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.”