"Well, squire, you may be sure as I never let on to my young gentleman as I knowed anything about what he was up to. It wouldn't have done no good, you see. But I watched him. He carried a folded paper in his hand, like a letter, and he put it on the mantelpiece, and went upstairs, a-saying as he was going out; that I mustn't wait tea for him, as he mightn't be home till late. And soon's ever he was gone, I ups and takes that letter. The hungwallop was stuck together werry slight, and I opened it easy, without tearing, and took out the sheet of note paper, and read it. Lord, if all my skin didn't go into goose flesh! Of all the bloody-minded, murderous notes as ever was wrote. But you saw it, squire. You know!"

"Yes," said Mr. Force, taking up a little piece of folded paper and holding it in readiness.

"Why, she intercepted the challenge! I remember I thought the letter felt rather thin when I took it from the mantelpiece, but I had not the faintest suspicion that it had been tampered with, and never gave the matter a second thought. Yet she had intercepted the challenge," said Roland, in a low tone.

But Miss Sibby overheard him, and answered:

"Yes, you young tiger, I did interslip it! And, if I hadn't interslipted it, there'd 'a' been murder done, and the constable would have slipted a pair of handcuffs on your wrists by this time—and both of you in jail for murder! Yes, I mean you two young wolves in sheep's clothing, a-standing up by the mantelpiece there and a-grinning like apes!"

"She'll exhaust the menagerie on us presently," said Le.

"Have you any more to tell us of this case?" inquired Mr. Force.

"Well, not much, squire. I tore off the challenge neat as anything, and folded up the blank leaf in its own folds and put it back in the hungwallop, and gummed it up all nice as wax, and nicer, too; and then my scamp come down in his Sunday clothes, and took it up quick and put it in his pocket, and off with him, without any suspicion that he was a-carrying away a blank and a-leaving the challenge in my hands!"

"If you had wished to stop the duel, why hadn't you thrown the whole letter into the fire?" demanded Roland.

"Because, my fine, young chanticleer, you'd a-gone right straight off to Greenbushes and got another one writ, and took it to the colonel right off. Whereas, my letting you go on a fool's errand give me time and chance to come to the squire and fetch the evidence along with me. And, as it was too late to start that night, and I knowed you couldn't fight the duel till to-day noways, I waited until this morning, and I got up and eat my breakfast by candlelight, and set off on my old mule for this place afore sunrise. And I made the complaint to the squire here, and give him the evidence, and called on him to make out a warrant and have you both took up and fetched here, to answer for your misdeeds, and to be dealt with according to law. And he did what I required on him, which was no more than his duty, if you had been his own dear sons. And here you are! Yes, you two there, standing agin' the mantelpiece! It is bad enough, the Lord knows, sez I. But it is not so bad as murder and hanging, sez I, nor yet the State prison, and working in chains! There, squire, I think that is all I have got to say about this, and may the Lord have mercy on their souls!"

"One moment," said the squire, handing over the intercepted challenge. "Is this the written paper that you took out from the envelope directed to Col. Anglesea and left by Mr. Bayard on your mantelpiece?"

"Why, to be sure it is!" said Miss Sibby, as she took it into her hand and examined it.

"That will do! Leonidas Force, come forward."

Le stepped up to the table.

"Are you the writer of this challenge, directed to Col. Anglesea, and bearing your signature?" queried Mr. Force, passing over the document in question to the young man.

"Yes, sir, I am the author of that challenge," said Le, after a glance at the paper.

"You have heard the charge laid against you. What have you to say in defense?" questioned the squire.

"Nothing. The charge is substantially true, barring the bad names with which the witness has complimented me. I deny that I am a 'warmint,' a 'wild cat,' a 'wolf,' a 'tiger,' a 'panther' or a 'rhine-horse-o-rus,'" said Le, laughing; "but I wrote the challenge, and I intended to fight the duel."

"You admit this?"

"Entirely."

"That will do. Sit down."

Le dropped into the only vacant chair, and awaited the next move.

"Roland Bayard, come forward," said the squire.

The young man came, and stood respectfully before the squire.

"You have heard the charges made against you?"

"Yes, sir."

"What have you to say in defense?"

"Nothing, except in some sort what my fellow prisoner there has said. In a word, I may be, as Darwin says, remotely descended from a monkey, but I certainly must decline identity, or even relationship, to the wild beasts with which my good aunt has confounded me. But I did undertake to deliver a challenge from my friend Mr. Leonidas Force to that caitiff Angus Anglesea, and I did intend to be my friend's second in the duel."

"You admit all this?"

"I do."

"Leonidas Force, come forward."

The young midshipman stepped up and stood beside his friend, both facing the squire.

And then Mr. Force began, in the most earnest and solemn manner, to speak to them of the sin and evil of dueling; of the falsehood and insanity of calling such a crime an "affair of honor," when, in truth, it was a matter of dishonor. The very highest concern of a true man of honor is to keep the law of God, which the duelist breaks; and to keep the law of the land, which the duelist breaks. The duelist may have many motives, but "honor" cannot be one of them! A bully will fight a duel, upon occasion, to prove himself a man of brute courage, and kill or be killed for so low a cause. A coward will fight a duel, because he is afraid to refuse, on account of what bullies might say of him, and kill, or be killed, from so mean a motive. A man maddened by wrongs, and raging with wrath, will fight a duel to be revenged upon his adversary, to slay or to be slain, and is eager to risk his own life, in the hope of taking his enemy's. But no man ever fought a duel from any motive of pure honor. There is no honor in breaking the laws of the Lord, or the laws of the land, but rather dishonor.

"You, Leonidas Force," said the squire, coming down from generalities to point his moral in a personality, and very gravely addressing his young relative, "you, in sending your challenge to Col. Anglesea to meet you in the duel, were inspired by the spirit of wrath and revenge. In your fierce anger you were not alone. Many shared that madness with you. Neither you nor they could help feeling a frenzy of indignation against the perpetrator of outrageous wrongs. But, though you could not help feeling this frenzy of anger, you could help sinning. You should have remembered the Word of God, 'Be ye angry, but sin not.' 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,' and, above all, the awful command, 'Thou shalt do no murder.' What! shall a man break these laws, and call it honor? An infidel may, perhaps; but even an infidel, who denies the Word of God, is amenable to the laws of the land, which equally forbid the illegal taking of human life; and even an infidel cannot fight a duel and truthfully call his crime 'an affair of honor.'

"I have tried to show you the criminal insanity of dueling, and now I will ask you to consider its consequences—as a case in point, the consequences to you two young men, had you succeeded in your unlawful design to fight this duel with Anglesea. You, Le, might have been killed. You would probably have fallen dead at the first fire, for Anglesea is a sure shot, and as vindictive as Satan, and he would have aimed at your heart. You would have dropped dead on the field. Anglesea would have promptly made his escape. But your friend here would have been arrested and held as an accessory to your murder. He would have languished many months in jail, then been brought to trial—the long and tedious trial of the present age—perhaps through many trials, appealed from court to court; perhaps, after months or years of imprisonment and suspense, he might be finally acquitted, or—sent to the State prison.

"Then, on the other hand, by the chances of war, you might, instead of being killed yourself, have killed your adversary, in which contingency, Leonidas, your fate would have been far worse. You, Le, would have been arrested for murder, and would have been thrown into prison without bail. The same tedious imprisonment and repeated trials would have been your fate; you might have escaped the worst verdict, but you would certainly have been convicted of manslaughter and sent to the State prison, for you were the challenger, which was an aggravation of the offense.

"But I will dwell no longer on the probable consequences of your meditated deed. You were, no doubt, prepared to meet all the contingencies, to bear all the penalties. I will drop that part of the subject, and only revert to the first great argument against dueling—its flagrant disregard and defiance of the laws of God and man.

"And now, Leonidas Force, I shall require you to give bonds to the amount of ten thousand dollars to keep the peace."

"Will you receive my own for that sum, sir?" inquired the young man.

"Certainly," said the squire. And then, turning to the second offender, he said:

"Mr. Roland Bayard, I shall require you to give bonds for one thousand dollars to keep the peace."

"The Lord only knows where I am to pick up that sum. I reckon you'll have to send me to prison in default of bail, squire."

"No, you needn't, squire. I'm assessed for fourteen thousand dollars, and so I reckon you may take me as his bail for one thousand, mayn't you?" inquired Miss Sibby, rising from her chair and leaning over the table.

"Certainly," replied Mr. Force.

The good magistrate had so little call to exercise his office in his peaceful neighborhood that he never required the services of a clerk, and did not possess one. He quickly drew up the necessary papers, had them signed and sealed, locked them in his desk, and discharged the prisoners in a very unmagisterial manner.

"And now, my young friends, let us forget this unpleasant scene, while you both stay and dine with us."

And they stayed.



CHAPTER XXXV

YOUNG DR. INGLE'S NEWS

"Go, now, young gentlemen, into Mrs. Force's sitting room, and pay your respects to the ladies there. They know nothing whatever of the affair that brought you here to-day; nor do I wish them to know it. You are our guests for the day. That is all," said the squire, in dismissing the youths.

Then, turning to the old lady, he said:

"I cannot express to you, Miss Bayard, the obligation I feel under for your wise and prompt action in this matter. But for you much misery might have ensued."

"Lord, squire, I did no more than what might have been expected of me—one of my descent!" complacently replied Miss Sibby, as she bowed and sailed out of the office.

"To be sure! To be sure!" assented the amiable master of Mondreer.

