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.”