"I do not believe that he has any claims on you, Odalite," gravely replied the lady.

"But, mamma, do you know that he has not?" inquired poor Odalite, in an access of anxiety.

"He has no claim that either the law or the gospel would sustain, or that your father would admit for a single instant."

"Oh, mamma, but has he any? Oh, mother, dear mother, speak plainly to me!

He referred me to you for proofs that the marriage of last Tuesday was a lawful one. What proofs? What did he mean, mother?" pleaded Odalite, wringing her hands in growing doubt and distress.

"He meant to brag, to boast, to threaten to make you grieve, fear and suffer--the brute, the poltroon, the miscreant!" hissed the lady, stamping her foot.

"But, mother--oh, mother--the proofs, the proofs he spoke of!" persisted Odalite, white with dread.

"They are no proofs of anything; but I will tell you what he was writing of. Two days after the scene at the All Faith Church, while your father and your cousin were both out, that outlying brigand seized the opportunity for which he had been watching, and came in here to see and threaten me."

"Oh, mother, dear mother!" said Odalite, in tender compa.s.sion.

"Never mind, my child. He is away now, thank Heaven! His talk to me was all of a piece with his letters to you. That is enough to say about it--except that, during the interview, he told me something that I believe to be a mere tissue of falsehoods."

"And what was that, mamma?"

"He told me--think of the audacity and shamelessness of such an avowal!--he told me that at the time he married the Widow Wright, at St.

Sebastian, he had a wife living in London."

"Oh, mother!" said Odalite, with a low cry of horror.

"To prove it, he took a slip of paper from his pocketbook, which he said was cut from the London _Times_, and which he said that he had received while staying at Niagara with us. It was, in fact, the notice of the death of his wife, and, if I remember rightly, it ran something like this:

"'Died.--Suddenly, at Anglewood Manor, on August twenty-fifth, in the forty-ninth year of her age, Lady Mary, eldest daughter of the late and sister of the present Earl of Middlemoor, and wife of Col. the Hon. Angus Anglesea, late of the H.E.I.C.S.'

"There, Odalite, I have tried to reproduce from memory the proof that he produced to establish as facts that his first wife was living at the time of his marriage with the Widow Wright, which was, consequently, not binding, and that she died some months before his marriage with yourself, which is, according to him, lawful and binding."

"Oh, mother--mother! There seems to be no doubt of it!" wailed Odalite, throwing her arms over the table and dropping her head upon it in a sudden collapse of despair.

"Even if there were no doubt about the matter--even if he has a legal claim upon you--it is not a moral or Christian one, but a technicality which your father will never admit, even if that man should dare to come back and urge it."

"But, oh, mother, he will come back, some time, when he thinks the danger past, and he will put the screws upon you and me as he did before! He will make me declare that my happiness depends upon my reunion to him, my 'legal husband.' He will make you plead with my father to give me up without bringing the matter into court!" said Odalite, moaning, rather than speaking the words.

"Even if he should--even if you should declare that you wished to be reunited to that monster of wickedness, and even if I were to plead your cause, I tell you that your father would not only see you unhappy, but he would see you dead, before he would give you up to Angus Anglesea! He would prosecute him, and settle his claim in that way. But, Odalite, I do not believe that notice of his wife's death to be just what it purported to be, or just what he represented it to be."

"What do you mean, mother, dear? How can you doubt, when you yourself saw the printed slip, with name, place, day and date, family relations--all complete? Ah, me! I wish there was room for doubt!"

"There is wide room for doubt. The date of the day and of the month is given, but not the date of the year, in that slip; and I saw nothing but the slip, not the paper it was cut from. How, then, do I know that his first wife did not die on August twenty-fifth, two years ago, or ten years ago, instead of in August of this year? It would be like him to produce an old obituary notice for purposes of deception."

"Oh-h-h!" exclaimed Odalite, as the new light of hope dawned on her mind.

"I confess that I did not think of this view of the case when he first showed me this notice, and, therefore, I was utterly bowed down by the sight of it. But now, the more I reflect upon it, the more convinced I feel that it was the notice of a death in an August of some previous year.

Why, now I think of it, the very paper was soft and dark, and the printing was blurred, as by age and handling."

"Oh, mother, if I could but be certain that I am free!" sighed Odalite.

"Be certain of this--that you are free from him. He dare not return to this country to annoy you. He may write you threatening letters. Put them in the fire, and forget them."

"And--and--and--dear, true, n.o.ble Le!" sighed the girl.

"Of course, there must be no thought of an engagement between Leonidas and yourself. He has given me his word of honor that there shall not be. You may correspond as brother and sister; but his letters to you must, as a mere matter of prudence, come under cover to me. In three years Le will return to us. Much may happen in three years! But, in the meantime, oh, my daughter! 'keep innocency!'"

CHAPTER XLV

NEW YEAR'S EVE

For three days and nights the snow fell, covering all the ground for some feet deep.

