“Only this, mother, but it was very significant. He wrote that now he had inherited Greenbushes and all his Aunt Laura’s money, he was rich enough to resign from the navy, and he need not go to sea any more, nor ever part with me again; but that he could stay home, repair and refurnish the house, improve the land, and farm it on all the new principles, and make the place a paradise for us to live in. He wrote, mother, dear, as of certain fixed facts.”
“He was very presumptuous, my dear little girl, for there is nothing certain in this world of changes,” gravely commented the lady.
“But Le’s heart has not changed, nor has mine.”
“My poor darling,” said Elfrida Force, smoothing her daughter’s dark hair with a gentle hand, “my precious child! It grieves me to do so, but I must prepare you for what seems inevitable. You must forget all this youthful folly, and think of Leonidas Force only as a cousin. You do not really love him as a betrothed maiden should love her affianced husband. You only fancy that you do. In reality you know nothing of such a love as that. Le was brought up in the house with you. You have no brother. Le has no sister. You therefore love each other as brother and sister. By and by you both may discover—but not for each other—the higher, deeper, stronger love which unites the husband and the wife in a true marriage—such a love as I could wish might crown my darling’s life with lasting joy—such a love as you might find in a union with Angus Anglesea, if you would but give him the opportunity of winning your heart.”
“Madam!” exclaimed the girl, starting to her feet, and gathering her black brows over black eyes that blazed with indignation, “I hate Col. Anglesea! I hate him and I fear him! And I would rather die this day and never behold the face of Le again, than listen to Col. Anglesea!”
“Odalite! Odalite, my child! You are talking to your mother. Come to my heart again, and calm your excitement,” said the lady, holding out her arms.
And the young girl fell weeping upon the bosom of her mother.
The lady allowed some time to pass in which the girl’s paroxysm of tears exhausted itself, and then caressing her gently, she began, in a soothing tone:
“My precious child, do you doubt your mother’s love or truth?”
“Oh, no, no, no! How could you ask such a question of your own child, mother?” earnestly protested Odalite.