← catalogue

The Good Time Coming

by T. S. Arthur · English · Gutenberg #4632 · 457,251 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Good Time Coming
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Good Time Coming

Author: T. S. Arthur


        
Release date: November 1, 2003 [eBook #4632]
                Most recently updated: December 28, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4632

Credits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOOD TIME COMING ***




Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.









THE GOOD TIME COMING.


BY

T. S. ARTHUR.



BOSTON:

PHILADELPHIA:

1855.


JTABLE 10 44 1


PREFACE.

LIFE is a mystery to all men, and the more profound the deeper the
striving spirit is immersed in its own selfish instincts. How
earnestly do we all fix our eyes upon the slowly-advancing future,
impatiently waiting that good time coming which never comes! How
fast the years glide by, beginning in hope and ending in
disappointment! Strange that we gain so little of true wisdom amid
the sharp disappointments that meet us at almost every turn! How
keenly the writer has suffered with the rest, need not be told. It
will be enough to say that he, too, has long been an anxious waiter
for the "good time coming," which has not yet arrived.

But hope should not die because of our disappointments. There is a
good time coming, and for each one of us, if we work and wait for
it; but we must work patiently, and look in the right direction.
Perhaps our meaning will be plainer after our book is read.




THE GOOD TIME COMING.




CHAPTER I.


THERE was not a cloud in all the bright blue sky, nor a shadow upon
the landscape that lay in beauty around the lovely home of Edward
Markland; a home where Love had folded her wings, and Peace sought a
perpetual abiding-place. The evening of a mild summer day came
slowly on, with its soft, cool airs, that just dimpled the shining
river, fluttered the elm and maple leaves, and gently swayed the
aspiring heads of the old poplars, which, though failing at the
root, still lifted, like virtuous manhood, their greenest branches
to heaven.

In the broad porch, around every chaste column of which twined
jessamine, rose, or honeysuckle, filling the air with a delicious
fragrance beyond the perfumer's art to imitate, moved to and fro,
with measured step and inverted thought, Edward Markland, the
wealthy owner of all the fair landscape spreading for acres around
the elegant mansion he had built as the home of his beloved ones.

"Edward." Love's sweetest music was in the voice that uttered his
name, and love's purest touch in the hand that lay upon his arm.

A smile broke over the grave face of Markland, as he looked down
tenderly into the blue eyes of his Agnes.

"I never tire of this," said the gentle-hearted wife, in whose
spirit was a tuneful chord for every outward touch of beauty; "it
looks as lovely now as yesterday; it was as lovely yesterday as the
day my eyes first drank of its sweetness. Hush!"

A bird had just alighted on a slender spray a few yards distant, and
while yet swinging on the elastic bough, poured forth a gush of
melody.

"What a thrill of gladness was in that song, Edward! It was a
spontaneous thank-offering to Him, without whom not a sparrow falls
to the ground; to Him who clothes the fields in greenness,
beautifies the lily, and provides for every creature its food in
season. And this reminds me;" she added in a changed and more
sobered voice, "that our thank-offering for infinite mercies lies in
deeds, not heart-impulses nor word-utterances. I had almost
forgotten poor Mrs. Elder."

And as Mrs. Markland said this, she withdrew her hand from her
husband's arm, and glided into the house, leaving his thoughts to
flow back into the channel from which they had been turned.

In vain for him did Nature clothe herself, on that fair day, in
garments of more than usual beauty. She wooed the owner of Woodbine
Lodge with every enticement she could offer; but he saw not her
charms; felt not the strong attractions with which she sought to win
his admiration. Far away his thoughts were wandering, and in the dim
distance Fancy was busy with half-defined shapes, which her plastic
hand, with rapid touches, moulded into forms that seemed instinct
with a purer life, and to glow with a more ravishing beauty than any
thing yet seen in the actual he had made his own. And as these forms
became more and more vividly pictured in his imagination, the pace
of Edward Markland quickened; and all the changing aspects of the
man showed him to be in the ardour of a newly-forming life-purpose.

It was just five years since he commenced building Woodbine Lodge
and beautifying its surroundings. The fifteen preceding years were
spent in the earnest pursuit of wealth, as the active partner in a
large mercantile establishment. Often, during these busy fifteen
years, had he sighed for ease and "elegant leisure;" for a rural
home far away from the jar, and strife, and toil incessant by which
he was surrounded. Beyond this he had no aspiration. That "lodge in
the wilderness," as he sometimes vaguely called it, was the bright
ideal of his fancy. There, he would often say to himself--

"How blest could I live, and how calm could I die!"

And daily, as the years were added, each bringing its increased
burdens of care and business, would he look forward to the "good
time coming," when he could shut behind him forever the doors of the
warehouse and counting-room, and step forth a free man. Of the
strife for gain and the sharp contests in business, where each seeks
advantages over the other, his heart was weary, and he would often
sigh in the ears of his loving home-companion, "Oh! for the wings of
a dove, that I might fly away and be at rest!"

And at length this consummation of his hopes came. A year of unusual
prosperity swelled his gains to the sum he had fixed as reaching his
desires; and, with a sense of pleasure never before experienced, he
turned all his affections and thoughts to the creation of an earthly
paradise, where, with his heart and home treasures around him, he
could, "the world forgetting, by the world forgot," live a truer,
better, happier life, than was possible amid the city's din, or
while breathing the ever-disturbed and stifling atmosphere of
business.

And now his work of creation at Woodbine Lodge was complete.
Everywhere the hand of taste was visible--everywhere. You could
change nothing without marring the beauty of the whole. During all
the years in which Mr. Markland devoted himself to the perfecting of
Woodbine Lodge, there was in his mind just so much of dissatisfaction
with the present, as made the looked-for period, when all should be
finished according to the prescriptions of taste, one in which there
would be for him almost a Sabbath-repose.

How was it with Mr. Markland? All that he had prescribed as needful
to give perfect happiness was attained. Woodbine Lodge realized his
own ideal; and every one who looked upon it, called it an Eden of
beauty. His work was ended; and had he found rest and sweet peace?
Peace! Gentle spirit! Already she had half-folded her wings; but,
startled by some uncertain sound, she was poised again, and seemed
about to sweep the yielding air with her snowy pinions.

The enjoyment of all he had provided as a means of enjoyment did not
come in the measure anticipated. Soon mere beauty failed to charm
the eye, and fragrance to captivate the senses; for mind immortal
rests not long in the fruition of any achievement, but quickly
gathers up its strength for newer efforts. And so, as we have seen,
Edward Markland, amid all the winning blandishments that surrounded
him on the day when introduced to the reader, neither saw, felt, nor
appreciated what, as looked to from the past's dim distance, formed
the Beulah of his hopes.




CHAPTER II.


A FEW minutes after Mrs. Markland left her husband's side, she
stepped from the house, carrying a small basket in one hand, and
leading a child, some six or seven years old, with the other.

"Are you going over to see Mrs. Elder?" asked the child, as they
moved down the smoothly-graded walk.

"Yes, dear," was answered.

"I don't like to go there," said the child.

"Why not, Aggy." The mother's voice was slightly serious.

"Every thing is so mean and poor."

"Can Mrs. Elder help that, Aggy?"

"I don't know."

"She's sick, my child, and not able even to sit up. The little girl
who stays with her can't do much. I don't see how Mrs. Elder can
help things looking mean and poor; do you?"

"No, ma'am," answered Aggy, a little bewildered by what her mother
said.

"I think Mrs. Elder would be happier if things were more comfortable
around her; don't you, Aggy?"

"Yes, mother,"

"Let us try, then, you and I, to make her happier."

"What can I do?" asked little Aggy, lifting a wondering look to her
mother's face.

"Would you like to try, dear?"

"If I knew what to do."

"There is always a way when the heart is willing. Do you understand
that, love?"

Aggy looked up again, and with an inquiring glance, to her mother.

"We will soon be at Mrs. Elder's. Are you not sorry that she is so
sick? It is more than a week since she was able to sit up, and she
has suffered a great deal of pain."

"Yes, I'm very sorry." And both look and tone confirmed the truth of
her words. The child's heart was touched.

"When we get there, look around you, and see if there is nothing you
can do to make her feel better. I'm sure you will find something."

"What, mother?" Aggy's interest was all alive now.

"If the room is in disorder, you might, very quietly, put things in
their right places. Even that would make her feel better; for nobody
can be quite comfortable in the midst of confusion."

"Oh! I can do all that, mother." And light beamed in the child's
countenance. "It's nothing very hard."

"No; you can do all this with little effort; and yet, trifling as
the act may seem, dear, it will do Mrs. Elder good: and you will
have the pleasing remembrance of a kind deed. A child's hand is
strong enough to lift a feather from an inflamed wound, even though
it lack the surgeon's skill." The mother said these last words half
herself.

And now they were at the door of Mrs. Elder's unattractive cottage,
and the mother and child passed in. Aggy had not overdrawn the
picture when she said that everything was poor and mean; and
disorder added to the unattractive appearance of the room in which
the sick woman lay.

"I'm sorry to find you no better," said Mrs. Markland, after making
a few inquiries of the sick woman.

"I shall never be any better, I'm afraid," was the desponding
answer.

"Never! Never is a long day, as the proverb says. Did you ever hear
of a night that had no morning?" There was a cheerful tone and
manner about Mrs Markland that had its effect; but, ere replying,
Mrs. Elder's dim eyes suddenly brightened, as some movement in the
room attracted her attention.

"Bless the child! Look at her!" And the sick woman glanced toward
Aggy, who, bearing in mind her mother's words, was already busying
herself in the work of bringing order out of disorder.

"Look at the dear creature!" added Mrs. Elder, a glow of pleasure
flushing her countenance, a moment before so pale and sad.

Unconscious of observation, Aggy, with almost a woman's skill, had
placed first the few old chairs that were in the room, against the
wall, at regular distances from each other. Then she cleared the
littered floor of chips, pieces of paper, and various articles that
had been left about by the untidy girl who was Mrs. Elder's only
attendant, and next straightened the cloth on the table, and
arranged the mantel-piece so that its contents no longer presented
an unsightly aspect.

"Where is the broom, Mrs. Elder?" inquired the busy little one,
coming now to the bedside of the invalid.

"Never mind the broom, dear; Betsy will sweep up the floor when she
comes in," said Mrs. Elder. "Thank you for a kind, good little girl.
You've put a smile on every thing in the room. What a grand
housekeeper you are going to make!"

Aggy's heart bounded with a new emotion. Her young cheeks glowed,
and her blue eyes sparkled. If the pleasure she felt lacked any
thing of pure delight, a single glance at her mother's face made all
complete.

"When did you hear from your daughter?" asked Mrs. Markland.

There was a change of countenance and a sigh.

"Oh! ma'am, if Lotty were only here, I would be happy, even in
sickness and suffering. It's very hard to be separated from my
child."

"She is in Charleston?"

"Yes, ma'am,"

"Is her husband doing well?"

"I can't say that he is. He isn't a very thrifty man, though steady
enough."

"Why did they go to Charleston?"

"He thought he would do better there than here; but they haven't
done as well, and Lotty is very unhappy."

"Do they talk of returning?"

"Yes, ma'am; they're both sick enough of their new home. But then it
costs a heap of money to move about with a family, and they haven't
saved any thing. And, more than this, it isn't just certain that
James could get work right away if he came back. Foolish fellow that
he was, not to keep a good situation when he had it! But it's the
way of the world, Mrs. Markland, this ever seeking, through change,
for something better than Heaven awards in the present."

"Truly spoken, Mrs. Elder. How few of us possess contentment; how
few extract from the present that good with which it is ever
supplied! We read the fable of the dog and the shadow, and smile at
the folly of the poor animal; while, though instructed by reason, we
cast aside the substance of to-day in our efforts to grasp the
shadowy future. We are always looking for the blessing to come; but
when the time of arrival is at hand, what seemed so beautiful in the
hazy distance is shorn of its chief attraction, or dwarfed into
nothingness through contrast with some greater good looming grandly
against the far horizon."

Mrs. Markland uttered the closing sentence half in reverie; for her
thoughts were away from the sick woman and the humble apartment in
which she was seated. There was an abstracted silence of a few
moments, and she said:

"Speaking of your daughter and her husband, Mrs. Elder; they are
poor, as I understand you?"

"Oh yes, ma'am; it is hand-to-mouth with them all the time. James is
kind enough to Lotty, and industrious in his way; but his work never
turns to very good account."

"What business does he follow?"

"He's a cooper by trade; but doesn't stick to any thing very long. I
call him the rolling stone that gathers no moss."

"What is he doing in Charleston?"

"He went there as agent for a man in New York, who filled his head
with large ideas. He was to have a share in the profits of a
business just commenced, and expected to make a fortune in a year or
two; but before six months closed, he found himself in a strange
city, out of employment, and in debt. As you said, a little while
ago, he dropped the present substance in grasping at a shadow in the
future."

"The way of the world," said Mrs. Markland.

"Yes, yes; ever looking for the good time coming that never comes,"
sighed Mrs. Elder. "Ah, me," she added, "I only wish Lotty was with
me again."

"How many children has she?"

"Four."

"One a baby?"

"Yes, and but three months old."

"She has her hands full."

"You may well say that, ma'am; full enough."

"Her presence, would not, I fear, add much to your comfort, Mrs.
Elder. With her own hands full, as you say, and, I doubt not, her
heart full, also, she would not have it in her power to make much
smoother the pillow on which your head is lying. Is she of a happy
temper, naturally?"

"Well, no; I can't say that she is, ma'am. She is too much like her
mother: ever looking for a brighter day in the future."

"And so unconscious of the few gleams of sunshine that play warmly
about her feet--"

"Yes, yes; all very true; very true;" said Mrs. Elder, despondingly.

"The days that look so bright in the future, never come."

"They have never come to me." And the sick woman shook her head
mournfully. "Long, long ago, I ceased to expect them." And yet, in
almost the next breath, Mrs. Elder said:

"If Lotty were only here, I think I would be happy again."

"You must try and extract some grains of comfort even from the
present," replied the kind-hearted visitor. "Consider me your
friend, and look to me for whatever is needed. I have brought you
over some tea and sugar, a loaf of bread, and some nice pieces of
ham. Here are half a dozen fresh eggs besides, and a glass of jelly.
In the morning I will send one of my girls to put everything in
order for you, and clear your rooms up nicely. Let Betsy lay out all
your soiled clothing, and I will have it washed and ironed. So,
cheer up; if the day opened with clouds in the sky, there is light
in the west at its close."

Mrs. Markland spoke in a buoyant tone; and something of the spirit
she wished to transfer, animated the heart of Mrs. Elder.

As the mother and her gentle child went back, through the deepening
twilight, to their home of luxury and taste, both were, for much of
the way, silent; the former musing on what she had seen and heard,
and, like the wise bee, seeking to gather whatever honey could be
found: the latter, happy-hearted, from causes the reader has seen.




CHAPTER III.


"WALKING here yet, Edward?" said Mrs. Markland, as she joined her
husband in the spacious portico, after her return from the sick
woman's cottage; and drawing her arm within his, she moved along by
his side. He did not respond to her remark, and she continued:--

"Italy never saw a sunset sky more brilliant. Painter never threw on
canvas colours so full of a living beauty. Deep purple and lucent
azure,--crimson and burnished gold! And that far-off island-cloud--

  'A Delos in the airy ocean--'

seems it not a floating elysium for happy souls?"

"All lovely as Nature herself," answered Mr. Markland, abstractedly,
as his eyes sought the western horizon, and for the first time since
the sun went down, he noticed the golden glories of the occident.

"Ah! Edward! Edward!" said Mrs. Markland, chidingly, "You are not
only in the world, but of the world."

"Of the earth, earthy, did you mean to say, my gentle monitor?"
returned the husband, leaning towards his wife.

"Oh, no, no! I did not mean grovelling or sordid; and you know I did
not." She spoke quickly and with mock resentment.

"Am I very worldly-minded?"

"I did not use the term."

"You said I was not only in the world, but of it."

"Well, and so you are; at least in a degree. It is the habit of the
world to close its eyes to the real it possesses, and aspire after
an ideal good."

"And do you find that defect in me, Agnes?"

"Where was thought just now, that your eyes were not able to bring
intelligence to your mind of this glorious sunset?"

"Thought would soon become a jaded beast of burden, Agnes, if always
full laden with the present, and the actually existent. Happily,
like Pegasus, it has broad and strong pinions--can rise free from
the prisoner's cell and the rich man's dainty palace. Free! free!
How the heart swells, elated and with a sense of power, at this
noble word--Freedom! It has a trumpet-tone."

"Softly, softly, my good husband," said Mrs. Markland. "This is all
enthusiasm."

"And but for enthusiasm, where would the world be now, my sweet
philosopher?"

"I am no philosopher, and have but little enthusiasm. So we are not
on equal ground for an argument. I I don't know where the world
would be under the circumstances you allege, and so won't pretend to
say. But I'll tell you what I do know."

"I am all attention."

"That if people would gather up each day the blessings that are
scattered like unseen pearls about their feet, the world would be
rich in contentment."

"I don't know about that, Agnes; I've been studying for the last
half hour over this very proposition."

"Indeed! and what is the conclusion at which you have arrived?"

"Why, that discontent with the present, is a law of our being,
impressed by the Creator, that we may ever aspire after the more
perfect."

"I am far from believing, Edward," said his wife, "that a
discontented present is any preparation for a happy future. Rather,
in the wooing of sweet Content to-day, are we making a home for her
in our hearts, where she may dwell for all time to come--yea,
forever and forever."

"Beautifully said, Agnes; but is that man living whose heart asks
not something more than it possesses--who does not look to a coming
time with vague anticipations of a higher good than he has yet
received?"

"It may be all so, Edward--doubtless is so--but what then? Is the
higher good we pine for of this world? Nay, my husband. We should
not call a spirit of discontent with our mere natural surroundings a
law of the Creator, established as a spur to advancement; for this
disquietude is but the effect of a deeper cause. It is not change of
place, but change of state that we need. Not a going from one point
in space to another, but a progression of the spirit in the way of
life eternal."

"You said just now, Agnes, that you were no philosopher." Mr.
Markland's voice had lost much of its firmness. "But what would I
not give to possess some of your philosophy. Doubtless your words
are true; for there must be a growth and progression of the spirit
as well as of the body; for all physical laws have their origin in
the world of mind, and bear thereto exact relations. Yet, for all
this, when there is a deep dissatisfaction with what exists around
us, should we not seek for change? Will not a removal from one
locality to another, and an entire change of pursuits, give the mind
a new basis in natural things, and thus furnish ground upon which it
may stand and move forward?"

"Perhaps, if the ground given us to stand upon were rightly tilled,
it would yield a richer harvest than any we shall ever find, though
we roam the world over; and it may be, that the narrow path to
heaven lies just across our own fields. It is in the actual and the
present that we are to seek a true development of our spiritual
life. 'Work while it is to-day,' is the Divine injunction."

"But if we can find no work, Agnes?"

"If the heart be willing and the hands ready," was the earnestly
spoken answer, "work enough will be found to do."

"I have a willing heart, Agnes,--I have ready hands--but the heart
is wearied of its own fruitless desires, and the hands hang down in
idleness. What shall I do? The work in which I have found so much
delight for years, is completed; and now the restless mind springs
away from this lovely Eden, and pines for new fields in which to
display its powers. Here I fondly hoped to spend the remainder of my
life--contented--happy. The idea was a dreamy illusion. Daily is
this seen in clear light. I reprove myself; I chide the folly, as I
call it; but, all in vain. Beauty for me, has faded from the
landscape, and the air is no longer balmy with odours. The birds
sing for my ears no more; I hear not, as of old, the wind spirits
whispering to each other in the tree tops. Dear Agnes!--wife of my
heart--what does it mean?"

An answer was on the lip of Mrs. Markland, but words so unlooked
for, swelled, suddenly, the wave of emotion in her heart, and she
could not speak. A few moments her hand trembled on the arm of her
husband. Then it was softly removed, and without a word, she passed
into the house, and going to her own room, shut the door, and sat
down in the darkness to commune with her spirit. And first, there
came a gush of tears. These were for herself. A shadow had suddenly
fallen upon the lovely home where she had hoped to spend all the
days of her life--a shadow from a storm-boding cloud. Even from the
beginning of their wedded life, she had marked in her husband a
defect of character, which, gaining strength, had led to his giving
up business, and their retirement to the country. That defect was
the common one, appertaining to all, a looking away from the present
into the future for the means of enjoyment. In all the years of his
earnest devotion to business, Mr. Markland had kept his eye steadily
fixed upon the object now so completely attained; and much of
present enjoyment had been lost in the eager looking forward for
this coveted time. And now, that more than all his fondest
anticipations were realized, only for a brief period did he hold to
his lips the cup full of anticipated delight. Already his hand felt
the impulse that moved him to pour its crystal waters upon the
ground.