"I wonder," whispered Leonidas Force, as he linked his arm in that of Roland Bayard, and they passed along the hall together, "I do wonder if it is characteristic of a lady of high descent to open the envelope of a letter left on her mantelpiece and take out the letter? I wonder, further, if it were not a breach of the law, and what the lawyers call 'actionable'?"

"I think not," laughed Roland. "She acted in the cause of law, peace and justice. I don't think you could get any judge, jury, or even country magistrate, to see it in any other light."

They had now reached Mrs. Force's sitting room, where, as soon as they entered, they were received with the warmest welcome by all the family and guests there assembled.

Miss Sibby had already resumed her seat in the most comfortable armchair the room could boast.

There were present Mrs. Force, Mrs. Anglesea, Miss Bayard and the two little girls, who had just come in.

Odalite was not there.

"Come here, my fine, young sailor lad! I haven't seen sight of you since the rumpus in the church! Wasn't that a circus? Come here and sit by me!" said the lady from Wild Cats', making room on the sofa for Roland Bayard, who, with a smile and a bow, immediately placed himself beside her.

What else could a gentleman do?

"How is Odalite, auntie, dear?" inquired Le, seating himself just behind Mrs. Force's chair, and leaning over its back.

"She is much better and brighter than she has been for many weeks past," replied the lady.

"Indeed! I am very glad to hear it, auntie! There is something about Odalite that I cannot understand. I came home finding her engaged to be married, of her own free will, and yet utterly wretched—wretched to the verge of madness! And now that the wedding has been publicly broken off in a manner reflecting the deepest disgrace upon the bridegroom, you say she is brighter and happier than she has been for many weeks," said Le, in a very low voice, still leaning over the back of the lady's chair and speaking in her ear.

"Yes, she is so; but hush, dear boy! This is not the place to discuss Odalite. Besides, it is not polite to whisper in company," said Mrs. Force, with a smile at the quoted commonplace.

Le lifted his head, and took his elbows off the lady's chair, only to see his two young cousins, Wynnette and Elva, standing on each side of him.

He caught them both, the one in his right arm, the other in his left, and drew them to his side.

"We are so glad you have come back, Le! We missed you so awfully yesterday—Wynnette and I did!" said Elva.

"Yes, the house was as dull as ditch water—I mean the mansion was excessively melancholy!" added Wynnette.

"I am sorry to hear that! And all on account of my absence?" laughingly inquired Leonidas.

"Largely, at any rate."

"My darlings," said Mrs. Force, "I thought you were in the schoolroom, busy with Miss Meeke in dressing dolls for the Sunday school Christmas tree."

"So we were, mamma, but Dr. Ingle came, and we all went down into the drawing room to see him," replied Elva.

"He always does cry for her—I mean inquire for Miss Meeke—and she always goes down to see him, and makes us go down with her. And he doesn't like it at all, and neither do we. Why, the other evening, when he came just after tea, when you had a headache and Odalite was sitting with you, and we were in the drawing room with Miss Meeke, after a little while, he said:

"'Do you not think that it is very unhealthy for children to sit up so late?'

"And she laughed and said:

"'Their regular bedtime is nine o'clock. It is not yet seven.'

"And it is always so. He always looks at us as if he was saying to himself:

"'Two is company, Four is trumpery.'

"But this time, thank goodness, we happened to hear Le's voice in the hall, and we skedaddled—I mean we left the drawing room and came in here, mamma, dear," said Wynnette.

"What did Ingle talk about, or find to talk about, while you two were hanging around him like a wet blanket?" inquired Le, who often amused himself at Wynnette's expense.

"Oh, not much. He couldn't make love to Nat right before our four looking eyes—I mean he couldn't pay his addresses to Miss Meeke in our presence. Neither could he talk to Nat about old Col. Notley's gout, or old Mrs. Gouph's dropsy, like he does to mamma—I mean he could not discuss medical science with Miss Meeke as he might with a matronly lady. And so there wasn't much to talk about," said Wynnette.

"Oh, don't you remember, he said that Col. Anglesea had gone?" inquired Elva.

"Gone!" echoed Le and Mrs. Force, in one voice.

"Oh, yes!" replied Wynnette. "The horrid beat has made tracks—vamoosed the ranche—absquatulated—that is to say, Col Anglesea, H.E.I.C.S., and all the rest of it, has taken his final departure."

"Thank Heaven!" earnestly breathed Mrs. Force. "But is it certain, Wynnette?" she almost immediately inquired.

"I think so. Dr. Ingle met him, in traveling dress, at the railway station, when he took a through ticket to Washington, and said that he was en route for New York, and meant to sail on the Scotia for Liverpool next Saturday. His trumpery was to be sent after him by to-night's express."

"Thank Heaven!" again fervently breathed Elfrida Force.

"What's all that you're talking about over there?" inquired the lady from the mines, rising from her seat on the sofa and unceremoniously joining the group around her hostess. "What's up now? I heard the name of my fine scamp mentioned just now! Has anything happened to him? Has he broken his neck, eh?"

"Oh, no!" sighed Wynnette, in a tone of regret; "he has not broken his neck. Fate reserves that for the hangman to do! He has only left the neighborhood to return to England. But let us hope that the ship may be lost! I'm sure his presence on board will be enough to raise the demon and sink the ship!"

"Oh, Wynnette! Don't say such dreadfully wicked things! You don't mean them at all, you know you don't! Consider how many good people would be drowned if the ship should sink! And how many people would grieve all their lives after them!" said little Elva.

"Well, I'll take that back again! I know I do talk too much with my mouth—I mean speak without mature consideration," said Wynnette.

"So my scamp has gone back to England, has he? I wonder if he will try to marry a dook's darter? Or a markiss' widder? He's got cheek enough for anything! I declare, I ought to follow him up, to keep him out of mischief! I mean, of course, out of doing other folks mischief! I don't care a snap of my finger how much mischief he does himself! The more, the better, sez I! But I ought to go for him to prevent him from preying upon other people! And I would, too, if I had money enough! 'Pon my word, I'm a great mind to go to New York and try to get a place as stewardess on one of the ocean steamers, so as to go after him! I'll think of it, anyway."

The conversation was interrupted by the opening of the door and the entrance of Miss Meeke, followed by Dr. Ingle.

There was a pretty flush on the usually pale cheeks of the young governess, and some little embarrassment in her manner, which was almost unnoticed, however, in the cordial greeting that was given to the young physician by all the family and guests in the room, and with all of whom he was acquainted, excepting only the lady from the California mines, to whom Mrs. Force duly presented him, and by whom he was received with gushing welcome.

"Sit right down here on the sofa by me, doctor! I dare say you have heard a deal of reports about me, and now I'm gwine to tell you the truth about myself, so that you can get it pure and fresh from first quarters!"

And, having found a new auditor, the lady from Wild Cats' began the story of her life, and talked on until the dinner was announced. That stopped her.



CHAPTER XXXVI

LE AND HIS "UNCLE"

"Come into the library with me, my dear boy, I want to have a private talk with you," said Mr. Force, some hours later in the afternoon, as he led the way into his little sanctum in the rear of the hall.

The guests had all left the house. Miss Sibby had ridden off on her mule; the young doctor had ambled away on his cob, and Roland had set out to walk to Forest Rest.

But when we say the guests had all gone, we except, of course, the permanent visitor, the lively lady from California. She was still in the house, and likely to continue there.

"Le, my dear boy," said Mr. Force, as soon as the two were seated in the library, "I want you to give me your word of honor that you will never send a challenge, or accept a challenge, to fight a duel as long as you live."

"Uncle Abel, I give you my word of honor, with all my heart and soul in it, that I never will," earnestly and solemnly replied the young man.

"Thank you, my boy, thank you! Give me your hand on it! There, you are my own dear lad again!"

"Uncle Abel, you must think very badly of me for my madness and folly."

"No, I do not, Le. No, I do not, dear lad. I know that your wrongs and your temptations were almost more than the spirit of man could bear, especially the spirit of a young man; and I thank the Heavenly Father that you have been saved from sin and delivered from danger!" gravely replied Abel Force, reverently bowing his head.

"Uncle, I wish to make a full confession to you now—to open my soul to you, as if you were my father—as, in reality, you always have been in care and affection."

"Go on, dear lad. You can say nothing, I am sure, that I shall not be glad to hear."

"Well, then, Uncle Abel, I must tell you that after I had sent that challenge to Col. Anglesea I went home to Greenbushes and passed the most miserable night I ever spent in my whole life."

"I do not doubt it, lad."

"Heaven knows that it was not from cowardice——"

"Who ever accused, or dreamed of accusing, any Force of cowardice? We have no experimental knowledge of the meaning of that word," said Abel Force.

"No, we have not. It was not the thought of death, then, for I could meet death or deal death in the cause of duty. No; it was the foreshadowing of a great remorse. It began with the feeling that I could not, dared not, pray last night."

"Dear lad! But you can pray to-night, Le?"

"Yes; I can pray and give thanks to-night."

"And now you are my own dear son again, Le."

"Oh, Uncle Abel, if I might, indeed, be your son again! If I might be reinstated in the position, the happiness, I once enjoyed in my relations, present and prospective, with you and your family!"

"What do you mean, my dear Le? And yet I need not ask you, for I know."

"Odalite!" breathed the youth, in low, yet thrilling, tones.

"Ah, would to Heaven, my boy, that none had ever come between you!" sighed Abel Force.

