The Good Time Coming

T >> T.S. Arthur >> The Good Time Coming

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Mrs. Markland did not answer, but partly turned her face away to
conceal its expression.

"Are you not a little superstitious?" inquired her husband.

"I believe not," was answered with forced calmness. "But I may be
very selfish."

"Selfish, Agnes! Why do you say that?"

"I cannot bear the thought of giving you up to the busy world
again," she answered, tenderly, leaning her head against him. "Nor
will it be done without struggle and pain on my part. When we looked
forward to the life we have been leading for the last few years, I
felt that I could ask of the world nothing of external good beyond;
I have yet asked nothing. Here I have found my earthly paradise. But
if banishment must come, I will try to go forth patiently, even
though I cannot shut the fountain of tears. There is another Eden."

Mr. Markland was about replying, when his sister entered the room,
and he remained silent.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE conversation was resumed after they were again alone.

"Grace frets herself continually about Fanny," said Mrs. Markland,
as her sister-in-law, after remaining for a short time, arose and
left the room.

"She is always troubling herself about something," answered Mr.
Markland, impatiently.

"Like many others, she generally looks at the shadowed side. But
Fanny is so changed, that not to feel concern on her account would
show a strange indifference."

Mr. Markland sighed involuntarily, but made no answer. He, too, felt
troubled whenever his thoughts turned to his daughter. Yet had he
become so absorbed in the new business that demanded his attention,
and in the brilliant results which dazzled him, that to think, to
any satisfactory conclusion, on the subject of Fanny's relation to
Mr. Lyon, had been impossible; and this was the reason why he rather
avoided than sought a conference with his wife. She now pressed the
matter on his attention so closely, that he could not waive its
consideration.

"Mr. Lyon's purposes are not to be mistaken," said Mrs. Markland.

"In what respect?" was evasively inquired.

"In respect to Fanny."

"I think not," was the brief response.

"Has he written you formally on the subject?"

"No."

"His conduct, then, to speak in the mildest terms, is very
singular."

"His relation to Fanny has been an exceedingly embarrassing one,"
said Mr. Markland. "There has been no opportunity for him to speak
out freely."

"That disability no longer exists."

"True, and I shall expect from him an early and significant
communication."

"Let us look this matter directly in the face, Edward," said Mrs.
Markland, in a sober voice. "Suppose he ask for the hand of our
daughter."

"A thing not at all unlikely to happen," answered her husband.

"What then?"

"I fear you are prejudiced against Mr. Lyon," said Markland, a
little coldly.

"I love my child!" was the simple, touching answer.

"Well?"

"I am a woman," she further said, "and know the wants of a woman's
heart. I am a wife, and have been too tenderly loved and cared for,
not to desire a like happy condition for my child." And she leaned
against her husband, and gazed into his face with a countenance full
of thankful love.

"Mr. Lyon is a man of honour," said Mr. Markland. "Has he a tender,
loving heart? Can he appreciate a woman?"

"If Fanny loves him--"

"Oh, Edward! Edward!" returned his wife, interrupting him. "She is
only a child, and yet incapable of genuine love. The bewildering
passion this man has inspired in her heart is born of impulse, and
the fires that feed it are consuming her. As for me--and I speak the
words thoughtfully and sadly--I would rather stretch forth my hand
to drop flowers on her coffin than deck her for such a bridal."

"Why do you speak so strongly, Agnes? You know nothing against Mr.
Lyon. He may be all you could desire in the husband of your child."

"A mother's instincts, believe me, Edward, are rarely at fault
here."

Mr. Markland was oppressed by the subject, and could not readily
frame an answer that he felt would be satisfactory to his wife.
After a pause, he said:

"There will be time enough to form a correct judgment."

"But let us look the matter in the face now, Edward," urged his
wife. "Suppose, as I just suggested, he ask for the hand of our
daughter,--a thing, as you admit, likely to happen. What answer
shall we make? Are you prepared to give a decisive reply?"

"Not on the instant. I should wish time for consideration."

"How long?"

"You press the subject very closely, Agnes."

"I cannot help doing so. It is the one that involves most of good or
evil in the time to come. All others are, for the present, dwarfed
by it into insignificance. A human soul has been committed to our
care, capable of the highest enjoyments or the deepest misery. An
error on our part may prove fatal to that soul. Think of this,
Edward! What are wealth, honour, eminence, in comparison with the
destiny of a single human soul? If you should achieve the brilliant
results that now dazzle your eyes, and in pursuit of which you are
venturing so much, would there be any thing in all you gained to
compensate for the destruction of our daughter's happiness?"