Mrs. Markland's clear appreciation of her husband's character was
but a prophecy of the future. She saw that Woodbine Lodge--now grown
into her affections, and where she hoped to live and die--even if it
did not pass from their possession--bartered for some glittering
toy--could not remain their permanent home. For this flowed her
first tears; and these, as we have said, were for herself. But her
mind soon regained its serenity; and from herself, her thoughts
turned to her husband. She was unselfish enough not only to be able
to realize something of his state of mind, but to sympathize with
him, and pity his inability to find contentment in the actual. This
state of mind she regarded as a disease, and love prompted all
self-denial for his sake.

"I can be happy any, where, if only my husband and children are
left. My husband, so generous, so noble-minded--my children, so
innocent, so loving."

Instantly the fountain of tears were closed. These unselfish words,
spoken in her own heart, checked the briny current. Not for an
instant did Mrs. Markland seek to deceive herself or hearken to the
suggestion that it was but a passing state in the partner of her
life. She knew too well the origin of his disquietude to hope for
its removal. In a little while, she descended and joined her family
in the sitting-room, where the soft astral diffused its pleasant
light, and greeted her sober-minded husband with loving smiles and
cheerful words. And he was deceived. Not for an instant imagined he,
after looking upon her face, that she had passed through a painful,
though brief conflict, and was now possessed of a brave heart for
any change that might come. But he had not thought of leaving
Woodbine Lodge. Far distant was this from his imagination. True--but
Agnes looked with a quick intuition from cause to effect. The
elements of happiness no longer existed here for her husband; or, if
they did exist, he had not the skill to find them, and the end would
be a searching elsewhere for the desired possession.

"You did not answer my question, Agnes," said Mr. Markland, after
the children had retired for the evening, and they were again alone.

"What question?" inquired Mrs. Markland; and, as she lifted her
eyes, he saw that they were dim with tears.

"What troubles you, dear?" he asked, tenderly.

Mrs. Markland forced a smile, as she replied, "Why should I be
troubled? Have I not every good gift the heart can desire?"

"And yet, Agnes, your eyes are full of tears."

"Are they?" A light shone through their watery vail. "Only an April
shadow, Edward, that is quickly lost in April sunshine. But your
question is not so easily answered."

"I ought to be perfectly happy here; nothing seems wanting. Yet my
spirit is like a aged bird that flutters against its prison-bars."

"Oh, no, Edward; not so bad as that," replied Mrs. Markland. "You
speak in hyperbole. This lovely place, which everywhere shows the
impress of your hand, is not a prison. Call it rather, a paradise."

"A paradise I sought to make it. But I am content no longer to be an
idle lingerer among its pleasant groves; for I have ceased to feel
the inspiration of its loveliness."

Mrs. Markland made no answer. After a silence of some minutes, her
husband said, with a slight hesitation in his voice, as if uncertain
as to the effect of his words--

"I have for some time felt a strong desire to visit Europe."

The colour receded from Mrs. Markland's face; and there was a look
in her eyes that her husband did not quite understand, as they
rested steadily in his.

"I have the means and the leisure," he added, "and the tour would
not only be one of pleasure, but profit."

"True," said his wife, and, then her, face was bent down so low that
he could not see, its expression for the shadows by which it was
partially concealed.

"We would both enjoy the trip exceedingly."

"Both! You did not think of taking me?"

"Why, Aggy, dear!--as if I could dream for a moment of any pleasure
in which you had not a share!"

So earnestly and tenderly was this said, that Mrs. Markland felt a
thrill of joy tremble over her heart-strings. And yet, for all, she
could not keep back the overflowing tears, but hid her face, to
conceal them, on her husband's bosom.

Her true feelings Mr. Markland did not read: and often, as he mused
on what appeared singular in her manner that evening, he was puzzled
to comprehend its meaning. Nor had his vision ever penetrated deep
enough to see all that was in her heart.




CHAPTER IV.


THE memory of what passed between Mr. and Mrs. Markland remained
distinct enough in both their minds, on the next morning, to produce
thoughtfulness and reserve. The night to each had been restless and
wakeful; and in the snatches of sleep which came at weary intervals
were dreams that brought no tranquillizing influence.

The mother's daily duty, entered into from love to her children,
soon lifted her mind into a sunnier region, and calmed her pulse to
an even stroke. But the spirit of Markland was more disturbed, more
restless, more dissatisfied with himself and every thing around him,
than when first introduced to the reader's acquaintance. He eat
sparingly at the breakfast-table, and with only a slight relish. A
little forced conversation took place between him and his wife; but
the thoughts of both were remote from the subject introduced. After
breakfast, Mr. Markland strolled over his handsome grounds, and
endeavoured to awaken in his mind a new interest in what possessed
so much of real beauty. But the effort was fruitless; his thoughts
were away from the scenes in which he was actually present. Like a
dreamy enthusiast on the sea-shore, he saw, afar off, enchanted
Islands faintly pictured on the misty horizon, and could not
withdraw his gaze from their ideal loveliness.

A little way from the house was a grove, in the midst of which a
fountain threw upward its refreshing waters, that fell plashing into
a marble basin, and then went gurgling musically along over shining
pebbles. How often, with his gentle partner by his side, had
Markland lingered here, drinking in delight from every fair object
by which they were surrounded! Now he wandered amid its cool
recesses, or sat by the fountain, without having even a faint
picture of the scene mirrored in his thoughts. It was true, as he
had said, "Beauty had faded from the landscape; the air was no
longer balmy with odours; the birds sang for his ears no more; he
heard not, as of old, the wind-spirits whispering to each other in
the tree-tops;" and he sighed deeply as a half-consciousness of the
change disturbed his reverie. A footfall reached his ears, and,
looking up, he saw a neighbour approaching: a man somewhat past the
prime of life, who came toward him with a familiar smile, and, as he
offered his hand, said pleasantly--

"Good morning, Friend Markland."

"Ah! good morning, Mr. Allison," was returned with a forced
cheerfulness; "I am happy to meet you."

"And happy always, I may be permitted to hope," said Mr. Allison, as
his mild yet intelligent eyes rested on the face of his neighbour.

"I doubt," answered Mr. Markland, in a voice slightly depressed from
the tone in which he had first spoken, "whether that state ever
comes in this life."

"Happiness?" inquired the other.

"Perpetual happiness; nay, even momentary happiness."

"If the former comes not to any," said Mr. Allison, "the latter, I
doubt not, is daily enjoyed by thousands."

Mr. Markland shook his head, as he replied--

"Take my case, for instance; I speak of myself, because my thought
has been turning to myself; there are few elements of happiness that
I do not possess, and yet I cannot look back to the time when I was
happy."

"I hardly expected this from you, Mr. Markland," said the neighbour;
"to my observation, you always seemed one of the most cheerful of
men."

"I never was a misanthrope; I never was positively unhappy. No, I
have been too earnest a worker. But there is no disguising from
myself the fact, now I reflect upon it, that I have known but little
true enjoyment as I moved along my way through life."

"I must be permitted to believe," replied Mr. Allison, "that you are
not reading aright your past history. I have been something of an
observer of men and things, and my experience leads me to this
conclusion."

"He who has felt the pain, Mr. Allison, bears ever after the memory
of its existence."

"And the marks, too, if the pain has been as prolonged and severe as
your words indicate."

"But such marks, in your case, are not visible. That you have not
always found the pleasure anticipated--that you have looked
restlessly away from the present, longing for some other good than
that laid by the hand of a benignant Providence at your feet, I can
well believe; for this is my own history, as well as yours: it is
the history of all mankind."

"Now you strike the true chord, Mr. Allison. Now you state the
problem I have not skill to solve. Why is this?"

"Ah! if the world had skill to solve that problem," said the
neighbour, "it would be a wiser and happier world; but only to a few
is this given."

"What is the solution? Can you declare it?"

"I fear you would not believe the answer a true one. There is
nothing in it flattering to human nature; nothing that seems to give
the weary, selfish heart a pillow to rest upon. In most cases it has
a mocking sound."

"You have taught me more than one life-lesson, Mr. Allison. Speak
freely now. I will listen patiently, earnestly, looking for
instruction. Why are we so restless and dissatisfied in the present,
even though all of earthly good surrounds us, and ever looking far
away into the uncertain future for the good that never comes, or
that loses its brightest charms in possession?"

"Because," said the old man, speaking slowly, and with emphasis, "we
are mere self-seekers."

Mr. Markland had bent toward him, eager for the answer; but the
words fell coldly, and with scarce a ray of intelligence in them, on
his ears. He sighed faintly and leaned back in his seat, while a
look of disappointment shadowed his countenance.

"Can you understand," said Mr. Allison, "the proposition that man,
aggregated, as well as in the individual, is in the human form?"

Markland gazed inquiringly into the questioner's face. "In the human
form as to uses?" said Mr. Allison. "How as to uses?"

"Aggregate men into larger or smaller bodies, and, in the attainment
of ends proposed, you will find some directing, as the head, and
some executing, as the hands."

"True."

"Society, then, is only a man in a larger form. Now, there are
voluntary, as well as involuntary associations; the voluntary, such
as, from certain ends, individuals form one with another; the
involuntary, that of the common society in which we live. Let us
look for a moment at the voluntary association, and consider it as
man in a larger form. You see how all thought conspires to a single
end and how judgment speaks in a single voice. The very first act of
organization is to choose a head for direction, and hands to execute
the will of this larger man. And now mark well this fact: Efficient
action by this aggregated man depends wholly upon the unselfish
exercise by each part of its function for the good of the whole.
Defect and disorder arise the moment the head seeks power or
aggrandizement for itself, the hands work for their good alone, or
the feet strive to bear the body alone the paths they only wish to
tread. Disease follows, if the evil is not remedied; disease, the
sure precursor of dissolution. How disturbed and unhappy each member
of such an aggregated man must be, you can at once perceive.

"If it is so in the voluntary man of larger form, how can it be
different in the involuntary man, or the man of common society?"

"Of this great body you are a member. In it you are sustained, and
live by virtue of its wonderful organization. From the blood
circulating in its veins you obtain nutrition, and as its feet move
forward, you are borne onward in the general progression. From all
its active senses you receive pleasure or intelligence; and yet this
larger man of society is diseased--all see, all feel, all lament
this--fearfully diseased. It contains not a single member that does
not suffer pain. You are not exempt, favourable as is your position.
If you enjoy the good attained by the whole, you have yet to bear a
portion of the evil suffered by the whole. Let me add, that if you
find the cause of unhappiness in this larger man, you will find it
in yourself. Think! Where does it lie?"

"You have given me the clue," replied Mr. Markland, "in your picture
of the voluntarily aggregated man. In this involuntary man of common
society, to which, as you have said, we all bear relation as
members, each seeks his own good, regardless of the good of the
whole; and there is, therefore, a constant war among the members."

"And if not war, suffering," said Mr. Allison. "This man is
sustained by a community of uses among the members. In the degree
that each member performs his part well, is the whole body served;
and in the degree that each member neglects his work, does the whole
body suffer."

"If each worked for himself, all would be served," answered Mr.
Markland. "It is because so many will not work for themselves, that
so many are in want and suffering."

"In the very converse of this lies the true philosophy; and until
the world has learned the truth, disorder and unhappiness will
prevail. The eye does not see for itself, nor the ear hearken; the
feet do not walk, nor the hands labour for themselves; but each
freely, and from an affection for the use in which it is engaged,
serves the whole body, while every organ or member of the body
conspires to sustain it. See how beautifully the eyes direct the
hands, guiding them in every minute particular, while the heart
sends blood to sustain them in their labours, and the feet bear them
to the appointed place; and the hands work not for themselves, but
that the whole body may be nourished and clothed. Where each regards
the general good, each is best served. Can you not see this, Mr.
Markland?"

"I can, to a certain extent. The theory is beautiful, as applied to
your man of common society. But, unfortunately, it will not work in
practice. We must wait for the millennium."

"The millennium?"

"Yes, that good time coming, toward which the Christian world looks
with such a pleasing interest."

"A time to be ushered in by proclamation, I suppose?"

"How, and when, and where it is to begin, I am not advised," said'
Mr. Markham, smiling. "All Christians expect it; and many have set
the beginning thereof near about this time."

"What if it have begun already?"

"Already! Where is the sign, pray? It has certainly escaped my
observation. If the Lord had actually come to reign a thousand
years, surely the world would know it. In what favoured region has
he made his second advent?"

"Is it not possible that the Christian world may be in error as to
the manner of this second coming, that is to usher in the
millennium?"

"Yes, very. I don't see, that in all prophecy, there is any thing
definite on the subject."

"Nothing more definite than there was in regard to the first
coming?"

"No."

"And yet, while in their very midst, even though miracles were
wrought for them; the Jews did not know the promised Messiah."

"True."

"They expected a king in regal state, and an assumption of visible
power. They looked for marked political changes. And when the Lord
said to them, 'My kingdom is not of this world,' they denied and
rejected him. Now, is it not a possible case, that the present
generation, on this subject, may be no wiser than the Jews?"

"Not a very flattering conclusion," said Markland. "The age is
certainly more enlightened, and the world wiser and better than it
was two thousand years ago."

"And therefore," answered Mr. Allison, "the better prepared to
understand this higher truth, which it was impossible for the Jews
to comprehend, that the kingdom of God is within us."

"Within us!--within us!" Markland repeated the words two or three
times, as if there were in them gleams of light which had never
before dawned upon his mind.

"Of one thing you may be assured," said Mr. Allison, speaking with
some earnestness; "the millennium will commence only when men begin
to observe the Golden Rule. If there are any now living who in all
sincerity strive to repress their selfish inclinations, and seek the
good of others from genuine neighbourly love, then the millennium
has begun; and it will never be fully ushered in, until that law of
unselfish, reciprocal uses that rules in our physical man becomes
the law of common society."

"Are there any such?"

"Who seek the good of others from a genuine neighbourly love?"

"Yes."

"I believe so."

"Then you think the millennium has commenced?"

"I do."

"The beginning must be very small. The light hid under a bushel. Now
I have been led to expect that this light, whenever it came, would
be placed on a candlestick, to give light unto all in the house."

"May it not be shining? Nay, may there not be light in all the seven
golden candlesticks, without your eyes being attracted thereby?"

"I will not question your inference. It may all be possible. But
your words awaken in my mind but vague conceptions."

"The history of the world, as well as your own observation, will
tell you that all advances toward perfection are made with slow
steps. And further, that all changes in the character of a whole
people simply indicate the changes that have taken place in the
individuals who compose that people. The national character is but
its aggregated personal character. If the world is better now than
it was fifty years ago, it is because individual men and women are
becoming better--that is, less selfish, for in self-love lies the
germ of all evil. The Millennium must, therefore, begin with the
individual. And so, as it comes not by observation--or with a 'lo!
here, and lo! there'--men are not conscious of its presence. Yet be
assured, my friend, that the time is at hand; and that every one who
represses, through the higher power given to all who ask for it, the
promptings of self-love, and strives to act from a purified love of
the neighbour, is doing his part, in the only way he can do it,
toward hastening the time when the 'wolf also shall dwell with the
lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf, and the
young lion, and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead
them.'"

"Have we not wandered," said Mr. Markland, after a few moments of
thoughtful silence, "from the subject at first proposed?"

"I have said more than I intended," was answered, "but not, I think,
irrelevantly. If you are not happy, it is because, like an inflamed
organ in the human body, you are receiving more blood than is
applied to nutrition. As a part of the larger social man, you are
not using the skill you possess for the good of the whole. You are
looking for the millennium, but not doing your part toward hastening
its general advent. And now, Mr. Markland, if what I have said be
true, can you wonder at being the restless, dissatisfied man you
represent yourself to be?"

"If your premises be sound, your conclusions are true enough,"
answered Markland, with some coldness and abstraction of manner. The
doctrine was neither flattering to his reason, nor agreeable to his
feelings. He was too confirmed a lover of himself to receive
willingly teaching like this. A type of the mass around him, he was
content to look down the dim future for signs of the approaching
millennium, instead of into his own heart. He could give hundreds of
dollars in aid of missions to convert the heathen, and to bring in
the islands of the sea, as means of hastening the expected time; but
was not ready, as a surer means to this end, to repress a single
selfish impulse of his nature.

The conversation was still further prolonged, with but slight change
in the subject. At parting with his neighbour, Markland found
himself more disturbed than before. A sun ray had streamed suddenly
into the darkened chambers of his mind, disturbing the night birds
there, and dimly revealing an inner world of disorder, from which
his eyes vainly sought to turn themselves. If the mental disease
from which he was suffering had its origin in the causes indicated
by Mr. Allison, there seemed little hope of a cure in his case. How
was he, who all his life long had regarded himself, and those who
were of his own flesh and blood, as only to be thought of and cared
for, to forget himself, and seek, as the higher end of his
existence, the good of others? The thought created no quicker
heart-beat--threw no warmer tint on the ideal future toward which
his eyes of late had so fondly turned themselves. To live for others
and not for himself--this was to extinguish his very life. What were
others to him? All of his world was centred in his little
home-circle. Alas! that its power to fill the measure of his desires
was gone--its brightness dimmed--its attraction a binding-spell no
longer!

And so Markland strove to shut out from his mind the light shining
in through the little window opened by Mr. Allison; but the effort
was in vain. Steadily the light came in, disturbing the owls and
bats, and revealing dust, cankering mould, and spider-web
obstructions. All on the outside was fair to the world; and as fair,
he had believed, within. To be suddenly shown his error, smote him
with a painful sense of humiliation.

"What is the highest and noblest attribute of manhood?" Mr. Allison
had asked of him during their conversation.

Markland did not answer the question.

"The highest excellence--the greatest glory--the truest honour must
be in God," said the old man.

"All will admit that," returned Markland.

"Those, then, who are most like him, are most excellent--most
honourable."

"Yes."

"Love," continued Mr. Allison, "is the very essential nature of
God--not love of self, but love of creating and blessing others, out
of himself. Love of self is a monster; but love of others the
essential spirit of true manhood, and therefore its noblest
attribute."

Markland bowed his head, convicted in his own heart of having, all
his life long, been a self-worshipper; of having turned his eyes
away from the true type of all that was noble and excellent, and
striven to create something of his own that was excellent and
beautiful. But, alas! there was no life in the image; and already
its decaying elements were an offence in his nostrils.

"In the human body," said Mr. Allison, "as in the human soul when it
came pure from the hands of God, there is a likeness of the Creator.
Every organ and member, from the largest to the most hidden and
minute, bears this likeness, in its unselfish regard for the good of
the whole body. For, as we have seen, each, in its activity, has no
respect primarily to its own life. And it is because the human soul
has lost this likeness of its loving Creator, that it is so weak,
depraved, and unhappy. There must be the restored image, and
likeness, before there be the restored Eden."

The noblest type of manhood! Never in all his after life was Edward
Markland able to shut out this light of truth from his understanding.
It streamed through the little window, shining very dimly at times;
but always strong enough to show him that unselfish love was man's
highest attribute, and self-love a human monster.




CHAPTER V.


WHILE Mr. Markland was brooding over his own unhappy state, and
seeking to shut out the light shining too strongly in upon his real
quality of mind, Mrs. Markland was living, in some degree, the very
life that seemed so unattractive to him, and receiving her measure
of reward. While he wandered, with an unquiet spirit, over his
fields, or sat in cool retreats by plashing fountains, his thoughts
reaching forward to embrace the coming future, she was active in
works of love. Her chief desire was the good of her beloved ones,
and she devoted herself to this object with an almost entire
forgetfulness of self. Home was therefore the centre of her thoughts
and affections, but not the selfish centre: beyond that happy circle
often went out her thoughts, laden with kind wishes that died not
fruitless.

The family of Mr. Markland consisted of his wife, four children, and
a maiden sister--Grace Markland,--the latter by no means one of the
worst specimens of her class. With Agnes, in her seventh year, the
reader has already a slight acquaintance. Francis, the baby, was two
years old, and the pet of every one but Aunt Grace, who never did
like children. But he was so sweet a little fellow, that even the
stiff maiden would bend toward him now and then, conscious of a
warmer heart-beat. George, who boasted of being ten--quite an
advanced age, in his estimation--might almost be called a thorn in
the flesh to Aunt Grace, whose nice sense of propriety and decorum
he daily outraged by rudeness and want of order. George was boy all
over, and a strongly-marked specimen of his class--"as like his
father, when at his age, as one pea to another," Aunt Grace would
say, as certain memories of childhood presented themselves with more
than usual vividness. The boy was generally too much absorbed in his
own purposes to think about the peculiar claims to respect of age,
sex, or condition. Almost from the time he could toddle about the
carpeted floor, had Aunt Grace been trying to teach him what she
called manners. But he was never an apt scholar in her school. If he
mastered the A B C to-day, most probably on her attempt to advance
him to-morrow into his a-b ab's, he had wholly forgotten the
previous lesson. Poor Aunt Grace! She saw no hope for the boy. All
her labour was lost on him.