Never, in the memory of the people, had such a snowfall been seen in that section. Yet it could scarcely be called a snowstorm, for there was no wind, not a single whiff, and therefore, of course, no snowdrifts. The snow fell slowly, evenly, steadily, dropping over the earth a soft, thick, white mantle.

"We shall be all snowed up, and there's an end to our New Year's dance at Oldfield," said Wynnette, as she stood at the front window of the little parlor, on the third day of the snowfall, looking drearily out over the white earth and powdering sky.

"It can't snow forever!" exclaimed Elva, who was seated at the center table, playing "jacks" with hazelnuts.

"I believe it will snow forever! It looks like it. Just look out and see!

All the low fences are covered, and nothing but the tops of the high fences can be seen, and the Scotch firs are so loaded down with snow I should think the limbs would snap right off! And it is still snowing as steadily as ever! It just reminds one of the s...o...b..und traveler at the 'Holly Tree Inn,' when--'It snowed, and it snowed, and it snowed, and it continued to snow, and it never ceased from snowing.' No, nor it never will!" said Wynnette, flattening her nose against the cold window pane.

"Call this snow?" rather slightingly demanded the lady from Wild Cats', as she sat in front of the wood fire, with her feet on the fender and her skirts drawn up to toast her shins, while she was eating hazelnuts, of which she had a lap full, and which she cracked with her strong, white teeth. "Call this snow, indeed! You don't know what snow is! Hush, honeys!

You ought to see the Nevadas after a midwinter snowfall! Yes! where whole trains of wagons are stopped and whole camps snowed up, until all hands perish of cold and hunger. Don't tell me! You don't know nothin' about snow here." And she stopped talking to put another nut between her teeth and crack it.

"I wouldn't mind if it wasn't for the New Year's Eve party," said Wynnette.

"Never mind, it will be clear to-morrow. You know we never do have more than three days at a time of any sort of bad weather--wind, or rain, or snow, or anything! I am sure it will clear off to-morrow," hopefully suggested Elva, deftly throwing a "jack" into the air and s.n.a.t.c.hing two from the table in time to catch the falling one.

"I know it won't be clear to-morrow! Just look how it comes. I can hardly see the fir trees now through the thick falling powder. No! it is going to keep on this way forever and ever," growled Wynnette, who was, for her, in a very despondent mood.

Next day, being New Year's Eve, it did clear off, however. And in the most delightful way. Not with a high wind, as it often does, to drift the new-fallen snow and obstruct the roads and make matters worse than before; but with a still, cold, bright, frosty air that hardened the snow and glazed its surface and made--such splendid sleighing.

"Oh, good-morning, Sun!" said little Elva, standing at the front window of the parlor and looking eastward. "Good-morning, Sun! We are very glad to see you again!"

"After your uncommonly bad behavior in sulking and hiding yourself for the last three days," added Wynnette, who was now standing beside her youngest sister.

"You wrong the beautiful and benignant sun, Wynnette, dear," said Miss Meeke, coming up behind them. "The sun is always shining for us. The earth turns around from the sun, and it is night--turns toward him, and it is day. The earth wanders far away from the sun, and it is winter--comes toward him again, and it is summer. But the sun shines in the empyrean all the time, wherever the earth may be. Fogs and mists arise from the land and water, condense in clouds, and obscure his glorious face, but they come down in rain or snow, clearing the atmosphere, and we say the sun shines again, when, in truth, he has been shining all the time. And as it is with the sun and earth, dear children, so it is with our Father in heaven and ourselves. We turn away from Him, and our souls grow dark; we turn to Him again, and we receive His light. We wander far from Him into selfishness and worldliness, and we suffer a spiritual coldness and blindness; we come back to Him, and we are warmed and enlightened by His love and His wisdom. Sometimes doubts and fears and hates--the opposites of faith and hope and love--arise from our lower nature and hide from us the face of our Father in heaven; but He has not changed. He is always ready to bless us when we turn again to Him--turn in truth and love, children, not in terror and self-seeking. So, dear ones, when clouds and storms darken the atmosphere, think of the sun that is shining above them; and when doubts and fears and sorrows and temptations come, think of the love and wisdom and power of our Father in heaven, and turn to Him for light and strength and guidance."

Miss Meeke's little lesson was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Force, who gave a cheery good-morning to the young trio, and then said:

"Well, my dears, after all you have the prospect of a very pleasant afternoon and evening. The sun, you see, has come out brightly. The snow is frozen as hard as a rock. The moon is full to-night. The sleighing will be capital both in going and coming, and you will have the moonlight in coming home."

"There will be eight of us to go, papa," said Wynnette, beginning to count on her fingers. "There will be you and mamma, two; Le and Odalite, four; Elva and I, six; and Miss Meeke and Mrs. Anglesea, eight. Can we all go in one sleigh? It will be so much jollier if we can."