"But the intruder has gone now, and left no trace behind."

"Ah, would to Heaven he had left no trace behind! But a heart like Odalite's does not easily recover from such a shock as she has sustained."

"I know. And yet I think she is already recovering. Pride, duty, honor, all will help her to recover. And of this I wish to speak to you, dear sir."

"Le, you have the most forgiving soul I ever met! Why should you take any further interest in your unhappy cousin?"

"Because I love her. And it is on this subject that I wish to speak to you. I am under sailing orders for the Pacific Coast, and——"

"Le! you under sailing orders? Why, I thought you were going to resign from the navy?"

"I should have resigned, if I could have married Odalite; but, as I could not, I did not."

"But, even so, I thought you were now entitled to three years home service?"

"So I was, but I could not rest after I thought I had lost Odalite, and so I applied for sailing orders on the week before Odalite was to have been married. I received them one hour ago. They came on the evening mail. If I had happened to be at Greenbushes, I should not have got the letter so soon, for, you know, my mail was always sent with yours, and I have never changed the address."

"And when do you go, Le?"

"I must join my ship at New York on the fourth of January. I must leave here on the second."

"The day after New Year's Day. That is very sudden."

"Yes; and I do regret it. If I had known—if I could have foreseen events—I should have carried out my first intentions, and resigned from the service, instead of applying for sailing orders; but now that I have applied, and have received them, I must go, much as I regret to do so. I must not seem to trifle with the department or shirk my duty."

"Certainly not, lad. And, under present circumstances, perhaps it is best that you go. You and Odalite are young, lad, and can well afford to wait a little longer. When you return from your voyage, Le, the disgraceful drama which has been enacted by this man Anglesea will have been forgotten. Odalite will have long recovered the shock to her spirit, and will be in a better condition to listen to a proposal from you, which it would be indiscreet, to say the least, for you to make her at present."

"I see that, sir; I feel it; and that reconciles me to the idea of going to sea again. The utmost favor I plead for now is that you will permit me to see Odalite, to have a private interview with her. I shall not wound her by hinting at the hope hidden in the bottom of my heart—the hope of winning her hand some day; but I wish to ask her to correspond with me during my absence, as with a trusted relation or a true brother. Do you think, sir, that there can be any objection to my making such a request of my cousin?"

"None whatever, my dear boy. You have my fullest approval of your course, and my warmest wishes for your success."

"Thank you, Uncle Abel."

"And we will yet hope that the dream of your love and of my ambition may be fulfilled in the union of yourself and Odalite in a happy marriage, and the consolidation of Mondreer and Greenbushes in one great manor."

"May Heaven grant it, Uncle Abel!"

"But, my boy, I wish you to speak to Odalite's mother also on this subject. She must be taken into our counsels."

"Oh, most certainly. I shall speak to Aunt Elfrida. But I wish to see Odalite first of all. I have not seen her since I saw her at the altar of All Faith Church on that broken wedding day. Why does she seclude herself so strictly? She is not indisposed. Aunt Elfrida told me she was better and brighter than she had been for many weeks. Why, then, does she keep her room?" inquired Le.

"I think, my dear lad, that she is indisposed, in one sense, at least—very much indisposed to meet a mixed company. She joined us yesterday both at dinner and at tea."

"But I was not here!" exclaimed Le.

"No, you were not here, or you would have seen her. To-day she has kept her room to avoid our visitors. It is a very natural reserve, under the circumstances, as you must admit, Le."

"Yes; but now they have all gone. Will she be in the parlor this evening, do you suppose?"

"No, my lad. I asked that question of her mother, who told me that Odalite was busily engaged and much interested in making things for the Sunday-school Christmas tree, and so would not come down this evening. But, Le, you may see her to-morrow morning. You will stay all night here, of course," said Mr. Force.

"I believe they will expect me home at Greenbushes to-night; but, after all, they are too much accustomed to my eccentric comings and goings to be the least uneasy at my absence; so I think I will please myself and stay, thank you, Uncle Abel," replied the youth.

"That is settled, then," said Mr. Force, as he arose to lead the way back to the drawing room.



CHAPTER XXXVII

LEONIDAS AND ODALITE AGAIN

Leonidas arose on the morning of Christmas Eve with one thought predominant in his mind: He should see Odalite—see her for the first time since that eventful day when her marriage with Angus Anglesea was broken at the altar.

How would she appear? How would she receive him? Would she consider his friendly and most delicate advance an intrusion?

He could not answer this question to himself.

Was she really reconciled to her fate? Or was she only, from a sense of honor and of duty, repressing her emotions?

He could not judge.

Her mother had told him that she was better in health and brighter in spirits than she had been for many weeks.

Was this real or assumed on her part?

He did not know; but he felt sure that he should discover the truth when he should see her.

Now that the villain who had come between them was entirely out of the way—forever and forever out of the way—there need be no reserve, no false shows, between hearts which had never ceased to trust each other, though hers might have ceased to love.

Full of these anxious speculations, Le dressed himself and went downstairs to the parlor, where all the family and friends assembled before breakfast.

There he found them all, standing around the fire and chatting merrily while waiting for the bell to ring.

He gave them all a general good-morning as he entered the room.

And then he saw Odalite!

She separated herself from the group around the fire, came to meet him, placed both her hands in his, and—smiled!

The floors seemed to rock under Le's feet like the deck of a ship on the ocean, so great was his emotion.

Why, this was the first time he had seen her smile since he had returned from sea. And now she smiled frankly up in his face just as she used to do before he went away.

And, oh! to him that smile seemed the promise of all blessed possibilities in the future.

"Good-morning, Le!" she said, in the old, natural tone that he had not heard for three years. "We are just talking about having in the fiddlers to-night for the children to dance, and sending for little Rosemary Hedge and the Grandiere girls and boys, and your particular friend, Roland Bayard. But, Le, we will have to send the break all around to collect them to-day. Will you go, Le?"

"Go—go!" said Le, a little confused by his surprise and delight at seeing Odalite so cheerful. "Go—I will go anywhere in this world, or do anything on earth you wish, Odalite!"

"That's my Le! I knew you would! So, now, dear father," she said, turning to Mr. Force, "you need not go in person, nor send a servant on such a very delicate errand as an impromptu invitation!"

"It is sudden," admitted Le.

"Oh, yes! You see, the poor, dear children, always have had their Christmas Eve dance as long back as they can remember, and their friends were always invited several days beforehand; but this year, on account—of the late disturbance, Le—there! I will not allude to it again—nothing was said about the dance until this morning, when I proposed it."

"You, Odalite?"

"Yes, I! Why should the dear children not have their annual dance? But it is so sudden, Le, and some people—as a mere matter of detail, the Grandieres—are such sticklers for etiquette that they might choose to consider an impromptu invitation an impertinence unless it was given in the most particular manner—as by a member of the family going in person to fetch the invited guests. You understand?"

"Yes, I understand," said Le, smiling broadly with delight.

The sound of the breakfast bell put an end to the conversation, and the whole party filed away to the breakfast table.

Immediately after breakfast Le set out in the "break"—a large, capacious, covered cart, or carriage, capable of holding a dozen people, and drawn by two strong draft horses.

Odalite mingled freely with the family that day, taking part in all the preparations for the evening dance, and entering with ready interest into all the children's schemes of enjoyment.

"Oh, isn't it jolly to have the house all to ourselves!" exclaimed Wynnette, who, mounted on the top of a step-ladder, was engaged in twining the mistletoe in and out among the branches of the chandelier that hung from the center of the ceiling. "It is awfully jolly—I mean it is truly comfortable—to have that scalawag—I mean that colonel—away. Odalite, I hope you won't take it amiss, but I don't mind telling you that I always felt crowded, not only while he was in the house, but even when he was in the country. And, oh, I know I should feel as if I had ever so much more room if he was off the face of this earth—in some other planet of some other solar system."

Odalite looked all around the drawing room, and, seeing that she was alone with her next sister, whispered:

"And I don't mind telling you, Wynnette, if you will keep it a profound secret, that I entirely share your feelings."

"Oh—oh—oh! So them's your sentiments—I mean these are your feelings? Well, I thought so. But to hear you say it!" exclaimed Wynnette.

"Do not speak of it to any one, dear," said Odalite.

"Why not? I should be proud to proclaim it on the housetop."

"Because, dear, no one could understand. They would think me a lunatic."

"Oh! And you don't mind telling me because I understand and will think you sensible? Not to any extravagant extent I don't, though. I have not considered you just level—I mean compos mentis—since you consented to marry that puncheon—I mean officer. Hush! Here comes Jake!"

The negro entered, with an armful of holly, and the work went on in silence.

By noon all the decorations were completed, the litter of leaves gathered up, and the carpet covered with a tightly drawn linen cloth for the feet of the dancers.

The family took an early dinner, and dressed to receive their juvenile company, who were expected to begin to arrive in the afternoon.

Mrs. Anglesea, whose trunk came that morning from Forest Rest, arrayed herself gorgeously in a crimson brocaded satin, trimmed with black lace, necklace and bracelets of heavy California gold, and a brooch and earrings of burning carbuncles.

"None o' your pale, sick pearls, or icy, chilly diamonds for me! I like gems with fire and color in 'em. I do!" she exclaimed, as she drew on a pair of yellow kid gloves over her plump hands, and sailed out of her room, to the great admiration of Luce, who was looking on.

The ladies of the family made some difference in their usual home dress.