Fanny, the oldest child, just completing her seventeenth year, was
of fair complexion and delicate frame; strikingly beautiful, and as
pure in mind as she was lovely in person. All the higher traits of
womanhood that gave such a beauty to the mother's character were as
the unfolding bud in her. Every one loved Fanny, not even excepting
Aunt Grace, who rarely saw any thing in her niece that violated her
strict sense of propriety. Since the removal of the family to
Woodbine Lodge, the education of Fanny had been under the direction
of a highly accomplished governess. In consequence, she was quite
withdrawn from intercourse with young ladies of her own age. If,
from this cause, she was ignorant of many things transpiring in city
life, the purer atmosphere she daily breathed gave a higher moral
tone to her character. In all the sounder accomplishments Fanny
would bear favourable comparison with any; and as for grace of
person and refinement of manners, these were but the expression of
an inward sense of beauty.

As Fanny unfolded toward womanhood, putting forth, like an opening
blossom, some newer charms each day, the deep love of her parents
began to assume the character of jealous fear. They could not long
hide from other's eyes the treasure they possessed, and their hearts
grew faint at the thought of having it pass into other hands. But
very few years would glide away ere wooers would come, and seek to
charm her ears with songs sweeter than ever thrilled them in her own
happy home. And there would be a spell upon her spirit, so that she
could not help but listen. And, mayhap, the song that charmed her
most might come from unworthy lips. Such things had been, alas!

Thus it was with the family of Mr. Markland at the time of our
introduction to them. We have not described each individual with
minuteness, but sufficiently indicated to give them a place in the
reader's mind. The lights and shadows will be more strongly marked
hereafter.

The effect of Mr. Allison's conversation was, as has been seen, to
leave Markland in a still more dissatisfied state of mind. After
various fruitless efforts to get interested in what was around him,
and thus compel self-forgetfulness, he thought of some little matter
in the city that required his attention, and forthwith ordered the
carriage.

"I shall not be home till evening," he said, as he parted with his
wife.

During the day, Mrs. Markland paid another visit to the humble home
of Mrs. Elder, and ministered as well to her mental as to her bodily
wants. She made still closer inquiries about her daughter's family;
and especially touching the husband's character for industry,
intelligence, and trustworthiness. She had a purpose in this; for
the earnest desire expressed by Mrs. Elder to have her daughter with
her, had set Mrs. Markland to thinking about the ways and means of
effecting the wished-for object. The poor woman was made happier by
her visit.

It was near sundown when the carriage was observed approaching
through the long, shaded avenue. Mrs. Markland and all the children
stood in the porch, to welcome the husband and father, whose
absence, though even for the briefest period, left for their hearts
a diminished brightness. As the carriage drew nearer, it was seen to
contain two persons.

"There is some one with your father," said Mrs. Markland, speaking
to Fanny.

"A gentleman--I wonder who it can be?"

"Your Uncle George, probably."

"No; it isn't Uncle George," said Fanny, as the carriage reached the
oval in front of the house, and swept around towards the portico.
"It's a younger man; and he is dressed in black."

Further conjecture was suspended by the presence of the individual
in regard to whom they were in doubt. He was a stranger, and Mr.
Markland presented him as Mr. Lyon, son of an old and valued
business correspondent, residing in Liverpool. A cordial welcome
awaited Mr. Lyon at Woodbine Lodge, as it awaited all who were
introduced by the gentlemanly owner. If Mr. Markland thought well
enough of any one to present him at home, the home-circle opened
smilingly to receive.

The stranger was a young man, somewhere between the ages of
twenty-five and thirty; above the medium height; with a well-formed
person, well-balanced head, and handsome countenance. His mouth was
the least pleasing feature of his face. The lips were full, but too
firmly drawn back against his teeth. Eyes dark, large, and slightly
prominent, with great depth, but only occasional softness, of
expression. His was a face with much in it to attract, and something
to repel. A deep, rich voice, finely modulated, completed his
personal attractions.

It so happened that Mr. Lyon had arrived from New York that very
day, with letters to Mr. Markland. His intention was to remain only
until the next morning. The meeting with Mr. Markland was
accidental; and it was only after earnest persuasion that the young
man deferred his journey southward, and consented to spend a day or
two with the retired merchant, in his country home. Mr. Lyon was
liberally educated, bad travelled a good deal, and been a close
observer and thinker. He was, moreover, well read in human nature.
That he charmed the little circle at Woodbine Lodge on the first
evening of his visit there, is scarcely a matter of wonder. Nor was
he less charmed. Perhaps the only one not altogether pleased was
Aunt Grace. By habit a close reader of all who came within range of
her observation, she occupied quite as much time in scanning the
face of Mr. Lyon, and noting each varying expression of eyes, lips,
and voice, as in listening to his entertaining description of things
heard and seen.

"I don't just like him." Thus she soliloquized after she had retired
to her own room.' "He's deep--any one can see that--deep as the sea.
And he has a way of turning his eyes without turning his head that
don't please me exactly. Edward is wonderfully taken with him; but
he never looks very far below the surface. And Fanny--why the girl
seemed perfectly fascinated!"

And Aunt Grace shook her head ominously, as she added--

"He's handsome enough; but beauty's only skin-deep, and he may be as
black as Lucifer inside."

A greater part of the next day Mr. Markland and Mr. Lyon spent
alone, either in the library or seated in some one of the many shady
arbours and cool retreats scattered invitingly over the pleasant
estate. The stranger had found the mind of his host hungering for
new aliment, and as his own mind was full stored with thought and
purpose, he had but to speak to awaken interest. Among other things,
he gave Mr. Markland, a minute detail of certain plans for acquiring
an immense fortune, in the prosecution of which, in company with
some wealthy capitalists, he was now engaged. The result was sure;
for every step had been taken with the utmost cautions and every
calculation thrice verified.

"And what a dreaming idler I am here!" said Markland, half to
himself, in one of the conversational pauses, as there was presented
to his mind a vivid contrast of his fruitless inactivity with the
vigorous productive industry of others. "I half question, at times,
whether, in leaving the busy world, I did not commit a serious
error."

"Have you given up all interest in business?" asked Mr. Lyon.

"All."

"Ah!" with slight evidence of surprise. "How do you live?"

"The life of an oyster, I was going to say," replied Markland, with
a faint smile.

"I would die if not active. True enjoyment, a wise friend has often
said to me, is never found in repose, but in activity. To me a
palace would be a prison, if I could find nothing to do; while a
prison would be a palace, if mind and hands were fully employed."

"I lack the motive for renewed effort," said Markland. "Wealth
beyond my present possession I do not desire. I have more than
enough safely invested to give me every comfort and luxury through
life."

"But your children?" remarked the guest.

"Will have ample provision."

"There is another motive."

"What?"

"Money is power."

"True."

"And by its proper use a man may elevate himself into almost any
position. It is the lever that moves the world."

Markland only shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"Have you no ambition?" inquired the other, in a familiar way.

"Ambition!" The question awakened surprise.

"To stand out prominently in the world's eye, no matter for what, so
the distinction be honourable," said Mr. Lyon. "Of the thousands and
tens of thousands who toil up the steep and often rugged paths to
wealth, and attain the desired eminence, how few are ever heard of
beyond the small community in which they live! Some of these, to
perpetuate a name, establish at death some showy charity, and thus
build for themselves a monument not overshadowed by statelier
mausoleums amid the rivalries of a fashionable cemetery. Pah! All
this ranges far below my aspiring. I wish to make a name while
living. Wealth in itself is only a toy. No true man can find
pleasure in its mere glitter for a day. It is only the miser who
loves gold for its own sake, and sees nothing beautiful or desirable
except the yellow earth he hoards in his coffers. Have you found
happiness in the mere possession of wealth?"

"Not in its _mere_ possession," was answered.

"Nor even in its lavish expenditure?"

"I have great pleasure in using it for the attainment of my wishes,"
said Mr. Markland.

"The narrower the bound of our wishes, the quicker comes their
consummation, and then all is restlessness again, until we enter
upon a new pursuit."

"Truly spoken."

"Is it not wise, then, to give a wide sweep to our aspirations? to
lift the ideal of our life to a high position; so that, in its
attainment, every latent power may be developed? Depend upon it, Mr.
Markland, we may become what we will; and I, for one, mean to become
something more than a mere money-getter and money-saver. But first
the money-getting, as a means to an end. To that every energy must
now be devoted."

Mr. Lyon's purpose was to interest Mr. Markland, and he was entirely
successful. He drew for him various attractive pictures, and in the
contemplation of each, as it stood vividly before him, the retired
merchant saw much to win his ardent admiration. Very gradually, and
very adroitly, seeming all the while as if he had not the slightest
purpose to interest Mr. Markland in that particular direction, did
Mr. Lyon create in his mind a strong confidence in the enlarged
schemes for obtaining immense wealth in which he was now engaged.
And the tempter was equally successful in his efforts to awaken a
desire in Mr. Markland to have his name stand out prominently, as
one who had shown remarkable public spirit and great boldness in the
prosecution of a difficult enterprise.

One, two, three days went by, and still Mr. Lyon was a lingerer at
Woodbine Lodge; and during most of that time he was alone and in
earnest conference with Mr. Markland. The evenings were always
pleasant seasons in the family circle. Fanny's voice had been well
cultivated, and she sung with fine taste; and as Mr. Lyon was also a
lover of music, and played and sung exquisitely, the two very
naturally spent a portion of their time at the piano. If it crossed
the father's mind that an attachment might spring up between them,
it did not disturb his feelings.

At the end of a week Mr. Lyon found it necessary to tear himself
away from the little paradise into which he had been so unexpectedly
introduced. Every day that he lingered there diminished the ardour
of his ambition, or robbed of some charm the bright ideal he had
worshipped. And so he broke the silken bonds that wove themselves
around him, at first light as gossamer, but now strong as twisted
cords.

Mr. Markland accompanied him to the city, and did not return home
until late in the evening. He was then much occupied with his own
thoughts, and entered but little into conversation. Fanny was
absent-minded, a fact that did not escape the mother's observation.
Aunt Grace noted the change which the stranger's coming and
departure had occasioned, and, shaking her wise head, spoke thus
within herself--

"He may be very handsome, but he casts a shadow, for all that. I
don't see what Edward was thinking about. He'd better let Fanny go
right into the world, where she can see dozens of handsome young
men, and contrast one with another, than hide her away here, until
some attractive young Lucifer comes along--a very Son of the
Morning! How can the girl help falling in love, if she sees but one
man, and he elegant, accomplished, handsome, and full of winning
ways, even though his hidden heart be black with selfishness?"

But Aunt Grace always looked at the shadowy side. Even if the sun
shone bright above, she thought of the clouds that were gathering
somewhere, and destined ere long to darken the whole horizon.

On the day following, Mr. Markland went again to the city, and was
gone until late in the evening. His mind was as much occupied as on
the evening previous, and he spent the hours from tea-time until
eleven o'clock in the library, writing. If Mrs. Markland did not
appear to notice any change in her husband since Mr. Lyon came to
Woodbine Lodge, it was not that the change had escaped her. No--she
was too deeply interested in all that concerned him to fail in
noting every new aspect of thought or feeling. He had said nothing
of awakened purpose, quickened into activity by long conferences
with his guest, but she saw that such purposes were forming. Of
their nature she was in entire ignorance. That they would still
further estrange him from Woodbine Lodge, she had too good reason,
in a knowledge of his character, to fear. With him, whatever became
a pursuit absorbed all others; and he looked to the end with a
visions so intent, that all else was seen in obscurity. And so, with
a repressed sigh, this gentle, true-hearted, loving woman, whose
thought rarely turned in upon herself, awaited patiently the time
when her husband would open to her what was in his thoughts. And the
time, she knew, was not distant.




CHAPTER VI.


BEFORE Mr. Lyon's visit to Woodbine Lodge, Mr. Markland rarely went
to the city. Now, scarcely a day passed that he did not order his
carriage immediately after breakfast; and he rarely came back until
nightfall. "Some matters of business," he would answer to the
questions of his family; but he gave no intimation as to the nature
of the business, and evidently did not care to be inquired of too
closely.

"What's come over Edward? He isn't the same man that he was a month
ago," said Miss Grace, as she stood in the portico, beside Mrs.
Markland, one morning, looking after the carriage which was bearing
her brother off to the city. There had been a hurried parting with
Mr. Markland, who seemed more absorbed than usual in his own
thoughts.

Mrs. Markland sighed faintly, but made no answer.

"I wonder what takes him off to town, post-haste, every day?"

"Business, I suppose," was the half-absent remark.

"Business! What kind of business, I'd like to know?"

"Edward has not informed me as to that," quietly answered Mrs.
Markland.

"Indeed!" a little querulously. "Why don't you ask him?"

"I am not over-anxious on the subject. If he has any thing to
confide to me, he will do it in his own good time."

"Oh! you're too patient." The tone and manner of Miss Grace showed
that she, at least, was not overstocked with the virtue.

"Why should I be impatient?"

"Why? Goodness me! Do you suppose that if I had a husband--and it's
a blessed thing for me that I haven't--that I'd see him going off,
day after day, with lips sealed like an oyster, and remain as
patient as a pet lamb tied with a blue ribbon? Oh dear! no! Grace
Markland's made of warmer stuff than that. I like people who talk
right out. _I_ always do. Then you know where to place them. But
Edward always had a hidden way about him."

"Oh, no, Grace; I will not agree to that for a moment," said Mrs.
Markland.

"Won't you, indeed! I'm his sister, and ought to know something
about him."

"And I'm his wife," was the gentle response to this.

"I know you are, and a deal too good for him--the provoking man!"
said Grace, in her off-hand way, drawing her arm within that of Mrs.
Markland, to whom she was strongly attached. "And that's what riles
me up so."

"Why, you're in a strange humour, Grace! Edward has done nothing at
which I can complain."

"He hasn't, indeed?"

"No."

"I'd like to know what he means by posting off to the city every day
for a week at a stretch, and never so much as breathing to his wife
the purpose of his visits?"

"Business. He said that business required his attention."

"What business?"

"As to that, he did not think it necessary to advise me. Men do not
always explain business matters to their wives. One-half would not
understand what they were talking about, and the other half would
take little interest in the subject."

"A compliment to wives, certainly!" said Grace Markland, with a
rather proud toss of her head. "One of your lords of creation would
find different stuff in me. But I'm not satisfied with Edward's
goings on, if you are, Agnes. It's my opinion that your Mr. Lee Lyon
is at the bottom of all this."

A slight shade dimmed the face of Mrs. Markland. She did not reply;
but looked, with a more earnest expression, at her sister-in-law.

"Yes--your Mr. Lee Lyon." Grace was warming again. "He's one of your
men that cast shadows wherever they go. I felt it the moment his
foot crossed our threshold--didn't you?"

Grace gave thought and words to what, with Mrs. Markland, had only
been a vague impression. She had felt the shadow of his presence
without really perceiving from whence the shadow came. Pausing only
a moment for an answer to her query, Grace went on:--

"Mr. Lyon is at the bottom of all this, take my word for it; and if
he doesn't get Edward into trouble before he's done with him, my
name's not Grace Markland."

"Trouble! What do you mean, Grace?" Another shade of anxiety flitted
over the countenance of Mrs. Markland.

"Don't you suppose that Edward's going to town every day has
something to do with this Mr. Lyon?"

"Mr. Lyon went South nearly two weeks ago," was answered.

"That doesn't signify. He's a schemer and an adventurer--I could see
it in every lineament of his face--and, there's not a shadow of
doubt in my mind, has got Edward interested in some of his doings.
Why, isn't it as plain as daylight? Were not he and Edward
all-absorbed about something while he was here? Didn't he remain a
week when he had to be urged, at first, to stay a single day? And
hasn't Edward been a different man since he left, from what he was
before he came?"

"Your imagination is too active, Grace," Mrs. Markland replied, with
a faint smile. "I don't see any necessary connection between Mr.
Lyon and the business that requires Edward's attention in the city.
The truth is, Edward has grown weary of an idle life, and I shall
not at all regret his attention to some pursuit that will occupy his
thoughts. No man, with his mental and bodily powers in full vigour,
should be inactive."

"That will altogether depend on the direction his mind takes," said
Grace.

"Of course. And I do not see any good reason you have for intimating
that in the present case the right direction has not been taken."
There was just perceptible a touch of indignation in the voice of
Mrs. Markland, which, being perceived by Grace, brought the
sententious remark,--

"Fore-warned, fore-armed. If my suspicion is baseless, no one is
injured."

Just then, Fanny, the oldest daughter, returned from a short walk,
and passed her mother and aunt on the portico, without looking up or
speaking. There was an air of absent-mindedness about her.

"I don't know what has come over Fanny," said Mrs. Markland. "She
isn't at all like herself." And as she uttered these words, not
meaning them for other ears than her own, she followed her daughter
into the house.

"Don't know what's come over Fanny!" said Aunt Grace to herself, as
she moved up and down the vine-wreathed portico--"well, well,--some
people _are_ blind. This is like laying a block in a man's way, and
wondering that he should fall down. Don't know what's come over
Fanny? Dear! dear!"

Enough had been said by her sister-in-law to give direction to the
vague anxieties awakened in the mind of Mrs. Markland by the recent
deportment of her husband. He was not only absent in the city every
day, but his mind was so fully occupied when at home, that he took
little interest in the family circle. Sometimes he remained alone in
the library until a late hour at night; and his sleep, when he did
retire, was not sound; a fact but too well known to his wakeful
partner.

All through this day there was an unusual pressure on the feelings
of Mrs. Markland. When she inquired of herself as to the cause, she
tried to be satisfied with assigning it wholly to the remarks of her
sister-in-law, and not to any really existing source of anxiety. But
in this she was far from being successful; and the weight continued
to grow heavier as the hours moved on. Earlier than she had expected
its return, the carriage was announced, and Mrs. Markland, with a
suddenly-lightened heart, went tripping over the lawn to meet her
husband at the outer gate. "Where is Mr. Markland?" she exclaimed,
growing slightly pale, on reaching the carriage, and seeing that it
was empty.

"Gone to New York," answered the coachman, at the same time handing
a letter.

"To New York! When did he go?" Mrs. Markland's thoughts were thrown
into sudden confusion.

"He went at five o'clock, on business. Said he must be there
to-morrow morning. But he'll tell you all about it in the letter,
ma'am."

Recovering herself, Mrs. Markland stepped from the side of the
carriage, and as it passed on, she broke the seal of her letter,
which she found to contain one for Fanny, directed in a hand with
which she was not familiar.

"A letter for you, dear," she said; for Fanny was now by her side.

"Who is it from? Where is father?" asked Fanny in the same breath.

"Your father has gone to New York," said Mrs. Markland, with forced
composure.

Fanny needed no reply to the first question; her heart had already
given the answer. With a flushed cheek and quickening pulse, she
bounded away from her mother's side, and returning into the house,
sought the retirement of her own chamber.

"Dear Agnes,"--so ran the note of Mr. Markland to his wife,--"I know
that you will be surprised and disappointed at receiving only a
letter, instead of your husband. But some matters in New York
require my attention, and I go on by the evening train, to return
day after to-morrow. I engaged to transact some important business
for Mr. Lyon, when he left for the South, and in pursuance of this,
I am now going away. In a letter received from Mr. Lyon, to-day, was
one for Fanny. I do not know its contents. Use your own discretion
about giving it to her. You will find it enclosed. My mind has been
so much occupied to-day, that I could not give the subject the
serious consideration it requires. I leave it with you, having more
faith in your intuitions than in my own judgment. He did not hint,
even remotely, at a correspondence with Fanny, when he left; nor has
he mentioned the fact of enclosing a letter for her in the one
received from him to-day. Thus, delicately, has he left the matter
in our hands. Perhaps you had better retain the letter until I
return. We can then digest the subject more thoroughly. But, in
order to furnish your mind some basis to rest upon, I will say, that
during the time Mr. Lyon was here I observed him very closely; and
that every thing about him gave me the impression of a pure,
high-minded, honourable man. Such is the testimony borne in his
favour by letters from men of standing in England, by whom he is
trusted with large interests. I do not think an evidence of
prepossession for our daughter, on his part, need occasion anxiety,
but rather pleasure. Of course, she is too young to leave the
home-nest for two or three years yet. But time is pressing, and my
mind is in no condition, just now, to think clearly on a subject
involving such important results. I think, however, that you had
better keep the letter until my return. It will be the most prudent
course."

Keep the letter! Its contents were already in the heart of Fanny!

"Where's Edward? What's the matter?" queried Aunt Grace, coming up
at this moment, and seeing that all colour had left the cheeks of
Mrs. Markland.

Scarcely reflecting on what she did, the latter handed her husband's
letter in silence to her sister-in-law, and tottered, rather than
walked, to a garden chair near at hand.

"Well, now, here is pretty business, upon my word!" exclaimed Aunt
Grace, warmly. "Sending a letter to our Fanny! Who ever heard of
such assurance! Oh! I knew that some trouble would come of his visit
here. I felt it the moment I set my eyes on him. Keep the letter
from Fanny? Of course you will; and when you have a talk with Edward
about it, just let me be there; I want my say."

"It is too late," murmured the unhappy mother, in a low, sad voice.

"Too late! How? What do you mean, Agnes?"

"Fanny has the letter already."

