. I only want my just and lawful rights. You, madam, know that your eldest daughter is my lawful wife. Knowing this, I would ask you why you permitted your daughter to commit a felony that exposes her to the penalty of the laws for such cases made and provided?”

“We thought that Odalite was free to marry. We thought that you were dead,” said Elfrida Force, who had suddenly grown superstitiously afraid of this man, who seemed to be a Satan in strength, subtlety and unscrupulous wickedness.

“You thought I was dead! Upon what ground? I am in the prime of life, and in the height of health.”

“We saw the notice of your death in a paper sent to us.”

“Really? Well, that is rather startling. I should like to see that paper.”

At this moment Dr. Priestly came up, and said:

“This is all very terrible. I—I do not understand it in the least.”

“It is easily explained, sir. A false report of my death reached my wife there. She, believing herself to be a widow, contracted marriage with that young gentleman yonder, who seems to be executing a war dance in the arms of my father-in-law!” replied Col. Anglesea.

“Oh, Dr. Priestly! will you be so kind as to go and assist Mr. Force in bringing Leonidas to reason?” pleaded the lady.

“Ye-yes! Of course! Oh, this is terrible, terrible! In the whole course of my ministry I never met anything so terrible. But, sir,” he said, suddenly breaking off in his discourse and turning to Col. Anglesea, “you said that this young lady believed herself to be a widow when she contracted marriage with Mr. Force. But she was never known here as wife or widow. I have known her for more than three years as Miss Force.”

“That certainly requires explanation, as our marriage was not a secret one, but was solemnized in the face of day and before a large congregation——”

“And then knocked as high as the sky by the dropping down upon you of your Californian wife! Oh, you hoofed and horned devil!” said Wynnette, suddenly joining the group and unable longer to restrain herself.

The Rev. Dr. Priestly stared.

“Oh! what am I saying? I mean, reverend sir”—Wynnette began, apologetically—“I mean that this gentleman’s attempted marriage with my elder sister was arrested at the very altar by the appearance of a lady from St. Sebastian, who claimed to be, and proved herself to be, his lawful wife.”

The old minister looked perplexed and helplessly from the earnest girl to the scornful man.

“After that my sister went from the church to my father’s house, and lived under our parents’ protection. Of course, she was still Miss Force. The unfinished ceremony could not have changed her name or condition, even if the Californian had been an impostor, which she was not. This cowardly dead beat and mean skala——Oh! I beg pardon, I am sure, Dr. Priestly. I should have said: Col. Anglesea, here present, knows that she was not an impostor, and he knows that he has no claim on Odalite. He only comes here to make a scene. His marriage was broken off at the altar by the appearance of his wife, and he is determined that Odalite’s shall be broken off, for the day at least, by the appearance of himself, with the claim that he is her husband. It is ‘tit for tat,’ you know. ‘What’s good for the gander is good for the goose,’ you see. Oh, dear! Excuse me! I mean it is his revenge, reprisal, commending back of the poisoned chalice, don’t you know?”

“Madam, is this true?” inquired the bewildered minister.

Mrs. Force did not reply. She dared not. She was so utterly subdued by the appearance of her archenemy, under such inexplicable circumstances, she could only ignore his question and repeat her request:

“Oh! Dr. Priestly, you are a man of peace. Pray go and help my husband to bring our young relative to reason.”

The old minister unwillingly trotted off and arrived on the scene of action in good time, for Mr. Force’s strength was beginning to give way under the struggles of his prisoner to escape without hurting his captor.

“You see that man standing among the ladies, whom his presence insults and contaminates, and you will not let me get at him!” cried Le.

“My dear boy, I will not have a fight in my parlor, and in the presence of women and children, do you understand? Wait for the police. We will have him peaceably arrested and taken off. Then our interruption will be over. The marriage ceremony was concluded, you know. As soon as we get rid of this madman—for of course he is a madman—you can get ready and take the train for Baltimore, just as if nothing unpleasant had happened.”

Mr. Force spoke in a clear and ringing voice, and was heard by Col. Anglesea, who laughed out aloud and derisively.

At that moment Roland Bayard and Grandiere came in, convoying two policemen.

So rapidly had the events occurred which take so long to report, that ten minutes had not elapsed since the first appearance of Col. Anglesea on the scene, nor three since the departure of the young men in search of the policemen.

“Ah! here you are!” exclaimed Abel Force, in a tone of relief.

“Yes, sir!” said Roland Bayard. “We were so fortunate as to meet the two officers at the corner of the street!”

“And strangely enough, they were on their way to the house,” added Ned Grandiere.

“Some of the servants must have had the discretion to go for them. Well, officers, I am glad that you are here, and I hope you will be able to do your unpleasant duty quietly,” said Mr. Force. And pointing directly to the intruder, he added: “I give that man, there, Angus Anglesea, in charge for a violent breach of the peace. Take him away at once.”

The policemen stared at the speaker, and then at Col. Anglesea, in a very unofficial sort of way, and finally walked up to the colonel, and one of them said:

“I don’t understand it, sir! What does it mean?”

“He’s drunk, I guess! But that need not hinder your duty. Go and serve the papers on him at once.”

The policeman came back to Mr. Force and offered him a folded document.

“What is this? What nonsense is this?” inquired Mr. Force, without taking the paper, because both his hands were still engaged in holding Le.

“Take it and read it, sir, if you please,” said the officer who had served it. “It is addressed to yourself.”

“Roland,” said Mr. Force, addressing young Bayard, “I don’t want to get you into a fight with your brother-in-arms, by asking you to hold Le; but will you please open that paper and hold it up before my eyes that I may read it?”

Roland bowed in silence, took the paper, opened it and stared at it for a moment, before he held it up to his host to be read.

CHAPTER XV
THE WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS

Abel Force began to peruse the document and frowned as he went on. And well he might!

For it was no less than a writ of habeas corpus, issued by a judge of the Supreme Court of the District of Columbia, ordering Abel Force to produce the body of Odalite Anglesea, otherwise Odalite Force, before him the next morning, April 2, at 10 o’clock.

Abel Force, as has been seen, was a law-abiding man. On this trying occasion, under this galling insult, he commanded himself with wonderful power.

“Very well,” he said. “You have done your duty. I will obey the order. Take that man away with you. He has committed a gross breach of the peace; but let that pass for the present.”

At this moment Col. Anglesea came up and said:

“I will meet you before the judge to-morrow morning. For the present, having seen the writ of habeas corpus served upon you, I withdraw. Good-evening, sir. Ladies, good-evening.”

And with as courtly a bow as if he were leaving the drawing room of a duchess, Col. Anglesea went out, followed by the policemen.

“Now be still, Le! This shall be settled equitably to-morrow. For the present nothing more can be done,” said Mr. Force, as with a long breath of relief he at length released his prisoner.

But Le was no sooner free than he dashed out of the room and out of the house in pursuit of his enemy.