Mrs. Force wore a navy-blue silk, with some fine lace on her neck and wrists, and no jewelry.

Odalite wore a white cashmere, trimmed with white satin, a pearl necklace and earrings.

Wynnette and Elva wore their bridesmaids' dresses, with a difference—Wynnette with a coral necklace and earrings, and Elva with a turquoise set.

Miss Meeke wore a brown silk dress, with cameo ornaments.

They were all assembled in the parlor by five o'clock, waiting for their guests, who came a few minutes later.

First came the "break," driven by Le, and loaded with little people presided over by one big one.

They scrambled and tumbled out in a hurry, and ran pellmell into the open door of the hall, where the girls were received with rapture by Wynnette and Elva, who took them upstairs to a well-warmed spare room, where they could lay off their wraps.

The boys were conducted by Le to his own room, to take off their mufflers and to brush their hair.

The simple toilets of the young people took but a short time to arrange, and in fifteen minutes from the time of their arrival they all filed into the drawing room and paid their respects to their host and hostess.

It was now half-past five, and growing dark outdoors.

There was no gas at Mondreer, but there were fine, large chandeliers in every room, and these were all fitted with wax candles, just lighted.

Three very large chandeliers, with quite a grove of wax candles, hung from the ceiling, and filled the drawing room with a mellow light that showed off to the best advantage the youthful beauty assembled there.

Besides the three lovely Force girls, there were the Grandieres—Sophy, Nancy, Polly and Peggy—four blooming lasses of ages ranging from ten to fourteen, and bearing to each other so strong a family likeness that they may collectively be described as plump, fair, rosy, blue-eyed and brown-haired. They all wore bright, blue merino dresses, trimmed with swan's-down, and white carnelian necklaces.

With them were their brothers, Ned and Sam, two fine, well-groomed lads, respectively fifteen and sixteen years of age, rosy, blue-eyed and brown-haired, like their sisters.

These two handsome lads, after making their bows to Mr. and Mrs. Force, went to find Wynnette and Elva, to engage them for the first dance, to be in good time, although the negro fiddlers had not yet taken their places.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

AN OLD-TIME CHRISTMAS DANCE

"Where is Rosemary Hedge?" inquired Odalite, as soon as she could get a chance to speak to Le.

"She is coming. Oh, she would not miss it! Roland Bayard is to bring her on, with her Aunt Susannah and Miss Sibby.

"With those grown people! Why, how is that? Not but what we shall be very glad to see them, you know."

"Of course. I know that, or I shouldn't have asked them."

"Oh, Le, you know you can always ask whoever you please to this house. You know it, Le!"

"Oh, yes, of course I do. I only meant to say that I would not have asked those two ladies if I had not known that they would be welcome. But I am going to tell how it was that I did ask them."

"Yes! Very well."

"You see, I went to Grandieres' first, and gave the pressing invitation, and, I tell you, the young ones jumped at it. They did not keep me waiting long while they got ready, and girls and boys soon tumbled up into the break."

"Yes, I will warrant that they did," said Odalite.

"Then I drove on to Grove Hill, where I found Miss Sibby spending the day. Roland had just brought her there in their mule wagon. I gave my message. There was a great meeting and great excitement between the Grandieres and the Elks. Rosemary and her little cousins, Erny and Melly, were wild to come. But the stately Miss Susannah declared that they could not go without a chaperon. So I invited her; then I could not 'make a bridge over Miss Sibby's nose,' so I invited her, also."

"I am very glad you did!" said Odalite.

"But all was not settled yet! Miss Grandiere declared that she and her nieces were not ready, and could not get ready for an hour to come; and, besides that, the addition of five more passengers to the seven we had already in the break would crowd us too much and be too heavy a load, even for our strong draft horses to draw so long a way over such rough roads."

"And that last was an undeniable fact."

"Of course it was! So I offered to take my party on and return later for the others. But Miss Grandiere urged that that would be too late for them."

"She was right again."

"Certainly! But then Roland came to the rescue, and offered to drive the second party over here in the mule cart, and so it was settled that he should do so. While we were talking, Mrs. Elk came in, and, of course, I had to invite her."

"She never goes out in the evening," said Odalite.

"No, of course not. And so she explained, and we excused her. And there they all come now! I hear the cart! I must go and see to them."

"And I, too," said Odalite, "must go and take the ladies and children upstairs."

And the young pair left the room together to receive the visitors, who had, by this time, entered the hall.

"Ah, this is just as it should be," said Miss Grandiere to Miss Bayard, as they saw Leonidas and Odalite approaching together.

"Yes, and a heap better than it might have been. If you knew as much as I do, you would say so, too!"

"What do you mean?" inquired Miss Grandiere, in a low voice.

"Hush! Here they are!" whispered Miss Bayard, as the two young people came up, with outstretched hands and eager voices, to welcome the visitors.

"You are in very good time! the dancing has not yet commenced," said Odalite, after the first greetings were passed.

"It is not yet seven o'clock," added Le.

And Odalite took off the two ladies and the three children to the warm dressing room to lay off their wraps, while Le carried off Roland to his own den, to brush his hair.

"My dear Odalite, I am so glad to see you looking so well," said Miss Grandiere, when they had reached the chamber.

"I haven't seen her looking so bright for weeks. And that is right, sez I," added Miss Sibby.

"Thank you. Everybody tells me that," said Odalite, smiling.

Miss Grandiere was dressed in a rich, black silk, with a white lace fichu and white lace cuffs, and her black hair was plaited and wound into a roll at the top of her head and fastened with a very high back comb. Her front hair was divided in the middle and wound into curls, two down each temple.

Miss Sibby wore a plain black silk and a book-muslin cap, with a full lace border and white satin bows and strings.

The two little Elk girls, aged ten and twelve, were slender, dark-eyed, dark-haired, red-cheeked lasses, dressed in the most brilliant of Scotch plaids, with neatly crimped muslin ruffles around their throats and wrists and amber necklaces and bracelets.

But Rosemary Hedge's dress was the quaintest costume that the law—of society—allowed. It was a sage-green velvet, made out of one of Miss Grandiere's own old-fashioned gowns, and decorated all around the bottom of the skirt, the belt, the sleeves and the neck with crimson cypress vines, blue forget-me-nots and yellow crocuses, worked by Miss Grandiere's own fingers.

Rosemary wore no trinkets, her only ornament being her blue-black hair curled in ringlets all around her pretty head.

When the visitors were ready to go down, Odalite conducted them to the drawing room, where now, at one end, the negro musicians were seated on chairs raised upon a long, broad bench, and were beginning to tune their instruments, preparatory to playing up an inspiring quadrille tune.

As soon as Mrs. Anglesea saw the newcomers, she made a dash across the room at them, and accosted them with effusion.

"So glad to see you all! And there's my gay, young sailor lad! Mind you, Roland Bayard, I won't take you away from the young uns all the time, because it is their party, but you must manage to give me half a dozen dances during the evening," she said.

"With the greatest pleasure, Mrs. Anglesea," said the gallant tar, "though I didn't know that you danced."

"Thought I was too large and heavy, eh? Well, I may be large, but I ain't heavy! A balloon is large, but it is light! I am also large, but I am light—on my feet! You shall see!"

"Well, will you give me the pleasure of your hand in this set?" he inquired.

"You bet!" she replied, placing her plump, yellow-gloved hand in his.

He led her to the head of the quadrille that was just forming.

Miss Meeke and young Dr. Ingle, who had "just happened in and been prevailed upon to stay," stood up together vis-a-vis to the California lady and her partner.

They were the head and foot couples. Ned Grandiere and Wynnette were on the right, Sam Grandiere and Elva were on the left. This was the form of the first set in the front half of the drawing room.

Mr. Force led Miss Grandiere to the head of another set at the back of the long room. Leonidas took Miss Sibby—who adored dancing—to the foot. Odalite stood with Erna Elk on the right hand, and Mrs. Force with Melly Elk on the left hand.

And the two included the whole company, with the exception of Rosemary Hedge and the four Grandiere girls.

The music struck up the favorite, old-fashioned "Coquette," and the dance began.

And, oh Terpsichore, how the lady from Wild Cats' did foot it away! And she danced well—only, perhaps, just a little too vigorously for good taste.

The "Coquette" was followed by the "Basket," and then by "Malbrook," and lastly by the "Fire Brigade," which finished the set.

When Mrs. Anglesea, out of breath with her great exertions, was being led to her seat by her handsome, young partner, she passed Miss Sibby, who was sitting in an armchair, actively fanning herself with a hand screen.

"Too bad! Too bad, indeed!" said the lady from the mines, with more good nature than discretion; "too bad that you should have to dance, at your age, to make up a set!"

"What's that you say?" demanded Miss Sibby, with much spirit. "Me dance to make up a set, when all them five young gals was waiting? Me? Why, 'oman, I dote on dancing! I think it's heavenly—perfectly heavenly! It ought to be a lawful part of worship, sez I!"

"Oh, if that's your sort, I have no more to say! I only thought you looked kind o' played out and done for, that's all!" said Mrs. Anglesea.

"It does sort o' try one's breath; but it is heavenly, for all that! Perfectly heavenly! And I mean to dance the next set, too, if I can only get a partner!"

In other parts of the room other talk was going on.

"Odalite," said Leonidas, "will you give me the next dance?"

"Certainly I will, Le! I would have given you the first one, only I wanted you to dance with Miss Sibby!"

"Well, I obeyed you, and danced with her."