"What!" There was a sharp, thrusting rebuke in the voice of Aunt
Grace, that seemed like a sword in the heart of Mrs. Markland.

"She stood by me when I opened her father's letter, enclosing the
one for her. I did not dream from whence it came, and handed it to
her without a thought."

"Agnes! Agnes! What have you done?" exclaimed Aunt Grace, in a
troubled voice.

"Nothing for which I need reproach myself," said Mrs. Markland, now
grown calmer. "Had the discretion been left with me, I should not
have given Fanny the letter until Edward returned. But it passed to
her hands through no will of mine. With the Great Controller of
events it must now be left."

"Oh dear! Don't talk about the Controller of events in a case of
this kind. Wise people control such things through the wisdom given
them. I always think of Jupiter and the wagoner, when I hear any one
going on this way."

Aunt Grace was excited. She usually was when she thought earnestly.
But her warmth of word and manner rarely disturbed Mrs. Markland,
who knew her thoroughly, and valued her for her good qualities and
strong attachment to the family. No answer was made, and Aunt Grace
added, in a slightly changed voice,--

"I don't know that you are so much to blame, Agnes, seeing that
Fanny saw the letter, and that you were ignorant of its contents.
But Edward might have known that something like this would happen.
Why didn't he put the letter into his pocket, and keep it until he
came home? He seems to have lost his common sense. And then he must
go off into that rigmarole about Mr. Lyon, and try to make him out a
saint, as if to encourage you to give his letter to Fanny. I've no
patience with him! Mr. Lyon, indeed! If he doesn't have a
heart-scald of him before he's done with him, I'm no prophet.
Important business for Mr. Lyon! Why didn't Mr. Lyon attend to his
own business when he was in New York? Oh! I can see through it all,
as clear as daylight. He's got his own ends to gain through Edward,
who is blind and weak enough to be led by him."

"Hasty in judgment as ever," said Mrs. Markland, with a subdued,
resigned manner, as she arose and commenced moving toward the house,
her sister-in-law walking by her side,--"and quick to decide upon
character. But neither men nor women are to be read at a glance."

"So much the more reason for holding strangers at arms' length,"
returned Aunt Grace.

But Mrs. Markland felt in no mood for argument on so fruitless a
subject. On entering the house, she passed to her own private
apartment, there to commune with herself alone.




CHAPTER VII.


ONLY a few minutes had Mrs. Markland been in her room, when the door
opened quietly, and Fanny's light foot-fall was in her ears. She did
not look up; but her heart beat with a quicker motion, and her
breath was half-suspended.

"Mother!"

She lifted her bowed head, and met the soft, clear eyes of her
daughter looking calmly down into her own.

"Fanny, dear!" she said, in half-surprise, as she placed an arm
around her, and drew her closely to her side.

An open letter was in Fanny's hand, and she held it toward her
mother. There was a warmer hue upon her face, as she said,--

"It is from Mr. Lyon."

"Shall I read it?" inquired Mrs. Markland.

"I have brought it for you to read," was the daughter's answer.

The letter was brief:


"To MISS FANNY MARKLAND:

"As I am now writing to your father, I must fulfil a half promise,
made during my sojourn at Woodbine Lodge, to write to you also.
Pleasant days were those to me, and they will ever make a green spot
in my memory. What a little paradise enshrines you! Art, hand in
hand with Nature, have made a world of beauty for you to dwell in.
Yet, all is but a type of moral beauty--and its true enjoyment is
only for those whose souls are attuned to deeper harmonies.

"Since leaving Woodbine Lodge, my thoughts have acquired a double
current. They run backward as well as forward. The true hospitality
of your manly-hearted father; the kind welcome to a stranger, given
so cordially by your gentle, good mother; and your own graceful
courtesy, toward one in whom you had no personal interest,
charmed--nay, touched me with a sense of gratitude. To forget all
this would be to change my nature. Nor can I shut out the image of
Aunt Grace, so reserved but lady-like in her deportment; yet close
in observation and quick to read character. I fear I did not make a
good impression on her--but she may know me better one of these
days. Make to her my very sincere regards.

"And now, what more shall I say? A first letter to a young lady is
usually a thing of shreds and patches, made up of sentences that
might come in almost any other connection; and mine is no exception
to the rule. I do not ask an answer; yet I will say, that I know
nothing that would give me more pleasure than such a favour from
your hand.

"Remember me in all kindness and esteem to your excellent parents.

"Sincerely yours,
LEE LYON."


The deep breath taken by Mrs. Markland was one of relief. And yet,
there was something in the letter that left her mind in uncertainty
as to the real intentions of Mr. Lyon. Regret that he should have
written at all mingled with certain pleasing emotions awakened by
the graceful compliments of their late guest.

"It's a beautiful letter, isn't it, mother?"

"Yes, love," was answered almost without reflection.

Fanny re-folded the letter, with the care of one who was handling
something precious.

"Shall I answer it?" she inquired.

"Not now. We must think about that. You are too young to enter into
correspondence with a gentleman--especially with one about whom we
know so little. Before his brief visit to Woodbine Lodge, we had
never so much as heard of Mr. Lyon."

A slight shade of disappointment crossed the bright young face of
Fanny Markland--not unobserved by her mother.

"It would seem rude, were I to take no notice of the letter
whatever," said she, after reflecting a moment.

"Your father can acknowledge the receipt for you, when he writes to
Mr. Lyon."

"But would that do?" asked Fanny, in evident doubt.

"O yes, and is, in my view, the only right course. We know but
little, if any thing, about Mr. Lyon. If he should not be a true
man, there is no telling how much you might suffer in the estimation
of right-minded people, by his representation that you were in
correspondence with him. A young girl can never be too guarded, on
this point. If Mr. Lyon is a man worthy of your respect, he will be
disappointed in you, if he receive an answer to his letter, under
your own hand."

"Why, mother? Does he not say that he knows of nothing that would
give him more pleasure than to receive an answer from me?" Fanny
spoke with animation.

"True, my child, and that part of his letter I like least of all."

"Why so?" inquired the daughter.

"Have you not gathered the answer to your own question from what I
have already said? A true man, who had a genuine respect for a young
lady, would not desire, on so slight an acquaintance, to draw her
into a correspondence; therefore the fact that Mr. Lyon half invites
you to a correspondence, causes doubts to arise in my mind. His
sending you a letter at all, when he is yet to us almost an entire
stranger, I cannot but regard as a breach of the hospitalities
extended to him."

"Is not that a harsh judgment?" said Fanny, a warmer hue mantling
her face.

"Reflect calmly, my child, and you will not think so."

"Then I ought not to answer this letter?" said Fanny, after musing
for some time.

"Let your father, in one of his letters, acknowledge the receipt for
you. If Mr. Lyon be a true man, he will respect you the more."

Not entirely satisfied, though she gave no intimation of this, Fanny
returned to the seclusion of her own room, to muse on so unexpected
a circumstance; and as she mused, the beating of her heart grew
quicker. Again she read the letter from Mr. Lyon, and again and
again conned it over, until every sentence was imprinted on her
memory. She did not reject the view taken by her mother; nay, she
even tried to make it her own; but, for all this, not the shadow of
a doubt touching Mr. Lyon could find a place in her thoughts. Before
her mental vision he stood, the very type of noble manhood.




CHAPTER VIII.


WHAT an error had been committed! How painfully was this realized by
Mrs. Markland. How often had she looked forward, with a vague
feeling of anxiety, to the time, yet far distant--she had
believed--when the heart-strings of her daughter would tremble in
musical response to the low-breathed voice of love--and now that
time had come. Alas! that it had come so soon--ere thought and
perception had gained matured strength and wise discrimination. The
voice of the charmer was in her ears, and she was leaning to
hearken.

Fanny did not join the family at the tea-table on that evening; and
on the next morning, when she met her mother, her face was paler
than usual, and her eyes drooped under the earnest gaze that sought
to read her very thoughts. It was plain, from her appearance, that
her sleep had been neither sound nor refreshing.

Mrs. Markland deemed it wisest to make no allusion to what had
occurred on the previous evening. Her views in regard to answering
Mr. Lyon's letter had been clearly expressed, and she had no fear
that her daughter would act in opposition to them. Most anxiously
did she await her husband's return. Thus far in life they had, in
all important events, "seen eye to eye," and she had ever reposed
full confidence in his judgment. If that confidence wavered in any
degree now, it had been disturbed through his seeming entire trust
in Mr. Lyon.

Aunt Grace had her share of curiosity, and she was dying, as they
say, to know what was in Fanny's letter. The non-appearance of her
niece at the tea-table had disappointed her considerably; and it was
as much as she could do to keep from going to her room during the
evening. Sundry times she tried to discover whether Mrs. Markland
had seen the letter or, not, but the efforts were unsuccessful; the
mother choosing for the present not to enter into further
conversation with her on the subject.

All eye and all ear was Aunt Grace on the next morning, when Fanny
made her appearance; but only through the eye was any information
gathered, and that of a most unsatisfactory character. The little
said by Fanny or her mother, was as a remote as possible from the
subject that occupied most nearly their thoughts. Aunt Grace tried
in various ways to lead them in the direction she would have them
go; but it was all in vain that she asked questions touching the
return of her brother, and wondered what could have taken him off to
New York in such a hurry; no one made any satisfactory reply. At
last, feeling a little chafed, and, at the same time, a little
malicious, she said--

"That Mr. Lyon's at the bottom of this business."

The sentence told, as she had expected and intended. Fanny glanced
quickly toward her, and a crimson spot burned on her cheek. But no
word passed her lips. "So much gained," thought Aunt Grace; and then
she said aloud--

"I've no faith in the man myself."

This, she believed, would throw Fanny off of her guard; but she was
mistaken. The colour deepened on the young girl's cheeks, but she
made no response.

"If he doesn't get Edward into trouble before he's done with him,
I'm no prophet," added Aunt Grace, with a dash of vinegar in her
tones.

"Why do you say that?" asked Mrs. Markland, who felt constrained to
speak.

"I've no opinion of the man, and never had from the beginning, as
you are very well aware," answered the sister-in-law.

"Our estimate of character should have a sounder basis than mere
opinion, or, to speak more accurately--prejudice," said Mrs.
Markland.

"I don't know what eyes were given us for, if we are not to see with
them," returned Aunt Grace, dogmatically. "But no wonder so many
stumble and fall, when so few use their eyes. There isn't that man
living who does not bear, stamped upon his face, the symbols of his
character. And plainly enough are these to be seen in the
countenance of Mr. Lyon."

"And how do you read them, Aunt Grace?" inquired Fanny, with a
manner so passionless, that even the sharp-sighted aunt was deceived
in regard to the amount of feeling that lay hidden in her heart.

"How do I read them? I'll tell you. I read them as the index to a
whole volume of scheming selfishness. The man is unsound at the
core." Aunt Grace was tempted by the unruffled exterior of her niece
to speak thus strongly. Her words went deeper than she had expected.
Fanny's face crimsoned instantly to the very temples, and an
indignant light flashed in her soft blue eyes.

"Objects often take their colour from the medium through which we
see them," she said quickly, and in a voice considerably disturbed,
looking, as she spoke, steadily and meaningly at her aunt.

"And so you think the hue is in the medium, and not in the object?"
said Aunt Grace, her tone a little modified.

"In the present instance, I certainly do," answered Fanny, with some
ardour.

"Ah, child! child!" returned her aunt, "this may be quite as true in
your case as in mine. Neither of us may see the object in its true
colour. You will, at least, admit this to be possible."

"Oh, yes."

"And suppose you see it in a false colour?"

"Well?" Fanny seemed a little bewildered.

"Well? And what then?" Aunt Grace gazed steadily upon the
countenance of Fanny, until her eyes drooped to the floor. "To whom
is it of most consequence to see aright?"

Sharp-seeing, but not wise Aunt Grace! In the blindness of thy
anxiety for Fanny, thou art increasing her peril. What need for thee
to assume for the maiden, far too young yet to have the deeper
chords of womanhood awakened in her heart to love's music, that the
evil or good in the stranger's character might be any thing to her?

"You talk very strangely, Grace," said Mrs. Markland, with just
enough of rebuke in her voice to make her sister-in-law conscious
that she was going too far. "Perhaps we had better change the
subject," she added, after the pause of a few moments.

"As you like," coldly returned Aunt Grace, who soon after left the
room, feeling by no means well satisfied with herself or anybody
else. Not a word had been said to her touching the contents of
Fanny's letter, and in that fact was indicated a want of confidence
that considerably annoyed her. She had not, certainly, gone just the
right way about inviting confidence; but this defect in her own
conduct was not seen very clearly.

A constrained reserve marked the intercourse of mother, daughter,
and aunt during the day; and when night came, and the evening circle
was formed as usual, how dimly burned the hearth-fire, and how
sombre were the shadows cast by its flickering blaze! Early they
separated, each with a strange pressure on the feelings, and a deep
disquietude of heart.

Most of the succeeding day Fanny kept apart from the family;
spending a greater portion of the time alone in her room. Once or
twice it crossed the mother's thought, that Fanny might be tempted
to answer the letter of Mr. Lyon, notwithstanding her promise not to
do so for the present. But she repelled the thought instantly, as
unjust to her beautiful, loving, obedient child. Still, Fanny's
seclusion of herself weighed on her mind, and led her several times
to go into her room. Nothing, either in her manner or employment,
gave the least confirmation to the vague fear which had haunted her.

The sun was nearly two hours above the horizon, when Fanny left the
house, and bent her steps towards a pleasant grove of trees that
stood some distance away. In the midst of the grove, which was not
far from the entrance-gate to her father's beautiful grounds, was a
summer-house, in Oriental style, close beside an ornamental
fountain. This was the favourite resort of the maiden, and thither
she now retired, feeling certain of complete seclusion, to lose
herself in the bewildering mazes of love's young dream. Before the
eyes of her mind, one form stood visible, and that a form of manly
grace and beauty,--the very embodiment of all human excellence. The
disparaging words of her aunt had, like friction upon a polished
surface, only made brighter to her vision the form which the other
had sought to blacken. What a new existence seemed opening before
her, with new and higher capacities for enjoyment! The half-closed
bud had suddenly unfolded itself in the summer air, and every
blushing petal thrilled with a more exquisite sense of life.

Every aspect of nature--and all her aspects were beautiful
there--had a new charm for the eyes of Fanny Markland. The silvery
waters cast upward by the fountain fell back in rainbow showers,
ruffling the tiny lake beneath, and filling the air with a low,
dreamy murmur. Never had that lovely creation of art, blending with
nature, looked so like an ideal thing as now--a very growth of
fairy-land. The play of the waters in the air was as the glad
motions of a living form.

Around this fountain was a rosary of white and red roses, encircled
again by arbor-vitae; and there were statues of choice workmanship,
the ideals of modern art, lifting their pure white forms here and
there in chastened loveliness. All this was shut in from observation
by a stately grove of elms. And here it was that the maiden had come
to hide herself from observation, and dream her waking dream of
love. What a world of enchantment was dimly opening before her, as
her eye ran down the Eden-vistas of the future! Along those aisles
of life she saw herself moving, beside a stately one, who leaned
toward her, while she clung to him as a vine to its firm support.
Even while in the mazes of this delicious dream, a heavy footfall
startled her, and she sprang to her feet with a suddenly-stilled
pulsation. In the next instant a manly form filled the door of the
summer-house, and a manly voice exclaimed:

"Miss Markland! Fanny! do I find you here?"

The colour left the maiden's cheeks for an instant. Then they
flushed to deep crimson. But her lips were sealed. Surprise took
away, for a time, the power of speech.

"I turned aside," said the intruder, "as I came up the avenue, to
have a look at this charming spot, so well remembered; but dreamed
not of finding you here."

He had already approached Fanny, and was holding one of her hands
tightly in his, while he gazed upon her face with a look of glowing
admiration.

"Oh, Mr. Lyon! How you have startled me!" said Fanny, as soon as she
could command her voice.

"And how you tremble! There, sit down again, Miss Markland, and calm
yourself. Had I known you were here, I should not have approached so
abruptly. But how have you been since my brief absence? And how is
your good father and mother?"

"Father is in New York," replied Fanny.

"In New York! I feared as much." And a slight shade crossed the face
of Mr. Lyon, who spoke as if off of his guard. "When did he go?"

"Yesterday."

"Ah! Did he receive a letter from me?"

"Yes, sir." Fanny's eyes drooped under the earnest gaze that was
fixed upon her.

"I hoped to have reached here as soon as my letter. This is a little
unfortunate." The aspect of Mr. Lyon became grave.

"When will your father return?" he inquired.

"I do not know."

Again Mr. Lyon looked serious and thoughtful. For some moments he
remained abstracted; and Fanny experienced a slight feeling of
timidity, as she looked upon his shadowed face. Arousing himself, he
said:

"This being the case, I shall at once return South."

"Not until to-morrow," said Fanny.

"This very night," answered Mr. Lyon.

"Then let us go to the Lodge at once," and Fanny made a motion to
rise. "My mother will be gratified to see you, if it is only for a
few moments."

But Mr. Lyon placed a hand upon her arm, and said:

"Stay, Miss Markland--that cannot now be. I must return South
without meeting any other member of your family. Did you receive my
letter?" he added, abruptly, and with a change of tone and manner.

Fanny answered affirmatively; and his quick eye read her heart in
voice and countenance.

"When I wrote, I had no thought of meeting you again so soon. But a
few hours after despatching the letter to your father, enclosing
yours--a letter on business of importance, to me, at least--I
received information that led me to wish an entire change in the
programme of operations about to be adopted, through your father's
agency. Fearing that a second letter might be delayed in the mails,
I deemed it wisest to come on with the greatest speed myself. But I
find that I am a day too late. Your father has acted promptly; and
what he has done must not be undone. Nay, I do not wish him even to
know that any change has been contemplated. Now, Miss Markland," and
his voice softened as he bent toward the girlish form at his side,
"may one so recently a stranger claim your confidence?"

"From my father and my mother I have no concealments," said Fanny.

"And heaven forbid that I should seek to mar that truly wise
confidence," quickly answered Mr. Lyon. "All I ask is, that, for the
present, you mention to no one the fact that I have been here. Our
meeting in this place is purely accidental--providential, I will
rather say. My purpose in coming was, as already explained, to meet
your father. He is away, and on business that at once sets aside all
necessity for seeing him. It will now be much better that he should
not even know of my return from the South--better for me, I mean;
for the interests that might suffer are mine alone. But let me
explain a little, that you may act understandingly. When I went
South, your father very kindly consented to transact certain
business left unfinished by me in New York. Letters received on my
arrival at Savannah, advised me of the state of the business, and I
wrote to your father, in what way to arrange it for me; by the next
mail other letters came, showing me different aspect of affairs and
rendering a change of plan very desirable. It was to explain this
fully to your father, that I came on. But as it is too late, I do
not wish him even to know, for the present, that a change was
contemplated. I fear it might lessen, for a time, his confidence in
my judgment--something I do not fear when he knows me better. Your
since, for the present, my dear Miss Markland, will nothing affect
your father, who has little or no personal interest in the matter,
but may serve me materially. Say, then, that, until you hear from me
again, on the subject, you will keep your own counsel."

"You say that my father has no interest in the business, to which
you refer?" remarked Fanny. Her mind was bewildered.

"None whatever. He is only, out of a generous good-will, trying to
serve the son of an old business friend," replied Mr. Lyon,
confidently. "Say, then, Fanny,"--his voice was insinuating, and
there was something of the serpent's fascination in his eyes--"that
you will, for my sake, remain, for the present, silent on the
subject of this return from the South."

As he spoke, he raised one of her hands to his lips, and kissed it.
Still more bewildered--nay, charmed--Fanny did not make even a faint
struggle to withdraw her hand. In the next moment, his hot lips had
touched her pure forehead--and in the next moment, "Farewell!" rung
hurriedly in her ears. As the retiring form of the young adventurer
stood in the door of the summer-house, there came to her, with a
distinct utterance, these confidently spoken words--"I trust you
without fear."--And "God bless you!" flung toward her with a
heart-impulse, found a deeper place in her soul, from whence, long
afterwards, came back their thrilling echoes. By the time the maiden
had gathered up her scattered thoughts, she was alone.




CHAPTER IX.


THE maiden's thoughts were yet bewildered, and her heart beating
tumultuously, when her quick ears caught the sound of other
footsteps than those to whose retreating echoes she had been so
intently listening. Hastily retreating into the summer-house, she
crouched low upon one of the seats, in order, if possible, to escape
observation. But nearer and nearer came the slow, heavy foot-fall of
a man, and ere she had time to repress, by a strong effort, the
agitation that made itself visible in every feature, Mr. Allison was
in her presence. It was impossible for her to restrain an
exclamation of surprise, or to drive back the crimson from her
flushing face.

"Pardon the intrusion," said the old gentleman, in his usual mild
tone. "If I had known that you were here, I would not have disturbed
your pleasant reveries."

