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.”