"You did not find it hard, did you?"

"I found it—funny!"

"Oh!"

"Miss Wynnette," said young Edward Grandiere, "will you be so very good as to give me this next dance, also?"

"Not if I know it! I mean, thank you very much, but I hope you will do me the favor of asking one of the Misses Elk to dance with you. I intend to put on Le's cap and be a gentleman, and ask one of your sisters to dance with me."

"Why, Miss Wynnette, how strange!"

"There's no help for it; there are not gentlemen enough in the company, so I must be one! Why, just see, here are fourteen ladies and only seven gentlemen. And always about the same proportion in this neighborhood, whether it be a ball, or a dinner party, or a tea-drinking, or a little dance like this. It is always the same—about twice as many ladies as gentlemen! Oh, I don't know what is to become of us all, unless we go out as missionaries to the heathen!" sighed Wynnette.

"You must not go! I beg you will stay and take care of one poor heathen!" said the boy, trying his boyish best to be gallant.

"Maybe I will—stay and take care of poor, old Gov. Broadvally, who has gout in his great toe and infidelity on his brain, and neither wife nor child to make him a poultice, or read him a sermon," said Wynnette, as she sprang up and left the side of her partner.

"Rosemary, darling, will you dance this set with me? I wished so much to dance the first set with you, but——" Roland Bayard, who was the speaker, paused, and Rosemary finished the sentence for him:

"You were caught and carried away captive by a gay lady! And what could a gentleman do?" she asked, smiling.

"Will you dance this set with me, then, darling child?" he repeated.

"With real pleasure, Roland," she answered, giving him her hand.

And he led her out.

In the sets that were now forming, the Grandiere girls, as well as all the other children, danced, and all the grown women sat down, except Miss Sibby, who conscripted Mr. Force to dance with her.

Wynnette, as a gentleman, led out the youngest Miss Grandiere. And, the two sets being complete, the music struck up, the dancing commenced,

"And all went merry as a marriage bell."

The dancing concluded with the rollicking merry-go-round, called, in these days, the "Virginia Reel," but in the olden times known as "Sir Roger de Coverly," in which all hands—men, women and children, young and old—joined heartily, and none more heartily than Miss Sibby.

"Enjoy yourself as long as you can, sez I!" she hastily whispered into the ear of Le, as he whirled her around in the giddy maelstrom of that mad dance.

At ten o'clock the fiddlers had rest to their elbows and the banjo players to their hands, when they were marched off to the kitchen, to partake of good Christmas cheer.

In the parlor the guests were seated in somewhat stiff and formal rows, on sofas and chairs ranged along the wall, while two menservants, Jake and Jerry, bearing large trays of refreshments, made the circuit of the room—Jerry going first, with a great plum cake and plain pound cake, each beautifully frosted and decorated, and neatly cut from the center to the edge, ready for helping, and a pile of small, china plates and damask napkins. Le Force, walking beside this waiter, served each guest with a plate, a napkin and a slice of each cake.

Behind Jerry came Jake, bearing another large tray laden with cut-glass goblets filled to the brim with snowy, frothy eggnog, or amber apple toddy, or golden lemon punch. And beside this waiter walked Mr. Force, serving each guest with the special nectar he or she preferred.

When these good things had been disposed of, although it was but half-past ten, carriages were ordered, and all the county neighbors took leave and went home, for these were simple days "before the war"—or "befo' de wo," as the negroes more truly, if less grammatically, put it. And the people wished to get home and go to bed, that they might rise on Christmas morning in time to attend church in the forenoon.

Within an hour after their departure the household at Mondreer had retired to rest.



CHAPTER XXXIX

A DECISIVE INTERVIEW

Sunrise on Christmas morning found all the family of Mondreer assembled in the drawing room, which had been already restored to order by the servants, and where no vestige of the previous night's festivity remained, except the beautiful evergreen decorations.

"Who are for church this morning?" inquired Mr. Force, looking around upon his assembled household.

"I think we all are, except, perhaps, Odalite, who may naturally shrink from the ordeal of appearing there so soon," replied Mrs. Force, in a tone so very subdued that it was scarcely redeemed from being that breach of good breeding, a whisper in company.

But Odalite, who stood next to her mother, heard the words, and replied:

"I must not shrink from going to church, mamma. If people choose to stare at me, to see how I bear what they suppose to be a heavy disappointment and a deep mortification, they will do so from a kindly interest, I am sure, and they will be pleased to find that, though I may be 'perplexed,' I am 'not in despair.' Besides, mamma, the longer I stay away from church, the more I shall be stared at when I go."

"You are right, my dear," said Mr. Force, who immediately went out to give orders that all the carriages in the stables—that is to say, the family coach, the break and the buggy—should be got ready and brought around to take the family to All Faith Church.

There were other duties to be done before they broke their fast. On this day, the servants, not only of the house, but of the plantation, were all called in to family prayers.

The devotions were led by Mr. Force, assisted by Le.

When they were concluded, Christmas presents were distributed by the children of the family to all the negroes present, and sent by them to all those who, from old age, infancy or illness, were unable to attend the gathering.

When all the plantation servants had retired, with gratitude and gladness, the family went in to breakfast, where they enjoyed a merry morning meal.

As soon as it was over, they retired to their chambers to get ready for church.

And there each one, in his or her sanctuary, found some token of the presence of Santa Claus to be first discovered and enjoyed in secret. All were more or less valuable and attractive, but among so many presents, in so large a family, but few may be noticed.

Mr. Force found a warm, crimson, cashmere dressing gown, the united gift of his children; an embroidered silk smoking cap, from his wife; a pair of beaded slippers, from Miss Meeke, and a Turkish chibouk and a can of Turkish tobacco, brought all the way from beyond seas and kept for this day, by Le.

Mrs. Force found a sealskin dolman—one of the first ever made in this country—with muff and turban to match, from her husband; a satin patchwork quilt, which had been the secret work of a year, from her children; an embroidered hand screen, from Miss Meeke, and an elegant ivory fan, brought from Canton, by Le.

Odalite received a "handy" edition of Shakespeare, in twelve small volumes, bound in white vellum and silver and inclosed in a white morocco case, with silver clasps, from her father; a small Bible, prayer book and hymn book, bound in white velvet, with silver clasps and inclosed in a hand case of white morocco, for church service, from her mother; a very handsome and completely fitted workbox, brought all the way from Canton, from Le.

Le himself received a very princely gift from his uncle, namely, a fine, young horse of famous stock, with a handsome saddle and bridle, from his aunt. These gifts were not exactly found in his chamber, only the letter conferring them on his dressing table. A box of articles made by Odalite during the three years of his absence—namely, six dozen white lambs' wool socks, knit by her own fingers, and each pair warranted to outlast any dozen pairs of machine-made hose; six ample zephyr wool scarfs, to be used—if allowed—during the deck watches of the winter nights at sea; six dozen pairs of lambs' wool gloves, six dozen pocket handkerchiefs, with his name worked in the corners with the dark hair of her head. All these, for their intrinsic usefulness, would have been very valuable; but for the love and thought worked into them by the dear fingers of her whom he loved, and during the longs years of his absence, this box of treasures was invaluable to Le. The wealth of the Rothschilds could not have bought it from him. Each precious item, as he turned it about in his hands, and kissed it again and again, was full of her magnetism.

He put on a pair of the socks, because he loved to feel them next him. He put one of the handkerchiefs in his bosom, next his heart, for the same reason. But it would take up too much time and space to tell of all the Christmas offerings of that happy day.

The children had passed the age of dolls and dolls' furniture, but they received beautiful dressing cases, with boxes and writing desks, all fitted up and exactly alike, except that brunette Wynnette's were all lined with crimson velvet or satin, and blond Elva's with blue; and they received books and trinkets suitable to their years.

Miss Meeke received a pair of gold bracelets from her pupils and a black silk dress from their parents.

Even the transient guest, Mrs. Anglesea, received from Mr. and Mrs. Force a handsome set of coral and gold jewelry that exactly suited her style and taste.

So no one was overlooked; and, when the family reassembled in the drawing room before starting for church, there ensued a gay confusion, a mirthful strife, in the mutual offering and deprecating acknowledgments. But at last they entered the carriages and drove away to All Faith.

Mr. and Mrs. Force, Odalite and Mrs. Anglesea rode in the family coach, driven by Jake; Miss Meeke and her two pupils in the buggy, driven by Wynnette, who was already a famous "whip."

The household servants rode in the break.

Le, mounted on the young horse given him by his uncle, escorted the whole party, and made himself very useful in opening gates or taking down bars for the caravan.

They all reached the church in good time. The party entered their pews without feeling any annoyance. If they were stared at, they did not know it.

The Christmas service was always a grand jubilee, deeply interesting, highly exalting, and Dr. Peters' sermon was sure to be good, cheerful and appropriate.

After the benediction, when the congregation began to disperse, the usual neighborly greetings took place in the yard.

Friends came up to wish merry Christmas and happy New Year to the Forces, and to receive the like courtesies from them. Happily, every one had the good taste to ignore the unseemly events of the previous Tuesday.

And the Force family left the churchyard more at ease than they had entered it.

The journey home was, therefore, very pleasant.

The subsequent Christmas dinner was a festival, and the dessert was prolonged with cracking nuts, making "philopena" bargains, opening sugar kisses and exchanging "verses."

It was not until after dinner that Le got a chance to speak to Odalite.

"Will you come out for a walk with me? It is not cold," he whispered, as they all left the dining room.