Some moments elapsed, ere Fanny could venture a reply. She feared to
trust her voice, lest more should be betrayed than she wished any
one to know. Seeing how much his presence disturbed her, Mr. Allison
stepped back a pace or two, saying, as he did so, "I was only
passing, my child; and will keep on my way. I regret having startled
you by my sudden appearance."

He was about retiring, when Fanny, who felt that her manner must
strike Mr. Allison as very singular, made a more earnest effort to
regain her self-possession, and said, with a forced smile:

"Don't speak of intrusion; Mr. Allison. Your sudden coming did
startle me. But that is past."

Mr. Allison, who had partly turned away, now advanced toward Fanny,
and, taking her hand, looked down into her face, from which the
crimson flush had not yet retired, with an expression of tender
regard.

"Your father is still absent, I believe?" said he.

"Yes, sir."

"He will be home soon."

"We hope so. His visit to New York was unexpected."

"And you therefore feel his absence the more."

"Oh, yes," replied Fanny, now regaining her usual tone of voice and
easy address; "and it seems impossible for us to be reconciled to
the fact."

"Few men are at home more than your father," remarked Mr. Allison.
"His world, it might be said, is included in the circle of his
beloved ones."

"And I hope it will always be so."

Mr. Allison looked more earnestly into the young maiden's face. He
did not clearly understand the meaning of this sentence, for, in the
low tones that gave it utterance, there seemed to his ear a prophecy
of change. Then he remembered his recent conversation with her
father, and light broke in upon his mind. The absence of Mr.
Markland had, in all probability, following the restless,
dissatisfied state, which all had observed, already awakened the
concern of his family, lest it should prove only the beginning of
longer periods of absence.

"Business called your father to New York," said Mr. Allison.

"Yes; so he wrote home to mother. He went to the city in the
morning, and we expected him back as usual in the evening, but he
sent a note by the coachman, saying that letters just received made
it necessary for him to go on to New York immediately."

"He is about entering into business again, I presume."

"Oh, I hope not!" replied Fanny.

Mr. Allison remained silent for some moments, and then said--

"I thought your visitor, Mr. Lyon, went South several days ago."

"So he did," answered Fanny, in a quickened tone of voice, and with
a manner slightly disturbed.

"Then I was in error," said Mr. Allison, speaking partly to himself.
"I thought I passed him in the road, half an hour ago. The
resemblance was at least a very close one. You are certain he went
South?"

"Oh! yes, sir," replied Fanny, quickly.

Mr. Allison looked intently upon her, until her eyes wavered and
fell to the ground. He continued to observe her for some moments,
and only withdrew his gaze when he saw that she was about to look
up. A faint sigh parted the old man's lips. Ah! if a portion of his
wisdom, experience, and knowledge of character, could only be
imparted to that pure young spirit, just about venturing forth into
a world where mere appearances of truth deceive and fascinate!

"Does Mr. Lyon design returning soon from the South?"

"I heard him say to father that he did not think he would be in this
part of the world again for six or eight months."

And again the eyes of Fanny shunned the earnest gaze of Mr. Allison.

"How far South does he go?"

"I am not able to answer you clearly; but I think I heard father say
that he would visit Central America."

"Ah! He is something of a traveller, then?"

"Yes, sir; he has travelled a great deal."

"He is an Englishman?"

"Yes, sir. His father is an old business friend of my father's."

"So I understood."

There was a pause, in which Mr. Allison seemed to be thinking
intently.

"It is a little singular, certainly," said he, as if speaking only
to himself.

"What is singular?" asked Fanny, looking curiously at her companion.

"Why, that I should have been so mistaken. I doubted not, for a
moment, that the person I saw was Mr. Lyon."

Fanny did not look up. If she had done so, the gaze fixed upon her
would have sent a deeper crimson to her cheek than flushed it a few
moments before.

"Have you any skill in reading character, Fanny?" asked Mr. Allison,
in a changed and rather animated voice, and with a manner that took
away the constraint that had, from the first, oppressed the mind of
the young girl.

"No very great skill, I imagine," was the smiling answer.

"It is a rare, but valuable gift," said the old man. "I was about to
call it an art; but it is more a gift than an art; for, if not
possessed by nature, it is too rarely acquired. Yet, in all pure
minds, there is something that we may call analogous--a perception
of moral qualities in those who approach us. Have you never felt an
instinctive repugnance to a person on first meeting him?"

"Oh, yes."

"And been as strongly attracted in other cases?"

"Often."

"Have you ever compared this impression with your subsequent
knowledge of the person's character?"

Fanny thought for a little while, and then said--

"I am not sure that I have, Mr. Allison."

"You have found yourself mistaken in persons after some acquaintance
with them?"

"Yes; more than once."

"And I doubt not, that if you had observed the impression these
persons made on you when you met them for the first time, you would
have found that impression a true index to their character. Scarcely
noticing these first impressions, which are instinctive perceptions
of moral qualities, we are apt to be deceived by the exterior which
almost every one assumes on a first acquaintance; and then, if we
are not adepts at reading character, we may be a long time in
finding out the real quality. Too often this real character is
manifested, after we have formed intimate relations with the person,
that may not be dissolved while the heart knows a life-throb. Is
that not a serious thought, Fanny?"

"It is, Mr. Allison,--a very serious, and a solemn thought."

"Do you think that you clearly comprehend my meaning?"

"I do not know that I see all you wish me to comprehend," answered
Fanny.

"May I attempt to make it clearer?"

"I always listen to you with pleasure and profit, Mr. Allison," said
Fanny.

"Did you ever think that your soul had senses as well as your body?"
inquired the old man.

"You ask me a strange question. How can a mere spirit--an airy
something, so to speak--have senses?"

"Do you never use the words--'I see it clearly'--meaning that you
see some form of truth presented to your mind. As, for instance,--if
I say, 'To be good is to be happy,' you will answer, 'Oh, yes; I see
that clearly.' Your soul, then, has, at least, the sense of sight.
And that it has the sense of taste also, will, I think, be clear to
you, when you remember bow much you enjoy the reading of a good
book, wherein is food for the mind. Healthy food is sometimes
presented in so unpalatable a shape, that the taste rejects it; and
so it is with truth, which is the mind's food. I instance this, to
make it clearer to you. So you see that the soul has at least two
senses--sight and taste. That it has feeling needs scarcely an
illustration. The mind is hurt quite as easily as the body, and, the
path of an injury is usually more permanent. The child who has been
punished unjustly feels the injury inflicted on his spirit, days,
months, and, it may be, years, after the body has lost the smarting
consciousness of stripes. And you know that sharp words pierce the
mind with acutest pain. We may speak daggers, as well as use them.
Is this at all clear to you, Miss Markland?"

"Oh, very clear! How strange that I should never have thought of
this myself! Yes--I see, hear, taste, and feel with my mind, as well
as with my body."

"Think a little more deeply," said the old man. "If the mind have
senses, must it not have a body?"

"A body! You are going too deep for me, Mr. Allison. We say mind and
body, to indicate that one is immaterial, and the other
substantial."

"May there not be such a thing as a spiritual as well as a material
substance?"

"To say spiritual substance, sounds, in my ears, like a
contradiction in terms," said Fanny.

"There must be a substance before there can be a permanent
impression. The mind receives and retains the most lasting
impressions; therefore, it must be an organized substance--but
spiritual, not material. You will see this clearer, if you think of
the endurance of habit. 'As the twig is bent, the tree's inclined,'
is a trite saying that aptly illustrates the subject about which we
are now conversing. If the mind were not a substance and a form, how
could it receive and retain impressions?"

"True."

"And to advance a step further--if the mind have form, what is that
form?"

"The human form, if any," was the answer.

"Yes. And of this truth the minds of all men have a vague
perception. A cruel man is called a human monster. In thus speaking,
no one thinks of the mere physical body, but of the inward man.
About a good man, we say there is something truly human. And believe
me, my dear young friend, that our spirits are as really organized
substances as our bodies--the difference being, that one is an
immaterial and the other a material substance; that we have a
spiritual body, with spiritual senses, and all the organs and
functions that appertain to the material body, which is only a
visible and material outbirth from the spiritual body, and void of
any life but what is thence derived."

"I see, vaguely, the truth of what you say," remarked Fanny, "and am
bewildered by the light that falls into my mind."

"My purpose in all this," said Mr. Allison, "is to lead you to the
perception of a most important fact. Still let your thoughts rest
intently on what I am saying. You are aware of the fact, that
material substances, as well inorganic as organic, are constantly
giving off into the atmosphere minute particles, which we call
odors, and which reveal to us their quality. The rose and
nightshade, the hawthorn and cicuta fill the air around them with
odors which our bodily senses instantly perceive. And it is the same
with animals and men. Each has a surrounding material sphere, which
is perceived on a near approach, and which indicates the material
quality. Now, all things in nature are but effects from interior
causes, and correspond to them in every minute particular. What is
true of the body will be found true of the mind. Bodily form and
sense are but the manifestation, in this outer world, of the body
and senses that exist in the inner world. And if around the natural
body there exist a sphere by which the natural senses may determine
its quality of health or impurity, in like manner is there around
the spiritual body a sphere of its quality, that may be discerned by
the spiritual senses. And now come back to the philosophy of first
impressions, a matter so little understood by the world. These first
impressions are rarely at fault, and why? Because the spiritual
quality is at once discerned by the spiritual sense. But, as this
kind of perception does not fall into the region of thought, it is
little heeded by the many. Some, in all times, have observed it more
closely than others, and we have proverbs that could only have
originated from such observation. We are warned to beware of that
man from whose presence a little child shrinks. The reason to me is
plain. The innocent spirit of the child is affected by the evil
sphere of the man, as its body would be if brought near to a noxious
plant that was filling the air with its poisonous vapours. And now,
dear Fanny,"--Mr. Allison took the maiden's hand in his, and spoke
in a most impressive voice--"think closely and earnestly on what I
have said. If I have taxed your mind with graver thoughts than are
altogether pleasant, it is because I desire most sincerely to do you
good. The world into which you are about stepping, is a false and
evil world, and along all its highways and byways are scattered the
sad remains of those who have perished ere half their years were
numbered; and of the crowd that pressed onward, even to the farthest
verge of natural life, how few escape the too common lot of
wretchedness! The danger that most threatens you, in the
fast-approaching future, is that which threatens every young maiden.
Your happiness or misery hangs nicely poised, and if you have not a
wise discrimination, the scale may take a wrong preponderance. Alas!
if it should be so!"

Mr. Allison paused a moment, and then said:

"Shall I go on?"

"Oh, yes! Speak freely. I am listening to your words as if they came
from the lips of my own father."

"An error in marriage is one of life's saddest errors, said Mr.
Allison.

"I believe that," was the maiden's calm remark; yet Mr. Allison saw
that her eyes grew instantly brighter, and the hue of her cheeks
warmer.

"In a _true_ marriage, there must be good moral qualities. No
pure-minded woman can love a man for an instant after she discovers
that he is impure, selfish, and evil. It matters not how high his
rank, how brilliant his intellect, how attractive his exterior
person, how perfect his accomplishments. In her inmost spirit she
will shrink from him, and feel his presence as a sphere of
suffocation. Oh! can the thought imagine a sadder lot for a
true-hearted woman! And there is no way of escape. Her own hands
have wrought the chains that bind her in a most fearful bondage."

Again Mr. Allison paused, and regarded his young companion with a
look of intense interest.

"May heaven spare you from such a lot!" he said, in a low, subdued
voice.

Fanny made no reply. She sat with her eyes resting on the ground,
her lips slightly parted, and her cheeks of a paler hue.

"Can you see any truth in what I have been saying?" asked Mr.
Allison, breaking in upon a longer pause than he had meant should
follow his last remark.

"Oh, yes, yes; much truth. A new light seems to have broken suddenly
into my mind."

"Men bear about them a spiritual as well as a natural sphere of
their quality."

"If there is a spiritual form, there must be a spiritual quality,"
said Fanny, partly speaking to herself, as if seeking more fully to
grasp the truth she uttered.

"And spiritual senses, as well, by which qualities may be
perceived," added Mr. Allison.

"Yes,--yes." She still seemed lost in her own thoughts.

"As our bodily senses enable us to discern the quality of material
objects, and thus to appropriate what is good, and reject what is
evil; in like manner will our spiritual senses serve us, and in a
much higher degree, if we will but make the effort to use them."

"I see but darkly. Oh! that my vision were clearer!" exclaimed the
maiden, while a troubled expression slightly marred her beautiful
face.

"Ever, my dear young friend," said Mr. Allison, impressively, "be
true to your native instincts. They will quickly warn you, if evil
approaches. Oh! heed the warning. Give no favourable regard to the
man toward whom you feel an instinctive repulsion at the first
meeting. No matter what his station, connections, or personal
accomplishments--heed the significant warning. Do not let the
fascinations of a brilliant exterior, nor even ardent expressions of
regard, make you for a moment forget that, when he first came near
you, your spirit shrunk away, as from something that would do it
harm. If you observe such a man closely, weigh all that he does and
says, when ardent in the pursuit of some desired object, you will
not lack for more palpable evidences of his quality than the simple
impression which the sphere of his life made at your first meeting.
Guarded as men are, who make an exterior different from their real
quality, they are never able to assume a perfect disguise--no more
than a deformed person can so hide, by dress, the real shape, that
the attentive eye cannot discern its lack of symmetry. The eyes of
your spirit see truths, as your natural eyes see material objects;
and truths are real things. There are true principles, which, if
obeyed, lead to what is good; and there are false principles, which,
if followed, lead to evil. The one conducts to happiness, the other
to inevitable misery. The warning which another sense, corresponding
with the perception of odours in the body, gives you of evil in a
man, at his first approach, is intended to put you on your guard,
and lead to a closer observation of the person. The eyes of your
understanding, if kept clear, will soon give you evidence as to his
quality that cannot be gainsaid. And, believe me, Fanny, though a
slight acquaintance may seem to contradict the instinctive judgment,
in nine cases out of ten the warning indication will be verified in
the end. Do you understand me?"

"Oh, yes--yes," was the low, but earnest response. Yet the maiden's
eyes were not lifted from the ground.

"Will you try and remember what I have said, Fanny?"

"I can never forget it, Mr. Allison--never!" She seemed deeply
disturbed.

Both were silent for some time. Mr. Allison then said:

"But the day is waning, my dear young friend. It is time we were
both at home."

"True." And Fanny arose and walked by the old man's side, until
their ways diverged. Both of their residences were in sight and near
at hand.

"Do not think of me, Fanny," said Mr. Allison, when about parting
with his companion, "as one who would oppress you with thoughts too
serious for your years. I know the dangers that lie in your path of
life, and only seek to guard you from evil. Oh! keep your spirit
pure, and its vision clear. Remember what I have said, and trust in
the unerring instinct given to every innocent heart."

The old man had taken her hand, and was looking tenderly down upon
her sweet, young face. Suddenly her eyes were lifted to his. There
was a strong light in them.

"God bless you, sir!"

The energy with which these unexpected words were spoken, almost
startled Mr. Allison. Ere he had time for a response, Fanny had
turned from him, and was bounding away with fleet footsteps toward
her home.




CHAPTER X.


EARNESTLY as Fanny Markland strove to maintain a calm exterior
before her mother and aunt, the effort availed not; and so, as early
in the evening as she could retire from the family, without
attracting observation, she did so. And now she found herself in a
state of deep disquietude. Far too young was the maiden to occupy,
with any degree of calmness, the new position in which she was so
unexpectedly placed. The sudden appearance of Mr. Lyon, just when
his image was beginning to take the highest place in her mind, and
the circumstances attending that appearance, had, without effacing
the image, dimmed its brightness. Except for the interview with Mr.
Allison, this effect might not have taken place. But his words had
penetrated deeply, and awakened mental perceptions that it was now
impossible to obscure by any fond reasonings in favour of Mr. Lyon.
How well did Fanny now remember the instant repulsion felt towards
this man, on their first meeting. She had experienced an instant
constriction about the heart, as if threatened with suffocation. The
shadow, too, about which Aunt Grace had spoken, had also been
perceived by her. But in a little while, under the sunshine of a
most fascinating exterior, all these first impressions were lost,
and, but for the words of Mr. Allison, would have been regarded as
false impressions. Too clearly had the wise old man presented the
truth--too clearly had he elevated her thoughts into a region where
the mind sees with a steadier vision--to leave her in danger of
entering the wrong way, without a distinct perception that it was
wrong.

In a single hour, Fanny's mind had gained a degree of maturity,
which, under the ordinary progression of her life, would not have
come for years. But for this, her young, pure heart would have
yielded without a struggle. No voice of warning would have mingled
in her ears with the sweet voice of the wooer. No string would have
jarred harshly amid the harmonies of her life. The lover who came to
her with so many external blandishments--who attracted her with so
powerful a magnetism--would have still looked all perfection in her
eyes. Now, the film was removed; and if she could not see all that
lay hidden beneath a fair exterior, enough was visible to give the
sad conviction that evil might be there.

Yet was Fanny by no means inclined to turn herself away from Mr.
Lyon. Too much power over her heart had already been acquired. The
ideal of the man had grown too suddenly into a most palpable image
of beauty and perfection. Earnestly did her heart plead for him.
Sad, even to tears, was it, at the bare thought of giving him up.
There was yet burning on her pure forehead the hot kiss he had left
there a few hours before--her hand still felt his thrilling
touch--his words of love were in her ears--she still heard the
impassioned tones in which he had uttered his parting "God bless
you!"

Thus it was with the gentle-hearted girl, exposed, far too soon in
life, to influences which stronger spirits than hers could hardly
have resisted.

Midnight found Mrs. Markland wakeful and thoughtful. She had
observed something unusual about Fanny, and noted the fact of her
early retirement, that evening, from the family. Naturally enough,
she connected this change in her daughter's mind with the letter
received from Mr. Lyon, and it showed her but too plainly that the
stranger's image was fixing itself surely in the young girl's heart.
This conviction gave her pain rather than pleasure. She, too, had
felt that quick repulsion towards Mr. Lyon, at their first meeting,
to which we have referred; and with her, no after acquaintance ever
wholly removed the effect of a first experience like this.

Midnight, as we have said, found her wakeful and thoughtful. The
real cause of her husband's absence was unknown to her; but,
connecting itself, as it did, with Mr. Lyon,--he had written her
that certain business, which he had engaged to transact for Mr.
Lyon, required his presence in New York,--and following so soon upon
his singularly restless and dissatisfied state of mind, the fact
disquieted her. The shadow of an approaching change was dimming the
cheerful light of her spirit.

Scarcely a moment since the reception of her husband's letter,
enclosing one for Fanny, was the fact that Mr. Lyon had made
advances toward her daughter--yet far too young to have her mind
bewildered by love's mazy dream--absent from her mind. It haunted
even her sleeping hours. And the more she thought of it, the more
deeply it disturbed her. As an interesting, and even brilliant,
companion, she had enjoyed his society. With more than usual
interest had she listened to his varied descriptions of personages,
places, and events; and she had felt more than a common admiration
for his high mental accomplishments. But, whenever she imagined him
the husband of her pure-hearted child, it seemed as if a heavy hand
lay upon her bosom, repressing even respiration itself.

Enough was crowding into the mind of this excellent woman to drive
slumber from her eyelids. The room adjoining was occupied by Fanny,
and, as the communicating door stood open, she was aware that the
sleep of her child was not sound. Every now and then she turned
restlessly in her bed; and sometimes muttered incoherently. Several
times did Mrs. Markland raise herself and lean upon her elbow, in a
listening attitude, as words, distinctly spoken, fell from the lips
of her daughter. At last the quickly uttered sentence, "Mother!
mother! come!" caused her to spring from the bed and hurry to her
child.

"What is it, Fanny? What has frightened you?" she said, in a gentle,
encouraging voice. But Fanny only muttered something incoherent, in
her sleep, and turned her face to the wall.

For several minutes did Mrs. Markland sit upon the bedside,
listening, with an oppressed feeling, to the now calm respiration of
her child. The dreams which had disturbed her sleep, seemed to have
given place to other images. The mother was about returning to her
own pillow, when Fanny said, in a voice of sad entreaty--

"Oh! Mr. Lyon! Don't! don't!"

There was a moment or two of breathless stillness, and then, with a
sharp cry of fear, the sleeper started up, exclaiming--

"Mother! father! Oh, come to me! Come!"

"Fanny, my child!" was the mother's instant response, and the yet
half-dreaming girl fell forward into her arms, which were closed
tightly around her. What a strong thrill of terror was in every part
of her frame!

"Dear Fanny! What ails you? Don't tremble so! You are safe in my
arms. There, love, nothing shall harm you."

"Oh, mother! dear mother! is it you?" half sobbed the not yet
fully-awakened girl.

"Yes, love. You are safe with your mother. But what have you been
dreaming about?"

"Dreaming!" Fanny raised herself from her mother's bosom, and looked
at her with a bewildered air.

"Yes, dear--dreaming. This is your own room, and you are on your own
bed. You have only been frightened by a fearful dream."

"Only a dream! How thankful I am! Oh! it was terrible!"