"But why connect things that have no relation, Agnes? What has the
enterprise I am now prosecuting to do with this matter of our
daughter?"

"Much, every way. Does it not so absorb your mind that you cannot
think clearly on any other subject? And does not your business
connection with Mr. Lyon bias your feelings unduly in his favour?"

Mr. Markland shook his head.

"But think more earnestly, Edward. Review what this man has done.
Was it honourable for him so to abuse our hospitality as to draw our
child into a secret correspondence? Surely something must warp your
mind in his favour, or you would feel a quick indignation against
him. He cannot be a true man, and this conviction every thing in
regard to him confirms. Believe me, Edward, it was a dark day in the
calendar of our lives when the home circle at Woodbine Lodge opened
to receive him."

"I trust to see the day," answered Mr. Markland, "when you will look
back to this hour and smile at the vague fears that haunted your
imagination."

"Fears? They have already embodied themselves in realities," was the
emphatic answer. "The evil is upon us, Edward. We have failed to
guard the door of our castle, and the enemy has come in. Ah, my
husband! if you could see with my eyes, there would stand before you
a frightful apparition."

"And what shape would it assume?" asked Mr. Markland, affecting to
treat lightly the fears of his wife.

"That of a beautiful girl, with white, sunken cheeks, and hollow,
weeping eyes."

An instant paleness overspread the face of Mr. Markland.

"Look there!" said Mrs. Markland, suddenly, drawing the attention of
her husband to a picture on the wall. The eyes of Mr. Markland fell
instantly on a portrait of Fanny. It was one of those wonders of art
that transform dead colours into seeming life, and, while giving to
every lineament a faultless reproduction, heightens the charm of
each. How sweetly smiled down upon Mr. Markland the beautiful lips!
How tender were the loving eyes, that fixed themselves upon him and
held him almost spell-bound!

"Dear child!" he murmured, in a softened voice, and his eyes grew so
dim that the picture faded before him.

"As given to us!" said Mrs. Markland, almost solemnly.

A dead silence followed.

"But are we faithful to the trust? Have we guarded this treasure of
uncounted value? Alas! alas! Already the warm cheeks are fading; the
eyes are blinded with tears. I look anxiously down the vista of
years, and shudder. Can the shadowy form I see be that of our
child?"

"Oh, Agnes! Agnes!" exclaimed Mr. Markland, lifting his hands, and
partly averting his face, as if to avoid the sight of some fearful
image.

There was another hushed silence. It was broken by Mrs. Markland,
who grasped the hand of her husband, and said, in a low, impressive
voice--

"Fanny is yet with us--yet in the sheltered fold of home, though her
eyes have wandered beyond its happy boundaries and her ears are
hearkening to a voice that is now calling her from the distance.
Yet, under our loving guardianship, may we not do much to save her
from consequences my fearful heart has prophesied?"

"What can we do?" Mr. Markland spoke with the air of one bewildered.

"Guard her from all further approaches of this man; at least, until
we know him better. There is a power of attraction about him that
few so young and untaught in the world's strange lessons as our
child, can resist."

"He attracts strongly, I know," said Mr. Markland, in an absent way.

"And therefore the greater our child's danger, if he be of evil
heart."

"You, wrong him, believe me, Agnes, by even this intimation. I will
vouch for him as a man of high and honourable principles." Mr.
Markland spoke with some warmth of manner.

"Oh, Edward! Edward!" exclaimed his wife, in a distressed voice.
"What has so blinded you to the real quality of this man? 'By their
fruit ye shall know them.' And is not the first fruit, we have
plucked from this tree, bitter to the taste?"

"You are excited and bewildered in thought, Agnes," said Mr.
Markland, in a soothing voice. "Let us waive this subject for the
present, until both of us can refer to it with a more even
heart-beat."

Mrs. Markland caught her breath, as if the air had suddenly grown
stifling.

"Will they ever beat more evenly?" she murmured, in a sad voice.

"Why, Agnes! Into what a strange mood you have fallen! You are not
like yourself."

"And I am not, to my own consciousness. For weeks it has seemed to
me as if I were in a troubled dream."

"The glad waking will soon come, I trust," said Mr. Markland, with
forced cheerfulness of manner.

"I pray that it may be so," was answered, in a solemn voice.

There was silence for some moments, and then the other's full heart
overflowed. Mr. Markland soothed her, with tender, hopeful words,
calling her fears idle, and seeking, by many forms of speech, to
scatter the doubts and fears which, like thick clouds, had
encompassed her spirit.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

FROM that period, Mr. Markland not only avoided all conference with
his wife touching their daughter's relation to Mr. Lyon, but became
so deeply absorbed in business matters, that he gave little earnest
thought to the subject. As the new interests in which he was
involved grew into larger and larger importance, all things else
dwindled comparatively.