"Yes," she answered; "and we will go now, or it will be too late."

And she took down her brown beaver coat and poke bonnet that always hung in the hall ready for common use, and began to put them on.

Le took his overcoat and cap from the same rack, and speedily incased himself. Their gloves were in the pockets of their coats, and so they were soon ready, and in two minutes opened the hall door and left the house.

It was a fine winter twilight. The sun had just set, and the western hemisphere was all aflame with the afterglow. The moon had just risen from behind the deep blue waters of the bay, and was shining broad and full from a rosy gray sky. Though the woods were bare, and the earth was brown with winter, the scene was pleasant in its soft, subdued color and veiled brightness.



CHAPTER XL

AGAIN BY THE WINTRY SEA

"We will walk down by the shore; it is always pleasant there," said Le.

"Yes, let us go there. It will be too dark in the woods, but there will be moonlight on the sea and shore."

And they walked through the east gate, and down the wooded hill to the water side.

From an instinct of delicacy, Le turned to the south, which led in an opposite direction from his own home; but Odalite stopped him.

"Let us walk north, toward Greenbushes. We cannot go so far, because it is too late, but it will be pleasant to walk in that direction, Le," she said.

"Will it, now? To you, Odalite?" he asked, surprised and pleased, yet anxious.

"Very, very pleasant," she answered, brightly.

He turned with her at once, and had courage to ask:

"Will you take my arm, Odalite?"

She took it at once, and, when he held her hand close to his throbbing heart, she did not draw it away. What should he say to her? How should he understand her? She seemed content, and even happy, to be alone with him. She seemed exactly as she had been before the tempter came between them—content and happy—though it had only been four days since she had been suddenly and effectually separated from the man whom she had declared that she wished to marry. She had said that no one forced her to marry him. But—did any one force her to wish to marry him? That was the question. Was his dream or vision at sea a prophetic one? Was Wynnette's and Elva's belief a true inspiration? And had Odalite, in her consent to marry Anglesea, thrown herself into the waves to escape the flames? And now that she was happily rescued from the waves, was she glad?

He looked at her again. Her face was calm and bright. And it was a true index to her mind, which was also calm and bright.

Why should it not be? She had been saved from a fate worse than death—saved from the slavery of an abhorrent marriage, she was free—with a sense of freedom that she had never fully enjoyed until she had lost her liberty and regained it. Her own and her dear mother's mortal enemy, whose presence, even on the continent, crowded her as it did Wynnette, was gone across the sea! And she knew nothing—poor child!—of the chain the man had thrown around her mother's, his victim's, neck before he went away! Mrs. Force had never told that dread secret to her daughter. It was not necessary to do so, at least not yet, so she let Odalite recover her cheerfulness and enjoy her life, if it were only in a fool's paradise.

So Odalite reveled in a fanciful freedom, which to her was delightfully real.

Le looked at her, watched her, studied her.

Her eyes were bright with pleasure, her cheeks flushed with health, her lips smiling in mirth, her step was so light that she seemed to dance along the sands, and her voice was so fresh and cheerful that it was impossible to believe that she cherished any other feeling on the subject of her broken marriage than one of delight at her enfranchisement.

"Odalite," he said, at length, "you seem very happy."

"I am very happy," she replied, beaming.

"Then you have not the least regret for that——"

"There! Stop just there, Le, dear! Never mention that nightmare dream to me while you live!" said Odalite, in a commanding but jubilant tone.

"Well, then, I won't. Goodness knows I am not so fond of him as to want to ring the changes on his name!"

"It was nothing but a nightmare dream, Le, and I wish to forget all about it."

"Then you never loved him——"

"Loved him!" interrupted Odalite, with flushing cheeks and flashing eyes. "Who ever imagined that I could ever love him? I never told you that I loved him, Le."

"No, by Jove, so you never did! You never told me that you loved him; and you did tell me that you had never let him kiss you!" exclaimed Le, with a new ring of joy in his voice and a new light of joy in his eyes.

"No," said Odalite. "It was my greatest merit and my worst fault that I did not love him when I consented to marry him. I was wrong, under any inducement, to consent to such a union; but, Le, if I had loved him, I must have been something of a kindred spirit to him! And that, you know, I am not."

"Odalite!" said the young man, taking her hand between both of his and trying to calm his tumultuous feelings, and to speak quietly, while they slackened their pace and walked very slowly; "Odalite, darling, I had a long interview with your father yesterday, in which we talked over all these matters. He believes that your fancy and imagination were fascinated, captivated by the arts of that man, who shall be nameless, because I cannot bear to utter, nor you to hear, the accursed name. Your father, however, gave me permission to have this final talk with you, on certain conditions, which I promised to keep."

Odalite looked up, anxiously, into his face.

"My darling," he said, as he caressed the hand he held, "when I asked you to take this walk with me to-night, it was because I knew that you were free in hand, at least, to receive the proposal that I came to make you; it was not that we should immediately renew the old engagement that bound our hearts and souls together from our childhood up to the time when the stranger came between us, for I did not know then that your heart, as well as your hand, was free. I thought that it would take time to heal the wound that I supposed you had received in the sudden rupture of your marriage; but that, in time, your woman's pride, your sense of honor and your conscientiousness would enable you to conquer any lingering interest you might feel in that man. So I came here not to plead for an immediate renewal of our precious betrothal, but only to plead as the best grace you might give me that we might correspond, as brother and sister, while I am at sea, doing my duty there and waiting for the time when we may, please Heaven, be united in a dearer, closer love——"

"But, Le!" she broke out, impulsively; "I love you—I love you—I have never ceased to love you, Le!" And then she would have given words to have recalled the hasty, if true, words.

But they were spoken, and every tone of her voice, every glance of her eyes, every play of her features gave such unquestionable evidence of their truth that she never could have repudiated them.

"Then, oh, my dearest one! why were you ever beguiled into consenting to marry that man—into thinking that you could possibly live with that man?"

"Oh, Le, I was never for a moment beguiled! I never for one moment imagined that I could live with him. I knew I could not do so. I knew I should die under the upas tree of his hateful presence! I knew that it was my life I laid down to save others whom I did love!"

"Odalite!" he exclaimed, amazed and overwhelmed by her passion.

"Le! Oh, Le! I have told you more than I meant ever to have told any one! The truth burst from my heart unawares. Forget what I have said, Le! Oh, forget it!"

"Never, never, never can I forget these words, dear Odalite! Those words that have revealed to me a glimpse of a soul braver, nobler, more self-immolating than I ever believed could live in the form of mortal man, not to say in that of a fragile girl," said the young man, fervently, earnestly.

"Oh, dear Le, such overpraise humbles me! Let it pass! But, oh, my dear, as you unwittingly surprised my confidence, so respect it. Whisper it to no human being—no, not even to yourself in your moments of deepest solitude!" she pleaded.

"I will not, my best beloved, my only love! I will not; but I will hide it in my heart as my secret, sacred treasure, to comfort me, to strengthen me, to elevate me in all places and circumstances of my life—in the long, long sea voyages, in the midnight watches on the deck, it shall be my hope, my solace and my consolation. Always with me, until I return to claim the greater, higher, better treasure that it promises!" exclaimed Le, with enthusiasm.

"Oh, Le, you have twice spoken of the sea! But you will never go to sea again! You have resigned from the navy," she said, anxiously looking in his face for a confirmation of her words.

"No, dear," he answered, very gently. "I have not resigned. I wish now that I had done so, but it is too late."

"Oh, Le, why did you not, when you meant to do so?"

"My darling, when I inherited Greenbushes, I fully intended to leave the navy, marry my betrothed, and settle down on our farm. But, when I came home and learned that she was to be married to some one else, I did the very opposite thing to resigning. I wrote to the department and asked for sailing orders, because I could not bear to stay in the neighborhood, or even in the country, after such a bitter disappointment."

"Oh, my dear Le!"

"Never mind, love. It will all come right now. I put Greenbushes in the hands of Beever and Copp, and waited to hear from the department. I received my sailing orders yesterday. That was the reason why I spoke to your father and asked for this interview."

"Oh, Le! Le! can you not yet resign?" pleaded Odalite.

"Yes, dear, of course I can, but not with honor. Having asked for these orders, I must obey them. I must not trifle with duty, dear Odalite," he answered, gravely.

"Oh, Le, and there seems no real necessity for you to go!"

"Honor, love," gently suggested the youth.

"When do you leave us, and where are you going this time, Le?"

"I leave on the second of January, to join my ship at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, to sail in a few days after for the Pacific coast."

"Oh, I am so sorry! But I ought not to say so, Le. I ought not to say anything to make it harder to do your duty, and I will not."

"Dearest Odalite, will you say something that will make it easy for me to do my duty? Will you say that you will correspond with me regularly while I am gone, as you did during my first voyage? And will you promise that when I return, three years hence, and leave the service—as I can with honor then—you will give me this dear hand of yours, which I cannot help feeling belongs to me only, and has belonged to me of right all the time? Say you will give me your hand, Odalite! Shall I go away happy in the knowledge that you are to be my wife on my return?"

"Oh, yes! Yes, Le! With all my heart!" she impulsively answered. Then, catching her breath in a spasmodic way, as some painful thought sped like an arrow through her heart, she added, in a subdued tone: "But, Le, before anything of that sort is quite settled between us, I want you to talk with my mother about it."

"But why? Aunt Elfrida will have no objection. She likes me. She liked our engagement, before any one came between us," said Le, growing uneasy and very thoughtful.