"What was it about, daughter?" asked Mrs. Markland.

Fanny, whose mind was getting clearer and calmer, did not at once
reply.

"You mentioned the name of Mr. Lyon," said the mother.

"Did I?" Fanny's voice expressed surprise.

"Yes. Was it of him that you were dreaming?"

"I saw him in my dream," was answered.

"Why were you afraid of him?"

"It was a very strange dream, mother--very strange," said Fanny,
evidently not speaking from a free choice.

"I thought I was in our garden among the flowers. And as I stood
there, Mr. Lyon came in through the gate and walked up to me. He
looked just as he did when he was here; only it seemed that about
his face and form there was even a manlier beauty. Taking my hand,
he led me to one of the garden chairs, and we sat down side by side.
And now I began to see a change in him. His eyes, that were fixed
upon mine, grew brighter and deeper, until it seemed as if I could
look far down into their burning depths. His breath came hot upon my
face. Suddenly, he threw an arm around me, and then I saw myself in
the strong folds of a great serpent! I screamed for help, and next
found myself in your arms. Oh! it was a strange and a fearful
dream!"

"And it may not be all a dream, Fanny," said Mrs. Markland, in a
very impressive voice.

"Not all a dream, mother!" Fanny seemed startled at the words.

"No, dear. Dreams are often merely fantastic. But there come visions
in sleep, sometimes, that are permitted as warnings, and truly
represent things existing in real life."

"I do not understand you, mother."

"There is in the human mind a quality represented by the serpent,
and also a quality represented by the dove. When our Saviour said of
Herod, 'Go tell that fox,' he meant to designate the man as having
the quality of a fox."

"But how does this apply to dreams?" asked Fanny.

"He who sends his angels to watch over and protect us in sleep, may
permit them to bring before us, in dreaming images, the embodied
form of some predominating quality in those whose association may do
us harm. The low, subtle selfishness of the sensual principle will
then take its true form of a wily serpent."

Fanny caught her breath once or twice, as these words fell upon her
ears, and then said, in a deprecating voice--

"Oh, mother! Don't! don't!" And lifting her head from the bosom of
her parent, she turned her face away, and buried it in the pillow.
As she did not move for the space of several minutes, Mrs. Markland
thought it unwise to intrude other remarks upon her, believing that
the distinct image she had already presented would live in her
memory and do its work. Soon after, she retired to her own room.
Half an hour later, and both were sleeping, in quiet unconsciousness.




CHAPTER XI.


LATE on the following day, Mr. Markland arrived from New York. Eager
as all had been for his return, there was something of embarrassment
in the meeting. The light-hearted gladness with which every one
welcomed him, even after the briefest absence, was not apparent now.
In the deep, calm eyes of his wife, as he looked lovingly into them,
he saw the shadow of an unquiet spirit. And the tears which no
effort of self-control could keep back from Fanny's cheeks, as she
caught his hand eagerly, and hid her face on his breast, answered
too surely the question he most desired to ask. It was plain to him
that Mr. Lyon's letter had found its way into her hands.

"I wish it had not been so!" was the involuntary mental ejaculation.
A sigh parted his lips--a sigh that only the quick ears of his wife
perceived, and only her heart echoed.

During the short time the family were together that evening, Mr.
Markland noticed in Fanny something that gave him concern. Her eyes
always fell instantly when he looked at her, and she seemed
sedulously to avoid his gaze. If he spoke to her, the colour mounted
to her face, and she seemed strangely embarrassed. The fact of her
having received a letter from Mr. Lyon, the contents of which he
knew, as it came open in one received by himself from that
gentleman, was not a sufficient explanation of so entire a change in
her deportment.

Mr. Markland sought the earliest opportunity to confer with his wife
on the subject of Fanny's altered state of mind, and the causes
leading thereto; but the conference did not result in much that was
satisfactory to either of them.

"Have you said any thing to her about Mr. Lyon?" asked Mr. Markland.

"Very little," was answered. "She thought it would only be courteous
to reply to his letter; but I told her that, if he were a true man,
and had a genuine respect for her, he would not wish to draw her
into a correspondence on so slight an acquaintance; and that the
only right manner of response was through you."

"Through me!"

"Yes. Your acknowledgment, in Fanny's name, when you are writing to
Mr. Lyon, will be all that he has a right to expect, and all that
our daughter should be permitted to give."

"But if we restrict her to so cold a response, and that by
second-hand, may she not be tempted to write to him without our
knowledge?"

"No, Edward. I will trust her for that," was the unhesitating
answer.

"She is very young," said Mr. Markland, as if speaking to himself.

"Oh, yes!" quickly returned his wife. "Years too young for an
experience--or, I might say, a temptation--like this. I cannot but
feel that, in writing to our child, Mr. Lyon abused the hospitality
we extended to him."

"Is not that a harsh judgment, Agnes?"

"No, Edward. Fanny is but a child, and Mr. Lyon a man of mature
experience. He knew that she was too young to be approached as he
approached her."

"He left it with us, you know, Agnes; and with a manly delicacy that
we ought neither to forget nor fail to appreciate."

The remark silenced, but in no respect changed the views of Mrs.
Markland; and the conference on Fanny's state of mind closed without
any satisfactory result.

The appearance of his daughter on the next morning caused Mr.
Markland to feel a deeper concern. The colour had faded from her
cheeks; her eyes were heavy, as if she had been weeping; and if she
did not steadily avoid his gaze, she was, he could see, uneasy under
it.

As soon as Mr. Markland had finished his light breakfast he ordered
the carriage.

"You are not going to the city?" his wife said, with surprise and
disappointment in her voice.

"Yes, Agnes, I must be in town to-day. I expect letters on business
that will require immediate attention."

"Business, Edward! What business?"

The question appeared slightly to annoy Mr. Markland. But with a
forced smile, and in his usual pleasant voice, he answered:

"Oh, nothing of very great importance, but still requiring my
presence. Business is business, you know, and ought never to be
neglected."

"Will you be home early?"

"Yes."

Mr. Markland walked out into the ample porch, and let his eyes range
slowly over the objects that surrounded his dwelling. His wife stood
by his side. The absence of a few days, amid other and less
attractive scenes, had prepared his mind for a better appreciation
of the higher beauties of "Woodbine Lodge." Something of the old
feeling came over him; and as he stood silently gazing around, he
could not but say, within himself, "If I do not find happiness here,
I may look for it through the world in vain."

The carriage was driven round to the door, while he stood there.
Fanny came out at the moment, and seeing her father about to step
into it, sprang forward, and exclaimed--

"Why, father, you are not going away again?"

"Only to the city, love," he answered, as he turned to receive her
kiss.

"To the city again? Why, you are away nearly all the time. Now I
wish you wouldn't go so often."

"I will be home early in the afternoon. But come, Fanny, won't you
go with me, to spend the day in town? It will be a pleasant change
for you."

Fanny shook her head, and answered, "No."

Mr. Markland entered the carriage, waved his hand, and was soon
gliding away toward the city. As soon as he was beyond the
observation of his family, his whole manner underwent a change. An
expression of deep thought settled over his face; and he remained in
a state of profound abstraction during his whole ride to the city.
On arriving there, he went to the office of an individual well known
in the community as possessing ample means, and bearing the
reputation of a most liberal, intelligent, and enterprising citizen.

"Good morning, Mr. Brainard," said Markland, with a blending of
respect and familiarity in his voice.

"Ah, Mr. Markland!" returned the other, rising, and shaking the hand
of his visitor cordially. "When did you get back from New York?"

"Yesterday afternoon. I called after my arrival, but you had left
your office."

"Well, what news do you bring home? Is every thing to your mind?"

"Entirely so, Mr. Brainard."

"That's clever--that's right. I was sure you would find it so. Lyon
is shrewd and sharp-sighted as an eagle. We have not mistaken our
man, depend on it."

"I think not."

"I know we have not," was the confident rejoinder.

"Any further word from him, since I left?"

"I had a letter yesterday. He was about leaving for Mexico."

"Are you speaking of Mr. Lyon, the young Englishman whom I saw in
your office frequently, a short time since?" inquired a gentleman
who sat reading the morning paper.

"The same," replied Mr. Brainard.

"Did you say he had gone to Mexico?"

"Yes, or was about leaving for that country. So he informed me in a
letter I received from him yesterday."

"In a letter?" The man's voice expressed surprise.

"Yes. But why do you seem to question the statement?"

"Because I saw him in the city day before yesterday."

"In the city!"

"Yes, sir. Either him or his ghost."

"Oh! you're mistaken."

"I think not. It is rarely that I'm mistaken in the identity of any
one."

"You are, assuredly, too certain in the present instance," said Mr.
Markland, turning to the gentleman who had last spoken, "for, it's
only a few days since I received letters from him written at
Savannah."

Still the man was positive.

"He has a hair-mole on his cheek, I believe."

Mr. Brainard and Mr. Markland looked at each other doubtingly.

"He has," was admitted by the latter.

"But that doesn't make identity," said Mr. Brainard, with an
incredulous smile. "I've seen many men, in my day, with moles on
their faces."

"True enough," was answered; "but you never saw two Mr. Lyons."

"You are very positive," said Mr. Brainard, growing serious. "Now,
as we believe him to be at the South, and you say that he was here
on the day before yesterday, the matter assumes rather a perplexing
shape. If he really was here, it is of the first importance that we
should know it; for we are about trusting important interests to his
hands. Where, then, and under what circumstances, did you see him?"

"I saw him twice."

"Where?"

"The first time, I saw him alighting from a carriage, at the City
Hotel. He had, apparently, just arrived, as there was a trunk behind
the carriage."

"Singular!" remarked Mr. Brainard, with a slightly disturbed manner.

"You are mistaken in the person," said Mr. Markland, positively.

"It may be so," returned the gentleman.

"Where did you next see him?" inquired Mr. Brainard.

"In the neighbourhood of the--Railroad Depot. Being aware that he
had spent several days with Mr. Markland, it occurred to me that he
was going out to call upon him."

"Very surprising. I don't just comprehend this," said Mr. Markland,
with a perplexed manner.

"The question is easily settled," remarked Mr. Brainard. "Sit here a
few moments, and I will step around to the City Hotel."

And as he spoke, he arose and went quickly from his office. In about
ten minutes he returned.

"Well, what is the result?" was the rather anxious inquiry of Mr.
Markland.

"Can't make it out," sententiously answered Mr. Brainard.

"What did you learn?"

"Nothing."

"Of course, Mr. Lyon has not been there?"

"I don't know about that. He certainly was not there as Mr. Lyon."

"Was any one there answering to his description?"

"Yes."

"From the South?"

"Yes. From Richmond--so the register has it; and the name recorded
is Melville."

"You asked about him particularly?"

"I did, and the description given, both by the landlord and his
clerk, corresponded in a singular manner with the appearance of Mr.
Lyon. He arrived by the southern line, and appeared hurried in
manner. Almost as soon as his name was registered, he inquired at
what hour the cars started on the--road. He went out in an hour
after his arrival, and did not return until late in the evening.
Yesterday morning he left in the first southern train."

"Well, friends, you see that I was not so very far out of the way,"
said the individual who had surprised the gentlemen by asserting
that Mr. Lyon was in the city only two days before.

"I can't believe that it was Mr. Lyon." Firmly Mr. Markland took
this position.

"I would not be sworn to it--but my eyes have certainly played me
false, if he were not in the city at the time referred to," said the
gentleman; "and let me say to you, that if you have important
interests in his hands, which you would regard as likely to suffer
were he really in our city at the time alleged, it will be wise for
you to look after them a little narrowly, for, if he were not here,
then was I never more mistaken in my life."

The man spoke with a seriousness that produced no very pleasing
effect upon the minds of his auditors, who were, to say the least,
very considerably perplexed by what he alleged.

"The best course, in doubtful cases, is always a prudent one," said
Mr. Markland, as soon as the gentleman had retired.

"Unquestionably. And now, what steps shall we take, under this
singular aspect of affairs?"

"That requires our first attention. If we could only be certain that
Mr. Lyon had returned to the city."

"Ah, yes--if we could only be certain. That he was not here, reason
and common sense tell me. Opposed to this is the very positive
belief of Mr. Lamar that he saw him on the day before yesterday,
twice."

"What had better be done under these circumstances?" queried Mr.
Brainard.

"I wish that I could answer that question both to your satisfaction
and my own," was the perplexed answer.

"What was done in New York?"

"I had several long conferences with Mr. Fenwick, whom I found a man
of extensive views. He is very sanguine, and says that he has
already invested some forty thousand dollars."

"Ah! So largely?"

"Yes; and will not hesitate to double the sum, if required."

"His confidence is strong."

"It is--very strong. He thinks that the fewer parties engage in the
matter, the better it will be for all, if they can furnish the
aggregate capital required."

"Why?"

"The fewer persons interested, the more concert of action there will
be, and the larger individual dividend on the business."

"If there should come a dividend," said Mr. Brainard.

"That is certain," replied Mr. Markland, in a very confident manner.
"I am quite inclined to the opinion of Mr. Fenwick, that one of the
most magnificent fortunes will be built up that the present
generation has seen."

"What is his opinion of Mr. Lyon?"

"He expresses the most unbounded confidence. Has known him, and all
about him, for over ten years; and says that a man of better
capacity, or stricter honour, is not to be found. The parties in
London, who have intrusted large interests in his hands, are not the
men to confide such interests to any but the tried and proved."

"How much will we be expected to invest at the beginning?"

"Not less than twenty thousand dollars apiece."

"So much?"

"Yes. Only two parties in this city are to be in the Company, and we
have the first offer."

"You intend to accept?"

"Of course. In fact, I have accepted. At the same time, I assured
Mr. Fenwick that he might depend on you."

"But for this strange story about Mr. Lyon's return to the city--a
death's-head at our banquet--there would not be, in my mind, the
slightest hesitation."

"It is only a shadow," said Mr. Markland.

"Shadows do not create themselves," replied Mr. Brainard.

"No; but mental shadows do not always indicate the proximity of
material substance. If Mr. Lyon wrote to you that he was about
starting for Mexico, depend upon it, he is now speeding away in that
direction. He is not so sorry a trifler as Mr Lamar's hasty
conclusion would indicate."

"A few days for reflection and closer scrutiny will not in the
smallest degree affect the general issue, and may develope facts
that will show the way clear before us," said Mr. Brainard. "Let us
wait until we hear again from Mr. Lyon, before we become involved in
large responsibilities."

"I do not see how I can well hold back," replied Mr. Markland. "I
have, at least, honourably bound myself to Mr. Fenwick."

"A few days can make no difference, so far as that is concerned,"
said Mr. Brainard, "and may develope facts of the most serious
importance. Suppose it should really prove true that Mr. Lyon
returned, in a secret manner, from the South, would you feel
yourself under obligation to go forward without the clearest
explanation of the fact?"

"No," was the unhesitating answer.

"Very well. Wait for a few days. Time will make all this clearer."

"It will, no doubt, be wisest," said Mr. Markland, in a voice that
showed a slight depression of feeling.

"According to Mr. Lamar, if the man he saw was Lyon, he evidently
wished to have a private interview with yourself."

"With me?"

"Certainly. Both Mr. Lamar and the hotel-keeper refer to his going
to, or being in, the neighbourhood of the cars that run in the
direction of 'Woodbine Lodge.' It will be well for you to question
the various members of your household. Something may be developed in
this way."

"If he had visited Woodbine Lodge, of course I would have known
about it," said Mr. Markland, with a slightly touched manner, as if
there were something more implied by Mr. Brainard than was clearly
apparent.

"No harm can grow out of a few inquiries," was answered. "They may
lead to the truth we so much desire to elucidate, and identify the
person seen by Mr. Lamar as a very different individual from Mr.
Lyon."

Under the existing position of things, no further steps in the very
important business they had in progress could be taken that day.
After an hour's further conference, the two men parted, under
arrangement to meet again in the morning.




CHAPTER XII.


IT was scarcely mid-day when Mr. Markland's carriage drew near to
Woodbine Lodge. As he was about entering the gateway to his grounds,
he saw Mr. Allison, a short distance beyond, coming down the road.
So he waited until the old gentleman came up.

"Home again," said Mr. Allison, in his pleasant, interested way, as
he extended his hand. "When did you arrive?"

"Last evening," replied Mr. Markland.

"Been to the city this morning, I suppose."

"Yes. Some matters of business required my attention. The truth is,
Mr. Allison, I grow more and more wearied with my inactive life, and
find relief in any new direction of thought."

"You do not design re-entering into business?"

"I have no such present purpose." Mr. Markland stepped from his
carriage, as he thus spoke, and told the driver to go forward to the
house. "Though it is impossible to say where we may come out when we
enter a new path. I am not a man to do things by halves. Whatever I
undertake, I am apt to prosecute with considerable activity and
concentration of thought."

"So I should suppose. It is best, however, for men of your
temperament to act with prudence and wise forethought in the
beginning--to look well to the paths they are about entering; for
they are very apt to go forward with a blind perseverance that will
not look a moment from the end proposed."

"There is truth in your remark, no doubt. But I always try to be
sure that I am right before I go ahead. David Crockett's homely
motto gives the formula for all high success in life."

"Yes; he spoke wisely. There would be few drones in our hive, if all
acted up to his precept."

"Few, indeed. Oh! I get out of all patience sometimes with men in
business; they act with such feebleness of nerve--such indecision of
purpose. They seem to have no life--none of those clear intuitions
that spring from an ardent desire to reach a clearly-seen goal.
Without earnestness and concentration, nothing of more than ordinary
importance is ever effected. Until a man taxes every faculty of his
mind to the utmost, he cannot know the power that is in him."

"Truly said. And I am for every man doing his best; but doing it in
the right way. It is deplorable to see the amount of wasted effort
there is in the world. The aggregate of misapplied energy is
enormous."

"What do you call misapplied energy?" said Markland.

"The energy directed by a wrong purpose."

"Will you define for me a wrong purpose?"

"Yes; a merely selfish purpose is a wrong one."

"All men are selfish," said Mr. Markland.

"In a greater or less degree they are, I know."

"Then all misapply their energies?"

"Yes, all--though not always. But there is a beautiful harmony and
precision in the government of the world, that bends man's selfish
purposes into serving the common good. Men work for themselves
alone, each caring for himself alone; yet Providence so orders and
arranges, that the neighbour is more really benefited than the
individual worker toiling only for himself. Who is most truly
served--the man who makes a garment, or the man who enjoys its
warmth? the builder of the house, or the dweller therein? the tiller
of the soil, or he who eats the fruit thereof? Yet, how rarely does
the skilful artisan, or he who labours in the field, think of, or
care for, those who are to enjoy the good things of life he is
producing! His thought is on what he is to receive, not on what he
is giving; and far too many of those who benefit the world by their
labour are made unhappy when they think that others really enjoy
what they have produced--if their thought ever reaches that far
beyond themselves."

"Man is very selfish, I will admit," said Mr. Markland,
thoughtfully.

"It is self-love, my friend," answered the old man, "that gives to
most of us our greatest energy in life. We work ardently, taxing all
our powers, in the accomplishment of some end. A close self-examination
will, in most cases, show us that self is the main-spring of all this
activity. Now, I hold, that in just so far as this is the case, our
efforts are misapplied."

"But did you not just admit that the world was benefited by all
active labour, even if the worker toiled selfishly? How, then, can
the labour be misapplied?"

"Can you not see that, if every man worked with the love of
benefiting the world in his heart, more good would be effected than
if he worked only for himself?"

"Oh, yes."

"And that he would have a double reward, in the natural compensation
that labour receives, and in the higher satisfaction of having done
good."

"Yes."

"To work for a lower end, then, is to misapply labour, so far as the
man is concerned. He robs himself of his own highest reward, while
Providence bends the efforts he makes, and causes them to effect
good uses to the neighbour he would, in too many cases, rather
insure than benefit."

"You have a curious way of looking at things, or, rather, _into_
them," said Mr. Markland, forcing a smile. "There is a common saying
about taking the conceit out of a man, and I must acknowledge that
you can do this as effectually as any one I ever knew."

"When the truth comes to us," said the old gentleman, smiling in
return, "it possesses the quality of a mirror, and shows us
something of our real state. If we were more earnest to know the
truth, so far as it applied to ourselves, we would be wiser, and, it
is to be hoped, better. Truth is light, and when it comes to us it
reveals our true relation to the world. It gives the ability to
define our exact position, and to know surely whether we are in the
right or the wrong way. How beautifully has it been called a lamp to
our path! And truth possesses another quality--that of water. It
cleanses as well as illustrates."

Mr. Markland bent his head in a thoughtful attitude, and walked on
in silence. Mr. Allison continued:

"The more of truth we admit into our minds, the higher becomes our
discriminating power. It not only gives the ability to know
ourselves, but to know others. All our mental faculties come into a
more vigorous activity."

"Truth! What is truth?" said Mr. Markland, looking up, and speaking
in a tone of earnest inquiry.

"Truth is the mind's light," returned Mr. Allison, "and it comes to
us from Him who said 'Let there be light, and there was light,' and
who afterward said, 'I am the light of the world.' There is truth,
and there is the doctrine of truth--it is by the latter that we are
led into a knowledge of truth."

"But how are we to find truth? How are we to become elevated into
that region of light in which the mind sees clearly?"

"We must learn the way, before we can go from one place to another."

"Yes."

"If we would find truth, we must first learn the way, or the
doctrine of truth; for doctrine, or that which illustrates the mind,
is like a natural path or way, along which we walk to the object we
desire to reach."

"Still, I do not find the answer to my question. What or where is
truth?"

"It often happens that we expect a very different reply to the query
we make, from the one which in the end is received--an answer in no
way flattering to self-love, or in harmony with our life-purpose.
And when I answer you in the words of Him who, spake as never man
spoke--'I am the way, the _truth_, and the life,' I cannot expect my
words to meet your state of earnest expectation--to be really
_light_ to your mind."

"No, they are not light--at least, not clear light," said Mr.
Markland, in rather a disappointed tone. "If I understand the drift
of what you have said, it is that the world has no truth but what
stands in some relation to God, who is the source of all truth."

"Just my meaning," replied Mr. Allison.

A pause of some moments followed.

"Then it comes to this," said Mr. Markland, "that only through a
religious life can a man hope to arrive at truth."

"Only through a life in just order," was the reply.

"What is a life in just order?"

"A life in harmony with the end of our creation."

"Ah! what a volume of meaning, hidden as well as apparent, does your
answer involve! How sadly out of order is the world! how little in
harmony with itself! To this every man's history is a living
attestation."

"If in the individual man we find perverted order, it cannot, of
course, be different with the aggregated man."

"No."

"The out of order means, simply, an action or force in the moral and
mental machinery of the world, in a direction opposite to the right
movement."

"Yes; that is clear."

"The right movement God gave to the mind of man at the beginning,
when he made him in the likeness and image of himself."

"Undoubtedly."

"To be in the image and likeness of God, is, of course, to have
qualities like him."

"Yes."

"Love is the essential principle of God--and love seeks the good of
another, not its own good. It is, therefore, the nature of God to
bless others out of himself; and that he might do this, he created
man. Of course, only while man continued in true order could he be
happy. The moment he obliterated the likeness and image of his
Creator--that is, learned to love himself more than his
neighbour--that moment true order was perverted: then he became
unhappy. To learn truth is to learn the way of return to true order.
And we are not left in any doubt in regard to this truth. It has
been written for us on Tables of Stone, by the finger of God
himself."

"In the Ten Commandments?"

"Yes. In them we find the sum of all religion. They make the highway
along which man may return, without danger of erring, to the order
and happiness that were lost far back in the ages now but dimly seen
in retrospective vision. No lion is found in this way, nor any
ravenous beast; but the redeemed of the Lord may walk there, and
return with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads."

"It will be in vain, then, for man to hope for any real good in this
life, except he keep the commandments," said Mr. Markland.

"All in vain," was answered. "And his keeping of them must involve
something more than a mere literal obedience. He must be in that
interior love of what they teach, which makes obedience to the
letter spontaneous, and not constrained. The outward act must be the
simple effect of a living cause."

"Ah, my friend!" sighed Mr. Markland. "It may be a true saying, but
who can hear it?"

"We have wandered far in the wrong direction--are still moving with
a swift velocity that cannot be checked without painfully jarring
the whole machinery of life; but all this progress is toward misery,
not happiness, and, as wise men, it behooves us stop, at no matter
what cost of present pain, and begin retracing the steps that have
led only to discontent and disappointment. It is all in vain that we
fondly imagine that the good we seek lies only a little way in
advance--that the Elysian fields will, in the end, be reached. If we
are descending instead of ascending, how are we ever to gain the
mountain top? If we turn our backs upon the Holy City, and move on
with rapid footsteps, is there any hope that we shall ever pass
through its gates of pearl or walk its golden streets? To the
selfish natural mind, it is a 'hard saying' as you intimate, for
obedience to the commandments requires the denial and rejection of
self; and such a rejection seems like an extinguishment of the very
life. But, if we reject this old, vain life, a new vitality, born of
higher and more enduring principles, will at once begin. Remember
that we are spiritually organized forms, receptive of life. If the
life of selfish and perverted ends becomes inactive, a new, better,
and truer life will begin. We must live; for life, inextinguishable
life, is the inheritance received from the Creator, who is life
eternal in himself. It is with us to determine the quality of life.
Live we must, and forever--whether in order or disorder, happiness
or misery, is left to our own decision."

"How the thought, as thus presented," said Mr. Markland, very
soberly--almost sadly, "thrills me to the very centre of my being!
Ah! my excellent friend, what vast interests does this living
involve!"

"Vast to each one of us."

"I do not wonder," added Mr. Markland, "that the old hermits and
anchorites, oppressed, so to speak, by the greatness of immortal
interests over those involved in natural life, separated themselves
from the world, that, freed from its allurements, they might lead
the life of heaven."

"Their mistake," said Mr. Allison, "was quite as fatal as the
mistake of the worldling. Both missed the road to heaven."

"Both?" Mr. Markland looked surprised.

"Yes; for the road to heaven lies through the very centre of the
world, and those who seek bypaths will find their termination at an
immense distance from the point they had hoped to gain. It is by
neighbourly love that we attain to a higher and diviner love. Can
this love be born in us, if, instead of living in and for the
world's good, we separate ourselves from our kind, and pass the
years in fruitless meditation or selfish idleness? No. The active
bad man is often more useful to the world than the naturally good or
harmless man who is a mere drone. Only the brave soldier receives
the laurels of his country's gratitude; the skulking coward is
execrated by all."

The only response on the part of Markland was a deep sigh. He saw
the truth that would make him free, but did not feel within himself
a power sufficient to break the cords that bound him. The two men
walked on in silence, until they came near a lovely retreat, half
obscured by encircling trees, the scene of Fanny's recent and
impassioned interview with Mr. Lyon. The thoughts of Mr. Allison at
once reverted to his own meeting with Fanny in the same place, and
the disturbed condition of mind in which he found her. The image of
Mr. Lyon also presented itself. As the two men paused, at a point
where the fountain and some of the fine statues were visible, Mr.
Allison said, with an abruptness that gave the pulse of his
companion a sudden acceleration--

"Did your English friend, Mr. Lyon, really go South, before you left
New York?"

"He did. But why do you make the inquiry?" Mr. Markland turned, and
fixed his eyes intently upon the old man's face.

"I was sure that I met him a day or two ago. But I was mistaken, as
a man cannot be in two places at once."

"Where did you see the person you took for Mr. Lyon?"

"Not far distant from here?"

"Where?"

"A little way from the railroad station. He was coming in this
direction, and, without questioning the man's identity, I naturally
supposed that he was on his way to your house."

"Singular! Very singular!" Mr. Markland spoke to himself.

"I met Fanny a little while afterward," continued Mr. Allison, "and
I learned from her that Mr. Lyon had actually left the city. No
doubt I was mistaken; but the person I saw was remarkably like your
friend from England."

"Where did you meet Fanny?" abruptly asked Mr. Markland.

"In the little summer-house, yonder. I stepped aside, as I often do,
to enjoy the quiet beauty of the place for a few moments, and found
your daughter there alone. She answered, as you have done, my
inquiry about Mr. Lyon, that he left for the South a few days
before."

"He did. And yet, singularly enough, you are not the only one who
has mentioned to me that a person resembling Mr. Lyon was seen after
he had left for the South--seen, too, almost on the very day that
letters from him arrived by mail. The coincidence is at least
remarkable."

"Remarkable enough," answered the old man, "to lead you, at least,
to a close scrutiny into the matter."

"I believe it only to be a coincidence," said Mr. Markland, more
confidently.

"If the fact of his being here, at the time referred to, would
change in any respect your relation to him, then let me advise the
most rigid investigation. I cannot get rid of the impression that he
really was here--and, let me speak a plainer word--nor that he met
your daughter in the summer-house."

Markland started as if an adder had stung him, uttering the word--

"Impossible!"

"Understand me," calmly remarked the old man, "I do not say that it
was so. I have no proof to offer. But the impression has haunted me
ever since, and I cannot drive it away."

"It is only an impression, then?"

"Nothing more."

"But what, was there in my daughter's conduct that led you to so
strange an impression?"

"Her manner was confused; a thing that has never happened at any
previous meeting with her. But, then, I came upon her suddenly, as
she sat in the summer-house, and gave her, in all probability, a
nervous start."

"Most likely that is the true interpretation. And I can account for
her rather disturbed state of mind on other grounds than a meeting
with Mr. Lyon."

"That is good evidence on the other side," returned Mr. Allison,
"and I hope you will pardon the freedom I have taken in speaking out
what was in my thoughts. In no other way could I express so strongly
the high regard I have for both yourself and family, and the
interest I feel in your most excellent daughter. The singular
likeness to Mr. Lyon in the person I met, and the disturbed state in
which Fanny appeared to be, are facts that have kept almost constant
possession of my mind, and haunted me ever since. To mention these
things to you is but a common duty."

"And you have my thanks," said Mr. Markland, "my earnest thanks."

The two men had moved on, and were now at some distance from the
point where the sight of the fountain and summer-house brought a
vivid recollection to the mind of Mr. Allison of his interview with
Fanny.

"Our ways part here," said the old man.

"Will you not keep on to the house? Your visits always give
pleasure," said Mr. Markland.

"No--not at this time. I have some matters at home requiring present
attention."

They stood and looked into each other's faces for a few moments, as
if both had something yet in their minds unsaid, but not yet in a
shape for utterance--then separated with a simple "Good-by."




CHAPTER XIII.


THIS new testimony in regard to the presence of Mr. Lyon in the
neighbourhood, at a time when he was believed to be hundreds of
miles away, and still receding as rapidly as swift car and steamer
could bear him, might well disturb, profoundly, the spirit of Mr.
Markland. What could it mean? How vainly he asked himself this
question. He was walking onward, with his eyes upon the ground, when
approaching feet made him aware of the proximity of some one.
Looking up, he saw a man coming down the road from his house, and
only a few rods distant from him.

"Mr. Lyon, now!" he exclaimed, in a low, agitated voice. "What does
this mean?" he added, as his mind grew bewildered, and his footsteps
were stayed.

Another moment, and he saw that he had erred in regard to the man's
identity. It wars not Mr. Lyon, but a stranger. Advancing again,
they met, and the stranger, pausing, said:

"Mr. Markland, I believe?"

"That is my name, sir," was answered.

"And my name is Willet."

"Ah, yes!" said Mr. Markland extending his hand. "I learned, to-day,
in the city, that you had purchased Ashton's fine place. I am happy,
sir, to make your acquaintance, and if there is any thing in which I
can serve you, do not hesitate to command me."

"Many thanks for your kind offer," returned Mr. Willet. "A stranger
who comes to reside in the country has need of friendly
consideration; and I stand just in that relation to my new
neighbours. To certain extent I am ignorant of the ways and means
appertaining to the locality; and can only get enlightened through
an intercourse with the older residents. But I have no right to be
obtrusive, or to expect too much concession to a mere stranger.
Until I am better known, I will only ask the sojourner's
kindness--not the confidence one friend gives to another."

There was a charm about the stranger's manner, and a peculiar music
in his voice, that won their way into the heart of Mr. Markland.

"Believe me, sir," he replied, "that my tender of friendly offices
is no unmeaning courtesy. I comprehend, entirely, your position; for
I once held just your relation to the people around me. And now, if
there are any questions to which an immediate answer is desired, ask
them freely. Will you not return with me to my house?"

"Thank you! Not now. I came over to ask if you knew a man named
Burk, who lives in the neighbourhood."

"Yes; very well," answered Mr. Markland.

"Is he a man to be depended upon?"

"He's clever, and a good man about a place; but, I am sorry to say,
not always to be depended upon."

"What is the trouble with him?" asked Mr. Willet.

"The trouble with most men who occasionally drink to excess."

"Oh! That's it. You've said enough, sir; he won't suit me. I shall
have to be in the city for a time, almost every day, and would not,
by any means, feel safe or comfortable in knowing that such a person
was in charge of things. Besides, my mother, who is getting in
years, has a particular dread of an intoxicated man, and I would on
no account expose her to the danger of being troubled from this
cause. My sisters, who have lived all their lives in cities, will be
timid in the country, and I therefore particularly desire the right
kind of a man on the premises--one who may be looked to as a
protector in my absence. You understand, now, what kind of a person
I want?"

"Clearly."

"This Burk would not suit."

"I'm afraid not. But for the failing I have mentioned, you could
hardly find a more capable, useful, or pleasant man in the
neighbourhood; but this mars all."

"It mars all for me, and for reasons I have just mentioned," said
Mr. Willet; "so we will have to pass him by. Is there any other
available man about here, who would make a trusty overseer?"

"I do not think of one, but will make it my business to inquire,"
returned Mr. Markland. "How soon will you move out?"

"In about a week. On Monday we shall send a few loads of furniture."

"Cannot you hire Mr. Ashton's gardener? He is trusty in every
respect."

"Some one has been ahead of me," replied Mr. Willet. "He is already
engaged, and will leave to-morrow."

"I'm sorry for that. Mr. Ashton spoke highly of him."

"His work speaks for him," said Mr. Willet. "The whole place is in
beautiful order."

"Yes, it has always been the pride of its owner, and admiration of
the neighbourhood. I don't know how Mr. Ashton could make up his
mind to part with it."

"I am certainly much obliged to him for yielding it to me," said Mr.
Willet. "I regard myself as particularly fortunate. But I will not
detain you. If you should think or hear of any one who will suit my
purpose, I shall be under particular obligations if you will let me
know."

"If I can serve you in the matter, be sure that I will do so,"
replied Mr. Markland.

Mr. Willet thanked him warmly for the proffered kindness, and then
the two men separated, each strongly and favourably impressed by the
other.

"That startling mystery is solved," said Mr. Markland, taking a deep
breath. "This is the other Dromio. I don't wonder that Mr. Allison
and Mr. Lamar were deceived. I was, for a moment. What a likeness he
bears to Mr. Lyon! Ah, well!--the matter has worried me, for a short
time, dreadfully. I was sure that I knew my man; but this strange
affirmation in regard to him threw me into terrible doubts. Thank
fortune! the mystery is completely solved. I must go back to the
city this very afternoon, and see Brainard. It will not do for him
to remain long in doubt. His mind might take a new direction, and
become interested in some other enterprise. There is no other man
with whom, in so important a business as this, I would care to be
associated."

And Mr. Markland, thus communing with himself, moved onward, with
light and rapid footsteps, toward his dwelling. A mountain had been
lifted from his heart.




CHAPTER XIV.


"YOU had a visitor this afternoon," said Mr. Markland, as he sat
conversing with his wife and daughter, soon after his arrival from
the city.

"I believe not," returned Mrs. Markland. "Oh, yes. I met a gentleman
coming from this direction, and he said that he had been here."

"A gentleman? Who?"

"Our new neighbour, Mr. Willet."

"I did not know that he called."

"He may only have inquired for me at the door," said Mr. Markland.
"I wish you had seen him."

"What kind of a man does he appear to be?" asked Mrs. Markland.

"My first impressions are favourable. But there is a singular fact
in regard to his appearance in our neighbourhood."

Mrs. Markland and Fanny looked up curiously.

"I have been very much worried, since my return;" and Mr. Markland's
eyes rested on his daughter, as he said this. The change that
instantly passed over her face a little surprised him. Her eyes fell
under his gaze, and the crimson blood rose to her forehead.

"What has worried you?" tenderly inquired Mrs. Markland.

"I met with a strange rumour in the city."

"About what?"

"About Mr. Lyon."

Mrs. Markland's whole manner changed, her usual quiet aspect giving
place to strongly manifested interest. Her eyes, as well as those of
her husband, turned to-ward Fanny, who, by partial aversion, sought
to hide from close observation her suffused countenance.

"What of Mr. Lyon?" asked Mrs. Markland.

"At least two persons have affirmed, quite positively, that they saw
Mr. Lyon, as well in the city as in this neighbourhood, on the day
before yesterday," said Mr. Markland.

The colour suddenly receded from the face of his wife, who looked
half-frightened at so unexpected an announcement. Fanny turned
herself further away from observation.

"Saw Mr. Lyon! Can it be possible he did not go South at the time he
said that he would leave?" Mrs. Markland's voice was troubled.

"He went, of course," was the cheerful, confident answer of Mr.
Markland.

"You are sure of it?"

"Oh, yes!"

"How do you explain the mystery, if it may so be called?"

"After hours of doubt, perplexity, and uneasiness, I met the man
himself."

"Not Mr. Lyon?"

Fanny started at her father's announcement, and partly turned toward
him a face that was now of a pallid hue.

"No; not Mr. Lyon," said Mr. Markland, in answer to his wife's
ejaculation, "but a person so nearly resembling him, that, for a few
moments, even I was deceived."

"How singular! Who was the man?"

"Our new neighbour, Mr. Willet."

"Why, Edward! That is remarkable."

"Yes, it is really so. I had just parted from Mr. Allison, who was
certain of having seen Mr. Lyon in this neighbourhood, on the day
before yesterday, when I met Mr. Willet. I can assure you that I was
startled when my eyes first rested upon him. For a few moments,
pulsation was suspended. A nearer approach corrected my error; and a
brief conversation with our new neighbour, gave me a strong
prepossession in his favour."

Before this sentence was completed, Fanny had arisen and gone
quietly from the room. For a few moments after her departure, the
father's and mother's eyes rested upon the door through which her
graceful form had vanished. Then they looked at each other, sighed,
and were silent.

The moment Fanny was beyond the observation of her parents, wings
seemed added to her feet, and she almost flew to her chamber.

"Bless the child! What's the matter? She looks frightened to death!"
exclaimed Aunt Grace, who met her on the way, and she followed her
quickly. But, when she tried to open the chamber door, she found it
locked within.

"Fanny! Fanny, child!" She rattled at the lock, as she thus called
the name of her niece.

But no sound came from within.

"Fanny! Fanny!"

The sound of feet was on the floor.

"Fanny!"

"What is wanted, aunt?" said a low, husky voice, close to the door
within. It did not seem like the voice of Fanny.

"I wish to see you for a few moments. Let me in."

"Not now, Aunt Grace. I want to be alone," was answered, in the same
altered voice.

"Mercy on us!" sighed Aunt Grace, as she turned, disappointed and
troubled, from the door of her niece's chamber. "What is coming over
the house? and what ails the child? That dreadful Mr. Lyon is at the
bottom of all this. Oh! I wish the ship that brought him over had
sunk in the middle of the ocean. I knew he would bring trouble, the
moment my eyes rested upon him; and it is here quicker than I
expected."

Fanny, oh entering her room, had fallen, half-fainting, across her
bed. It required a strong effort to arouse herself and sufficiently
command her voice to answer the call of her aunt and refuse to admit
her. As soon as the latter had gone away, she staggered back to her
bed, and again threw herself upon it, powerless, for the time, in
mind as well as body. Never, before, had she concealed anything from
her parents--never acted falsely, or with even a shadow of
duplicity. Into what a fearful temptation had she suddenly fallen;
and what a weight of self-condemnation, mingled with doubt and fear,
pressed upon her heart. At the moment when she was about revealing
all to her father, and thus ending his doubts, her purpose was
checked by the unlooked-for announcement that a person so nearly
resembling Mr. Lyon, as even for a moment to deceive her father, was
in the neighbourhood, checked the words that were rising to her
lips, and sealed them, for the time, in silence. To escape from the
presence of her parents was her next impulse, and she obeyed it.

Fully half an hour passed before calmness was restored to the mind
of Fanny, and she could think with any degree of clearness. From
childhood, up to this period of her life, her mother had been her
wise counsellor, her loving friend, her gentle monitor. She had
leaned upon her in full confidence--had clung to her in weakness, as
the vine to its strong support. And now, when she most needed her
counsel, she shrunk from her, and feared to divulge the secret that
was burning painfully into her heart. And yet, she did not purpose
to keep her secret; for that, her reason and filial love both told
her, was wrong; while all the time a low, sweet, almost sad voice,
seemed murmuring in her ear--"Go to your mother!"

"I must, I will go to her!" she said, at last, firmly. "A daughter's
footsteps must be moving along dangerous ways, if she fears to let
her mother know the paths she is treading. Oh, mother!" and she
clasped her hands almost wildly against her bosom. "My good, wise,
loving mother!--how could I let a stranger come in between us, and
tempt my heart from its truth to you for a moment! Yes, yes, you
must know all, and this very hour."

Acting from this better state of mind, Fanny unlocked her door, and
was passing along one of the passages in the direction of her
mother's room, when she met Aunt Grace.

"Oh! child! child! what is the matter with you?" exclaimed the aunt,
catching hold of her, and looking intently into her pale face.
"Come, now, tell me all about it--that's a dear, good girl."

"Tell you about what, Aunt Grace?" said Fanny, with as much firmness
as she could assume, trying, as she spoke, to disengage herself from
the firm grasp with which she was held.