"Yes, I know she loves you, Le, and liked our engagement. And, of course, all will be right! But, still, I would rather that you should speak to my mother," persisted the girl, with a dark foreshadowing of evil which she could not shake off.

"Well, love, I will have a talk with Aunt Elfrida to-night," said Le, with a laugh.

"No, no, not to-night. We shall be in the drawing room, engaged in some Christmas games for the children. Do not take her away from the family circle to-night. To-morrow will do quite as well. You can talk to her after breakfast," pleaded Odalite, with a shudder she could not control.

"You are cold," said Le. "I have kept you out too long. Come, let us go home. I will speak to Aunt Elfrida in the morning."

They turned and walked homeward under the moonlight, wintry sky, along the shore, then up the wooded hill, through the lawn and on to the house, the whole front of which was brilliantly lighted from within in honor of the holy, festive season.

They entered, and threw off their wraps in the hall, just as the tea bell rang.

A merry party assembled around the table, upon which every suitable Christmas dainty was spread.

After tea the family and guests, with the new addition of Dr. Ingle—who dropped in, as usual—gathered in the drawing room, and engaged in merry games, in which they spent the Christmas evening.



CHAPTER XLI

HIS FATE

"Aunt Elfrida, dear, I want to speak to you. Can you give me a few moments, quite alone, this morning?" inquired Le of Mrs. Force, in a low voice, as they left the breakfast room together, the last two in the rear of the party.

"Yes, Le. Come into my siting room, where we shall be uninterrupted," replied the lady, in the same subdued tone, and with a somewhat troubled look, as if she anticipated a painful interview.

The other members of the family passed on through the door on the right side of the hall and entered the drawing room.

Mrs. Force turned from them and opened the door on the left and preceded Le into the little parlor.

When they were both in the room, the lady shut the door and turned the key, and motioned Le to take one armchair on one side of the center table, while she herself sank into the other, saying:

"Now then, Le, dear boy, I am ready to hear what you wish to say to me."

"Maybe you know, Aunt Elfrida, that I am going to sea in a few days," he said, leaning over the table toward her.

"Yes, Le, I heard so from your uncle, and was very sorry to hear it, dear boy."

"I suppose my uncle told you why—just as I had come into a rich inheritance—I applied for sailing orders?"

"Yes, Le."

"And why, though now I would like to resign, I cannot, in honor, do so?"

"He told me all, Le."

"I shall be gone for three years, Aunt Elfrida."

"I know it, and I am very sorry."

"I—I shall leave you all on the second of January—and—and before I go I would like to have an understanding with you about—about Odalite," said Le, stammering and blushing as if he had been asking for the hand of his sweetheart for the first time; but, then, it was so soon after her broken marriage, and his act seemed so audacious.

The lady turned pale and gripped the edge of the table for support. It had come, then, the ordeal she had dreaded so much.

"Odalite!" she faltered.

"Yes, Aunt Elfrida; and I should ask your pardon for speaking of my hopes just now! And I should not presume to do so, only that I am going away so soon, and am to be gone so long," faltered the lover, blushing more intensely than before.

"What have you to say of Odalite, then?" inquired the lady.

"Oh, Aunt Elfrida! Can you ask? I wish, first of all, your permission to correspond with her while I am away, just as I did before, you know! And then, most of all, I wish that it shall be understood—just as it was before—that when I return from my next voyage Odalite and I may be married. And—and, of course, I shall leave the navy then and settle down with Odalite at Greenbushes—just as it was understood and arranged that we should do before—before the stranger came to trouble us. That is what I want and hope and pray for, Aunt Elfrida!" pleaded the lover.

The lady's head was dropped upon her hand while her elbow rested on the table. She was silent and thoughtful for a few moments, that seemed hours to Le's anxiety, and then she asked:

"Do you think it right, dear boy, to approach a young girl on the subject of a second engagement so soon after the disruption of her marriage at the altar?"

The question was not unkindly put, yet the blush deepened on the youth's cheek.

"I said that I would not mention the subject now but that I am going away in so few days, and for years! Nor would I, even under these circumstances, if it were not that"—he suddenly caught himself up and stopped. He had been on the brink of involuntarily betraying Odalite's confidence and adding: "Odalite herself admits that she has no regret for her broken-off marriage, and never really cared for any one but her first lover;" for Le was all unaccustomed to having secrets to keep.

"What were you going to add, dear boy? 'If it were not that'—what?" inquired the lady, who had observed his hesitation and embarrassment.

"If it were not that I know her to be quite free," he answered, diplomatically.

"But is she quite free, Leonidas?" gravely questioned the lady.

"Is she not?" demanded the youth, in astonishment.

"I do not know, my boy! I am not sure! But oh, Le! I have never breathed a doubt on this subject to her! And do not you breathe this to any living soul!" solemnly replied the lady.

"Great Sphinx of Egypt!" said the youth to himself. "Have I got to keep the secrets of each one from all the others? And without even having the satisfaction of knowing what the secrets are?"

"Listen to me, Le," said the lady, kindly. "I have no objection to your corresponding with Odalite while you are on your voyage; but there must be no engagement, or hint of an engagement between you, either before you go or in any of your letters. Moreover, your letters must not be directed immediately to Odalite, but under cover to me."

"I thank you for even so much grace, Aunt Elfrida; but why may not my letters be directed to Odalite?"

"Because they might get her unjustly and disrespectfully talked about," said she, evasively.

"But, oh, Aunt Elfrida! why should you doubt that Odalite is free? Why, the fact is abundantly proven."

"No, dear boy, there is where the trouble is. We think it was proven, but we are not sure. What we are sure of is this—that there was a marriage ceremony performed by special license, and by a regularly ordained minister of the gospel, and in the presence of more than a hundred witnesses, between Angus Anglesea and Odalite Force, and which, if both parties were free to contract marriage at the time, binds them together as man and wife for the term of their natural lives. That is all that we positively know, Le," gravely replied the lady.

The youth sprang up from his chair with a cry of pain.

"I cannot bear to think of that!" he said, as he dropped again into his seat. "But it cannot be true! The news from St. Sebastian proves that the man was the husband of another woman at the time that he tried to marry your daughter—and that therefore the ceremony was no marriage at all, and she is free."

"Leonidas, let me put a possible case. Suppose that when Anglesea married the Californian widow he had an invalid wife living at the time in England. Then the marriage with the Californian would have been of no effect. Suppose, in the interim between the ceremony performed in the church at St. Sebastian and this performed at All Faith Church, the invalid wife had died—then the last marriage would be legal and binding."

"Oh, Aunt Elfrida. Why do you suppose such dreadful conditions?" exclaimed the youth.

"Because, my poor boy, I have reason to believe them to be the true conditions," sorrowfully replied the lady.

The youth sprang up and walked the floor in great excitement.

"What reasons have you for thinking as you do?" he at length demanded.

"I cannot tell you now, dear boy."

"But you do not know this to be the case? You only think so?" he questioned.

"No, I do not know it; because I cannot rely upon the truthfulness of my informant, nor on the genuineness of the evidence offered."

"Who was your informant, Aunt Elfrida?"

"I cannot tell you, Le."

"But, anyhow, I am sure if that villain had any claim at all on Odalite, brute that he was, he would have pushed it to extremity!"

"No doubt he would if he had dared, but he dared not, Le! If he had claimed Odalite as his lawful wife, on the ground that his former marriage with Mrs. Wright was an illegal one, upon account of the fact of his having had a wife living at the time it was contracted, and dead since, be sure that the honest California woman, finding herself deceived, would have prosecuted him for bigamy, and our courts would have punished him with the utmost rigor of the law! So, though he might have a lawful claim on Odalite, he dared not press it! No, nor dared he even to remain in the country. You know that he has sailed for England."

"Yes, thank Heaven! But, oh, Aunt Elfrida, if there should be any foundation for your fears that Anglesea has any claim on Odalite, then Uncle Abel should see to it at once and have her freed from such a monster by course of law," vehemently exclaimed Le.

"And so he should, if there were any certainty about that claim; but there is none. Odalite may be free or she may not be. We cannot be sure until we know more of the man's antecedents. Le, you must be patient, and very prudent. Odalite's position is a very delicate one. You must not think of entering into any engagement with her at present, or doing anything, or saying anything, or writing anything that shall compromise her in the very slightest degree. I am very sure that you would not, Le."

"I would die first," earnestly answered the youth.

"You can write to her as often as you please as a brother might write to a sister, and through me, always. Remember that, and wait for events, Le. Be sure of one thing—under no circumstances will Abel Force ever give his daughter to Angus Anglesea. If he—Anglesea—should ever be able to prove that the ceremony performed in All Faith Church last Tuesday was a lawful one, Odalite's father would at once institute legal proceedings to liberate his daughter from that merely nominal and most disreputable marriage. Be sure of that, Le, and be patient. You cannot return before three years, and in three years much may happen—indeed, much must happen!"

"I will try to be patient, Aunt Elfrida. But, oh, what a fate is mine!"

"It is a hard fate, Le; but Odalite shares it. If you must live in suspense, why, so must she. Bear your fate for her sake, Le."

"I will! I will, Aunt Elfrida!" earnestly answered the youth.

"And remember, Le, you are not to breathe to Odalite my doubts as to her freedom from Anglesea's yoke."