"About all this matter that troubles you. Why, dear me! you look
just as if you'd come out of a spell of sickness. What is it, dear?
Now do tell your aunty, who loves you just as well as if you were
her own child. Do, love."

And Aunt Grace tried to draw the head of Fanny close to her bosom.
But her niece struggled to be free, answering, as she did so--

"Don't question me now, Aunt Grace, please. Only let me go to
mother. I want to see her."

"She is not in her room," said Miss Markland.

"Are you certain?"

"Oh, yes. I have just come from there."

"Where is she, then?"

"In the library, with your father."

Without a word more, Fanny turned from her aunt, and, gliding back
to her own chamber, entered, and closed the door.

"Oh, dear, dear, dear! What does ail the child?" almost sobbed Aunt
Grace, wringing her hands together, as she stood, with a bewildered
air, gazing upon the door through which the form of her niece had
just passed. "Something is the matter--something dreadful. And it
all comes of Edward's foolish confidence in a stranger, that I could
see, with half an eye, was not a man to be trusted."

For some minutes, Miss Markland remained standing as her niece had
left her, trying to make up her mind to act in some decided way for
the remedy of existing troubles.

"I'll just speak to Edward plainly about this business," she at
length said, with considerable warmth of manner. "Shall I stand,
with sealed lips, and witness such a sacrifice? No--no--no!"

And with nothing clearly settled or arranged in her thoughts, Aunt
Grace started for the library, with the intention of speaking out
plainly to her brother. The opportunity for doing so, however, did
not occur; for, on entering the library, she found it empty.




CHAPTER XV.


MR. MARKLAND was entirely satisfied. All doubt vanished from his
mind. The singular resemblance of their new neighbour to Mr. Lyon
cleared up the whole mystery. It was Mr. Willet who had been
mistaken for the young Englishman.

"If it were not so late," he said, glancing at the sun, as he stood
in the porch, "I would go into the city and see Mr. Brainard. It is
unfortunate that any doubtful questions in regard to Mr. Lyon should
have intruded themselves upon him, and his mind should be disabused
as quickly as possible. It is singular how positive some men are,
right or wrong. Now, Lamar was almost ready to be sworn that he saw
Mr. Lyon in the city day before yesterday, although he was, at the
time, distant from him many hundreds of miles; and, but for my
fortunate meeting with Willet this afternoon, his confident
assertion of his belief would, in all probability; have caused the
most disastrous consequences. From what light causes do most
important events sometimes spring!"

On returning to her own apartment, the thoughts of Fanny began to
flow in another channel. The interest which the young stranger had
awakened in her mind was no fleeting impulse. His image,
daguerreotyped on her heart, no light breath could dim. That he was
good and honourable, she believed; and, therefore, had faith in him.
Yet had his sudden appearance and injunction of silence disturbed
her, as we have seen, very deeply. Her guileless heart shrunk from
concealment, as if it were something evil. How bewildered were all
her perceptions, usually so calm! A sense of relief had been felt,
the instant she saw that her father's mind was no longer in doubt on
the question of Mr. Lyon's return from the South--relief, that he
was deceived in a matter which might involve the most serious
consequences. But this feeling did not very long remain; and she
became the subject of rapidly alternating states.

Fanny remained alone until the summons to tea startled her from a
sad, half-dreaming state of mind.

Not to meet her father and mother at the tea-table would, she saw,
attract toward her a closer attention than if she mingled with the
family at their evening meal; and so she forced herself away from
the congenial seclusion of her own apartment. As she took her place
at the table, she was conscious that the eyes of her father and
mother, as well as those of Aunt Grace, were fixed scrutinizingly
upon her; and she felt the blood growing warmer in her cheeks, and
flushing her whole countenance. An unusual restraint marked the
intercourse of all during their meal. Two or three times Mr.
Markland sought to draw his daughter into a conversation; but she
replied to his remarks in the briefest manner, and evidently wished
to escape all notice.

"I'm really troubled about Fanny," said Mrs. Markland to her
husband, as they sat looking out upon the fading landscape, as the
twilight deepened.

"Where is she? I've not had a glimpse of her since tea."

"In her own room, I suppose, where she now spends the greater part
of her time. She has become reserved, and her eyes grow moist, and
her cheeks flushed, if you speak to her suddenly."

"You must seek her confidence," said Mr. Markland.

"I want that without the apparent seeking," was answered. "She knows
me as her truest friend, and I am waiting until she comes to me in
the most unreserved freedom."

"But will she come?"

"Oh, yes! yes!"--was the confidently-spoken answer. "Soon her heart
will be laid open to me like the pages of a book, so that I can read
all that is written there."

"Mr. Lyon awakened a strong interest in her feelings--that is
clearly evident."

"Too strong; and I cannot but regard his coming to Woodbine Lodge as
a circumstance most likely to shadow all our future."

"I do really believe," said Mr. Markland, affecting a playful mood,
"that you have a latent vein of superstition in your character."

"You may think so, Edward," was the seriously-spoken answer; "but I
am very sure that the concern now oppressing my heart is far more
deeply grounded than your words indicate. Who, beside Mr. Lamar,
told you that he saw, or believed that he saw, Mr. Lyon?"

"Mr. Allison."

"Mr. Allison!"

"Yes."

"Where did he see him?"

"He didn't see him at all," confidently answered Mr. Markland. "He
saw Mr. Willet."

"He believed that the person he saw was Mr. Lyon."

"So did I, until a nearer approach convinced me that I was in error.
If I could be deceived, the fact that Mr. Allison was also deceived
is by no means a remarkable circumstance."

"Was it in this neighbourhood that he saw the person he believed to
be Mr Lyon?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Markland's eyes fell to the ground, and she sat, for a long
time, so entirely abstracted, as almost to lose her consciousness of
external things.

"The dew is rather heavy this evening," said her husband, arousing
her by the words. She arose, and they went together into the
sitting-room, where they found all but Fanny. Soon after, Mr.
Markland went to his library, and gave up his thoughts entirely to
the new business in which he was engaged with Mr. Lyon. How, golden
was the promise that lured him on! He was becoming impatient to
tread with swift feet the path to large wealth and honourable
distinction that was opening before him. A new life had been born in
his mind--it was something akin to ambition. In former times,
business was regarded as the means by which a competency might be
obtained; and he pursued it with this end. Having secured wealth, he
retired from busy life, hoping to find ample enjoyment in the
seclusion of an elegant rural home. But, already, restlessness had
succeeded to inactivity, and now his mind was gathering up its
latent strength for new efforts, in new and broader fields, and
under the spur of a more vigorous impulse.

"Edward!" It was the low voice of his wife, and the soft touch of
her hand, that startled the dreaming enthusiast from visions of
wealth and power that dazzled him with their brilliancy.

"Come, Edward, it is growing late," said his wife.

"How late?" he replied, looking up from the paper he had covered
with various memoranda, and clusters of figures.

"It is past eleven o'clock."

"That cannot be, Agnes. It is only a short time since I left the
table.

"Full three hours. All have retired and are sleeping. Ah, my
husband! I do not like this new direction your thoughts are taking.
To me, there is in it a prophecy of evil to us all."

"A mere superstitious impression, Agnes dear: nothing more, you may
depend upon it. I am in the vigour of manhood. My mind is yet clear,
strong, and suggestive--and my reason, I hope, more closely
discriminating, as every man's should be with each added year of his
life. Shall I let all these powers slumber in disgraceful
inactivity! No, Agnes, it cannot, must not be."

Mr. Markland spoke with a fervid enthusiasm, that silenced his
wife--confusing her thoughts, but in no way inspiring her with
confidence. Hitherto, he had felt desirous of concealing from her the
fact that he was really entering into new business responsibilities;
but now, in his confident anticipations of success, he divulged a
portion of the enlarged range of operations in which he was to be
an active co-worker.

"We have enough, Edward," was the almost mournfully-uttered reply of
Mrs. Markland--"why, then, involve yourself in business cares? Large
transactions like those bring anxious days and wakeful nights. They
are connected with trouble, fatigue, disappointment, and, Edward!
_sometimes ruin_!"

Very impressively were the last words spoken; but Mr. Markland
answered almost lightly--

"None of your imagined drawbacks have any terror for me, Agnes. As
for the ruin, I shall take good care not to invite that by any large
risks or imprudent speculations. There are few dangers for wise and
prudent men, in any business. It is the blind who fall into the
ditch--the reckless who stumble. You may be very certain that your
husband will not shut his eyes in walking along new paths, nor
attempt the navigation of unaccustomed seas without the most
reliable charts."

To this, Mrs. Markland could answer nothing. But his words gave her
no stronger confidence in the successful result of his schemes; for
well assured was she, in her perceptive Christian philosophy, that
man's success in any pursuit was no accidental thing, nor always
dependent on his own prudence; the ends he had in view oftener
determining the result, than any merit or defect in the means
employed. So, the weight of concern which this new direction of her
husband's active purpose had laid upon her heart, was in no way
lightened by his confident assurances.




CHAPTER XVI.


MR. MARKLAND went to the city early on the next morning. Fanny had
not made her appearance when he left. This fact, at any other time,
would have excited his attention, and caused an earnest inquiry as
to the cause of her absence from the morning meal. But now his
thoughts were too intently fixed on other things. He had suddenly
become an aeriel castle-builder, and all his mind was absorbed in
contemplating the magnificent structures that were rising up at the
creative touch of imagination.

Mr. Brainard, upon whom he called immediately upon his arrival in
the city, was not so easily satisfied on the subject of Mr. Lyon's
alleged return to the city. He happened to know Mr. Willet, and,
while he admitted that there was a general resemblance between the
two men, did not consider it sufficiently striking to deceive any
one as to the identity of either.

"But _I_ was deceived," confidently asserted Mr. Markland.

"That is not so remarkable under the circumstances," was answered.
"You had Lyon distinctly in your thought, from being most positively
assured of his recent presence in your neighbourhood, and when a
stranger, bearing some resemblance to him, suddenly came in sight, I
do not wonder that you were on the instant deceived. I might have
been."

"I am sure of it. The likeness between the two men is remarkable."

"But Willet has no hair mole on his cheek; and to that mark, you
will remember, Lamar particularly testified."

"The mark may only have been in his mind, and not on the face of the
person he met. Believing it to be Mr. Lyon, he saw the hair mole, as
well as the other peculiarities of his countenance."

"No such explanations can satisfy me," replied Mr. Brainard. "I have
thought over the matter a great deal since I saw you, and my mind is
pretty well made up to withdraw from this whole business while I am
at liberty to do so, without pecuniary loss or any compromise of
honour."

"And let such a golden opportunity pass?" said Markland, in a voice
husky with disappointment.

"If you will," was calmly answered. "I am a firm believer in the
'bird in the hand' doctrine. There are a great many fine singers in
the bush, but I want to see them safely caged before I neglect the
door that shuts in the bird I possess already."

"But you surely cannot be in earnest about withdrawing from this
business," said Markland.

"Very much in earnest. Since yesterday, I have turned the matter
over in my mind constantly, and viewed it in many lights and from
many positions; and my deliberate convictions are, that it is wisest
for me to have nothing whatever to do with these splendid schemes;
and if you will be governed by an old stager's advice, resolve to
act likewise."

"When my hands are once fairly on the plough," answered Mr.
Markland, "I never look back. Before engaging in any new business, I
thoroughly examine its promise, and carefully weigh all the
probabilities of success or failure. After my decision is made, I
never again review the ground over which I travelled in coming to a
decision, but pass onward with faith and vigour in the accomplishment
of all that I have undertaken. More men are ruined by vacillation
than from any other cause."

"My observation brings me to another conclusion," quietly returned
Mr. Brainard. The earnest enthusiasm of the one, and the immovable
coolness of the other, were finely contrasted.

"And what is that?" inquired Mr. Markland.

"Why, that more men are ruined by a blind perseverance in going the
wrong way, than from any other cause. Were we infallible in
judgment, it might be well enough to govern ourselves in all
important matters on the principle you indicate. But, as we are not,
like wise navigators, we should daily make new observations, and
daily examine our charts. The smallest deviation from a right line
will make an immense error in the course of a long voyage."

"Wise business men are in little danger of making errors," said
Markland, confidently.

"A great many sad mistakes are made daily," returned Mr. Brainard.

"Not by wise men."

"If a man's projects succeed," was rejoined, "we applaud his sound
business judgment; if they fail, we see the cause of failure so
plainly, that we are astonished at his want of forethought in not
seeing it at the beginning. But, sir, there's a divinity that shapes
our ends, rough hew them as we will. Success or failure, I am well
convinced, do not always depend on the man himself."

"Is there no virtue, then, in human prudence?" asked Mr. Markland.

"I am not prepared to say how far we may depend on human prudence,"
replied the other; "but I know this, that if we fail to use it, we
will fail in most of our undertakings. Human prudence must be
exercised in all cases; but, too often, we let our confident hopes
take the place of prudence, as I think you are doing now."

"But surely, Mr. Brainard," said Markland, in an earnest, appealing
way, "you do not intend receding from this business?"

"My mind is fully made up," was answered.

"And so is mine," firmly replied Markland.

"To do what?"

"To take the whole interest myself."

"What?"

"To invest forty thousand dollars, instead of the proposed twenty,
at once."

"You show strong faith, certainly."

"My faith, you may be sure, is well grounded. Mr. Fenwick has
already put in that sum, and he is not the man to go blindly into
any business. Apart from my own clear intuitions, founded on the
most careful investigations, I would almost be willing to take risks
in any schemes that Mr. Fenwick approved, in the substantial way of
investment."

"A very different man am I," said Mr. Brainard. "Twenty years of
sharp experience are sufficient to make me chary of substituting
others' business judgment for my own."

"Ah, well!" returned Markland, his manner showing him to be
disappointed and annoyed. "I cannot but regret your hasty decision
in this matter. So far as it concerns myself, even if I saw cause to
recede, which I do not, I am too far committed, with both Fenwick
and Lyon, to hesitate."

"Every man must decide in such cases for himself," said Brainard. "I
always do. If you are fully assured in every particular, and have
confidence in your men, your way is of course clear."

"It is clear," was confidently answered, "and I shall walk in it
with full assurance of a successful end."




CHAPTER XVII.


IT was some time after her father left for the city, before Fanny
came down from her room. She was pale, and looked as if she had
passed a sleepless night. Her mother's concerned inquiries were
answered evasively, and it was very apparent that she wished to
avoid question and observation.

Aunt Grace again sought, in her obtrusive way, to penetrate the
mystery of Fanny's changed exterior, but was no more successful than
on the preceding evening.

"Don't worry her with so many questions, sister," said Mrs.
Markland, aside, to Aunt Grace; "I will know all in good time."

"Your good time may prove a very bad time," was answered, a little
sharply.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Mrs. Markland, turning her eyes
full upon the face of her companion.

"I mean that in any matter affecting so deeply a girl like Fanny,
the mother's time for knowing all about it is now. Something is
wrong, you may depend upon it."

At the commencement of this conversation, Fanny retired from the
room.

"The child's mind has been disturbed by the unfortunate letter from
Mr. Lyon. The something wrong goes not beyond this."

"Unfortunate! You may well say unfortunate. I don't know what has
come over Edward. He isn't the same man that he was, before that
foreign adventurer darkened our sunny home with his presence.
Unfortunate! It is worse than unfortunate! Edward's sending that
letter at all was more a crime than a mistake. But as to the wrong
in regard to Fanny, I am not so sure that it only consists in a
disturbance of her mind."

There was a look of mystery, blended with anxious concern, in the
countenance of Aunt Grace, that caused Mrs. Markland to say,
quickly--

"Speak out what is in your thoughts, Grace. Have no concealments
with me, especially on a subject like this."

"I may be over-suspicious--I may wrong the dear child--but--"

Aunt Grace looked unusually serious.

"But what?" Mrs. Markland had grown instantly pale at the strange
words of her husband's sister.

"John, the gardener, says that he saw Mr. Lyon on the day after
Edward went to New York."

"Where?"

"Not far from here."

"Deceived, as Edward was. John saw our new neighbour, Mr. Willet."

"Maybe so, and maybe not; and I am strongly inclined to believe in
the maybe not. As for that Lyon, I have no faith in him, and never
had, as you know, from the beginning. And I shouldn't be at all
surprised if he were prowling about here, trying to get stolen
interviews with Fanny."

"Grace! How dare you suggest such a thing?" exclaimed Mrs. Markland,
with an energy and indignation almost new to her character.

Grace was rather startled by so unexpected a response from her
sister-in-law, and for a moment or two looked abashed.

"Better be scared than hurt, you know, Agnes," she replied, coolly,
as soon as she had recovered herself.

"Not if scared by mere phantoms of our own diseased imaginations,"
said Mrs. Markland.

"There is something more solid than a phantom in the present case,
I'm afraid. What do you suppose takes Fanny away so often, all by
herself, to the Fountain Grove?"

"Grace Markland! What can you mean by such a question?" The mother
of Fanny looked frightened.

"I put the question to you for answer," said Grace, coolly. "The
time was, and that time is not very distant, when Fanny could
scarcely be induced to go a hundred yards from the house, except in
company. Now, she wanders away alone, almost daily; and if you
observe the direction she takes, you will find that it is toward
Fountain Grove. And John says that it was near this place that he
met Mr. Lyon."

"Mr. Willet, you mean," said Mrs. Markland, firmly.

"None are so blind as those who will not see," retorted Aunt Grace,
in her impulsive way. "If any harm comes to the child, you and
Edward will have none but yourselves to blame. Forewarned,
forearmed, is a wise saying, by which you seem in no way inclined to
profit."

Even while this conversation was in progress, the subject of it had
taken herself away to the sweet, retired spot where, since her
meeting with Mr. Lyon, she had felt herself drawn daily with an
almost irresistible influence. As she passed through the thick,
encircling grove that surrounded the open space where the beautiful
summer-house stood and the silvery waters sported among the statues,
she was startled by a rustling noise, as of some one passing near.
She stopped suddenly, her heart beating with a rapid motion, and
listened intently. Was she deceived, or did her eyes really get
uncertain glimpses of a form hurriedly retiring through the trees?
For nearly a minute she stood almost as still as one of the marble
figures that surrounded the fountain. Then, with slow, almost
stealthy footsteps, she moved onward, glancing, as she did so, from
side to side, and noting every object in the range of vision with a
sharp scrutiny. On gaining the summer-house, the first object that
met her eyes was a folded letter, lying upon the marble table. To
spring forward and seize it was the work of an instant. It bore her
own name, and in the now familiar hand of Lee Lyon!

A strong agitation seized upon the frame of the young girl, as she
caught up the unexpected letter. It was some moments before her
trembling fingers could break the seal and unfold the missive. Then
her eyes drank in, eagerly, its contents:

"MY EVER DEAR FANNY:--Since our meeting at the fountain, I cannot
say to you all that I would say in any letter under care to your
father, and so I entrust this to a faithful messenger, who will see
that it reaches your hands. I am now far to the South again, in
prosecution of most important business, the safe progress of which
would be interrupted, and the whole large result endangered, were
your father to know of my visit at Woodbine Lodge at a time when he
thought me hundreds of miles distant. So, for his sake, as well as
my own, be discreet for a brief period. I will not long permit this
burden of secrecy to lie upon your dear young heart--oh no! I could
not be so unjust to you. Your truest, best, wisest counsellor is
your mother, and she should know all that is in your heart. Keep
your secret only for a little while, and then I will put you in full
liberty to speak of all that has just occurred. None will approve
your discretion more than your parents, I know, when all the grave
reasons for this concealment are disclosed. Dear Fanny! how
ever-present to me you are. It seems, often, as if you were moving
by my side. In lonely moments, how like far off, sweet music, comes
your voice stealing into my heart. Beloved one!--"

A sudden sound of approaching feet caused Fanny to crumple the
letter, scarcely half read, in her hand, and thrust it into her
bosom. Turning towards the point from whence the noise came, she
perceived the form of her mother, who was only a few paces distant.
Mrs. Markland saw the letter in Fanny's hand, and also saw the hasty
motion of concealment. When she entered the summer-house where her
daughter, who had risen up hurriedly, stood in the attitude of one
suddenly alarmed, she marked with deep concern the agitated play of
her countenance, and the half-guilty aversion of her eyes.

"My dear child!" she said, in a low, serious voice, as she laid a
hand upon her, "what am I to understand by the singular change that
has passed over you, and particularly by the strong disturbance of
this moment? Why are you here alone? And why are you so startled at
your mother's appearance?"

Fanny only bowed her face upon her mother's bosom, and, sobbed
violently.

As the wildness of her emotion subsided, Mrs. Markland said:--

"Speak freely to your best friend, my darling child! Hide nothing
from one who loves you better than any human heart can love you."

But Fanny answered not, except by a fresh gush of tears.

"Have you nothing to confide to your mother?" inquired Mrs. Markland
in as calm a voice as she could assume, after waiting long enough
for the heart of her daughter to beat with a more even stroke.

"Nothing," was answered in a voice as calm as that in which the

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/4632