"I will not, Aunt Elfrida. I would not make her so unhappy," replied the lover. "I will only tell her," he added, "that you think we had better correspond in the way you suggested, and wait for my return from sea to settle matters; or shall I refer her to you?"

"Do both, Le. Tell her what you propose to tell, and send her to me."

"I will not keep you any longer from your guests, Aunt Elfrida. I thank you very much for your kindness to me, and I shall be guided by your words," said the young man, as he raised the hand of the lady to his lips, and then dropped it with a bow and left the room.



CHAPTER XLII

OTHER INTERVIEWS

He found Odalite waiting for him in the hall. She was dressed for a walk.

"Let us go over to Greenbushes this morning, Le. It is such a fine morning. We can walk through the woods, and rest on the bridge at Chincapin Creek, and then we shall not be too tired when we get to the house," she said in so many words, but all the while she spoke her eyes asked, without words:

"What did mamma say?"

"Happy thought! We will go, dearest. I will be ready in a trice! And we can talk as we go along!" replied Le, with assumed gayety, as he pulled down his overcoat from its hook and began to put it on.

In two minutes they passed out of the front door, crossed the lawn, and entered the wood by the north gate.

"Now, then, what did mamma say?" eagerly demanded Odalite, as they went along the wooded path leading to the creek.

"She says, my darling, that I may write to you all the time I am away, as I would write to my sister, if I had one; but that I must not draw you into any engagement to marry—or words to that effect," replied Le, putting the hard case as gently as he could.

"I thought she would do that," said Odalite, in a sorrowful and subdued tone.

"But, dearest dear! that does not prevent my binding myself to you in the most solemn manner for life and until death, and after death and to all eternity, if one may be permitted to do so. And here I swear, under this blue sky and bright moon and in the presence of high heaven, that I will be true to you, Odalite, dearest Odalite, all the days of my life in this world and in the next, forever and ever! But yet I must not bind you by any promise, darling?"

"You do not need to, Le," she answered, sweetly and solemnly. "You do not need to bind me by a promise. You know my heart, Le. And you know that you can trust me! No word that might not pass between a brother and a sister will pass between us, for we shall know each other's hearts, and that shall suffice and satisfy us until we meet again, shall it not?"

"Yes, Odalite! Yes, dearest dear! Until we meet again! And when we meet again, after my long voyage, by all that is holy and sacred in love and in life neither man nor devil shall part us!" warmly exclaimed Leonidas.

"Oh, you mean things!" exclaimed a merry voice behind them.

Leonidas and Odalite turned at once to see two little figures in buttoned coats and poke bonnets running toward them, followed by the dog.

"Oh, you mean things, you!" continued Wynnette, "to sneak for a walk to Greenbushes, without telling me and Elva a word about it!"

"But Joshua told us—he did, indeed! You forgot to untie him when you started, Odalite, and he set up such a howl of anguish and despair that I had to run out to see what was the matter with him," said Elva.

"And I had to follow, and I found him telling Elf such a tragic tale of how you and Le had gone off and left him tied up, without even looking behind to bid him good-by, that his heart was quite broken, and he had been trying to hang himself on his own chain ever since!" added Wynnette.

"So, you see, I unchained him. But, do you know, he wouldn't go without us? He kept running on a little way and then running back and begging and praying of us to come so hard that at last Wynnette and I went in and put our bonnets and coats and came after you," said Elva.

"Joshua knew you were going to Greenbushes, and he wanted to go with you. So did we when he told us where you were gone. You don't deserve such devotion; but you have got it anyway," concluded Wynnette.

It seemed rather hard that the children should interrupt the tete-a-tete of lovers who had come out of the house to saunter through the woods on purpose to be alone, and who were so soon to be separated for so long a time; but Leonidas and Odalite took the matter in perfectly good humor, and the four walked on amiably together.

They reached Greenbushes in good time, and had a treat of sweet cider, gingerbread and Indian walnuts from Aunt Molly.

And after a good rest they set out to return to Mondreer, where they arrived in time for dinner.

In the meanwhile Mrs. Force was subjected to another interview. Leonidas and Odalite had scarcely left the house, and Mrs. Force had scarcely settled down to her embroidery, when there came a gentle tap at the door.

"Come in," said Mrs. Force.

Miss Meeke entered, her pretty, pale face slightly flushed, her usually quiet demeanor somewhat disturbed.

"Can I speak to you alone for a few moments, ma'am?" she inquired, rather nervously.

"Certainly, my dear. Take that easy chair," said the lady, in some surprise, as she motioned her visitor to be seated.

Miss Meeke sat down, but continued perfectly silent and extremely ill at ease.

Mrs. Force observed her for some minutes, and seeing no prospect of her speaking, inquired gently:

"What can I do for you, my dear?"

"I—I——" began the governess, taking up the corner of her black, silk apron and beginning to scrutinize it very attentively, while her nervousness increased every instant—"I—do not know—that you can do anything for me, ma'am; but—but—but——"

"Well, my dear?" inquired the lady, kindly, seeing that the governess had paused in her embarrassment.

"I think I ought—that it is my duty to give—to say—to tell——" began the poor girl, falteringly, and then coming to another dead halt.

"Can I help you out in any way? Are you in any difficulty? Have you any complaint to make? Speak, my dear. Do not be afraid," said the lady.

"Oh, no—but—I am going to be married!" suddenly blurted out the girl, as by a heroic effort, and then she flushed crimson over cheeks, neck and brow.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Force, not very much surprised, after all, for she had long seen to what purpose the visits of the little, red-haired and freckle-faced Dr. Ingle tended.

Then, recovering herself, she arose and kissed the young governess tenderly, saying:

"I congratulate you with all my heart, dear. Dr. Ingle is a very worthy young man. Your intended is Dr. Ingle, I suppose?" said the lady, suddenly remembering that the governess had mentioned no name.

"Yes," said Miss Meeke, recovering herself, now that the ice had been broken.

"Then I am very glad, for your sake. And very sorry for the children's," she added.

Then Miss Meeke began to cry.

"I cannot bear to leave Wynnette and Elva," she sobbed.

"You will not be parted from them, dear," kindly suggested Mrs. Force. "You will be our neighbor, you know. You will come to see us very frequently, I hope. And as for the children, they will run after you so much that I expect you will wish them a thousand miles off."

"Oh, no! Never! never! Dear, bright Wynnette and fond Elva!"

"When your time comes you will be married from this house, my dear, as if you were a daughter of the family. And if you have any friends or relatives whom you would like to have present, give me their names and addresses, and I will invite them to come and stay for the wedding," said the lady.

"Oh, madam! how can I thank you? But your kindness to-day is only a continuation of the kindness you have shown me during the whole seven years I have lived at Mondreer. And always you have treated me as a daughter of the house. And my pupils have been as younger sisters. Ah! It seems ungrateful in me to leave them before they are grown up and out of my care."

"Do not think of that, my dear. Marriage is the natural destiny of a young woman. You have given enough of your youth to my children, and now that 'a good man and true' like Dr. Ingle loves you and wins your love, and offers you marriage, you should marry."

"I have been very happy here with you and through you, madam," said the governess.

"If it is so, as I hope and believe it is, it will be a very pleasant memory for us all. Do your pupils know of your engagement?"

"Oh, no! And I do so much dread to tell them!"

"Well, do not let them look forward to the marriage as a parting. Talk to them of your new home, and the happy times they will have in visiting you," said Mrs. Force.

Miss Meeke smiled and blushed, and said:

"I was to go to-morrow to inspect a new house in the village that the doctor was thinking of taking, if I should like it. Perhaps the children might go with me. Shall I ask them?"

"Certainly. They would be delighted. It will be a good opportunity also in which to break the news to them. And, without doubt, they will be very prompt in giving their valuable counsel on the subject. But tell me, my dear, when is this happy event to come off?"

"Early in January. That is to say, if, in the meantime, you can suit yourself with another governess, for I should not think of leaving you until you had supplied my place."

"I should not think of supplying your place with a new governess, my dear. Indeed, I have other plans. I have been thinking of going to Washington to spend the winter. If you were to remain with us, I should take you; but, as you are to be married, I shall, instead of engaging a private governess, place my children at some good finishing school—— Well——? Who is there?" suddenly demanded the lady, as a loud rap sounded on the room door.

"Why, it's me! Who should it be?" said the voice of Mrs. Anglesea, as that jovial lady burst into the room, exclaiming: "I was moped all but to death, all alone by my own self in the big parlor ever since breakfast. As well been at Wild Cats'!"

"Oh, come in, Mrs. Anglesea. I do, indeed, owe you an apology. I hope you will excuse me, but—I have been particularly engaged all the forenoon," said the mistress of Mondreer, as she arose and placed a chair for her guest.

"Thanky'! I hope I haven't interrupted you?" said the lady from the gold mines, dropping into the seat.

"Oh, no. We are quite at leisure now," replied Mrs. Force.

"I wouldn't have disturbed you by coming here, only I declare to man, I have been in every room in the house looking for some one to talk to, without finding a soul. And I even went into the kitchen, to talk to the cook, but she was out, and there wasn't a soul there, though the pot was b'ilin' over, and the goose was burning in the roaster. So I sat down on a stool on the hearth, and basted the goose and turned it, and much thanks I got for my pains. For presently, when the cook come back with a passel of cold mince pies to be put in the oven and warmed—she had been to the storeroom to fetch 'em—she as much as told me my room was better'n my company, or words to them effects. Leastways, she did say as ladies what was visitors hadn't no business in her kitchen. So then I come right in here."