At the end of six months he was so changed that, even to his own
family, he was scarcely like the same individual. All the time he
appeared thinking intensely. As to "Woodbine Lodge," its beauties no
longer fell into thought or perception. The charming landscape
spread itself wooingly before him, but he saw nothing of its varied
attractions. Far away, fixing his inward gaze with the fascination
of a serpent's eye, was the grand result of his new enterprise, and
all else was obscured by the brightness of a vortex toward which he
was moving in swiftly-closing circles. Already two-thirds of his
handsome fortune was embarked in this new scheme, that was still
growing in magnitude, and still, like the horse-leech, crying "Give!
give!" All that now remained was "Woodbine Lodge," valued at over
twenty-five thousand dollars. This property he determined to leave
untouched. But new calls for funds were constantly being made by Mr.
Fenwick, backed by the most flattering reports from Mr. Lyon and his
associates in Central America, and at last the question of selling
or heavily mortgaging the "Lodge" had to be considered. The latter
alternative was adopted, and the sum of fifteen thousand dollars
raised, and thrown, with a kind of desperation, into the whirlpool
which had already swallowed up nearly the whole of his fortune.

With this sum in his hands, Mr. Markland went to New York. He found
the Company's agent, Mr. Fenwick, as full of encouraging words and
sanguine anticipations as ever.

"The prize is just within our grasp," said he, in answer to some
close inquiries of Markland. "There has been a most vigorous
prosecution of the works, and a more rapid absorption of capital, in
consequence, than was anticipated; but, as you have clearly seen,
this is far better than the snail-like progress at which affairs
were moving when Mr. Lyon reached the ground. Results which will now
crown our efforts in a few months, would scarcely have been reached
in as many years."

"How soon may we reasonably hope for returns?" asked Mr. Markland,
with more concern in his voice than he meant to express.

"In a few months," was answered.

"In two, three, or four months?"

"It is difficult to fix an exact period," said Mr. Fenwick,
evasively. "You know how far the works have progressed, and what
they were doing at the latest dates."

"There ought to be handsome returns in less than six months."

"And will be, no doubt," replied the agent.

"There _must_ be," said Mr. Markland, betraying some excitement.

Mr. Fenwick looked at him earnestly, and with a slight manifestation
of surprise.

"The assessments have been larger and more frequent than was
anticipated. I did not intend embarking more than twenty thousand
dollars in the beginning, and already some sixty thousand have been
absorbed."

"To return you that sum, twice told, in less than a year, besides
giving you a position of power and influence that the richest
capitalist in New York might envy."

And, enlarging on this theme, Fenwick, as on former occasions,
presented to the imagination of Mr. Markland such a brilliant series
of achievements, that the latter was elevated into the old state of
confidence, and saw the golden harvest he was to reap already
bending to the sickle.

Twice had Markland proposed to visit the scene of the Company's
operations, and as often had Mr. Fenwick diverted his thoughts from
that direction. He again declared his purpose to go out at an early
date.

"We cannot spare you from our councils at home," said Mr. Fenwick,
pleasantly, yet with evident earnestness.

"Oh, yes, you can," was promptly answered. "I do not find myself of
as much use as I desire to be. The direction at this point is in
good enough hands, and can do without my presence. It is at the
chief point of operations that I may be of most use, and thither I
shall proceed."

"We will talk more about that another time," said Mr. Fenwick. "Now
we must discuss the question of ways and means. There will yet be
many thousand dollars to provide."

"Beyond my present investment, _I_ can advance nothing," said Mr.
Markland, seriously.

"It will not be necessary," replied Mr. Fenwick. "The credit of the
Company--that is, of those in this and other cities, including
yourself, who belong to the Company, and have the chief management
of its affairs--is good for all we shall need."

"I am rather disappointed," said Markland, "at the small advances
made, so far, from the other side of the Atlantic. They ought to
have been far heavier. We have borne more than our share of the
burden."

"So I have written, and expect good remittances by next steamers."

"How much?"

"Forty or fifty thousand dollars at least."

"Suppose the money does not come?"

"I will suppose nothing of the kind. It must and will come."

"You and I have both lived long enough in the world," said Markland,
"to know that our wills cannot always produce in others the actions
we desire."

"True enough. But there are wills on the other side of the Atlantic
as well as here, and wills acting in concert with ours. Have no
concern on this head; the English advances will be along in good
season. In the mean time, if more money is wanted, our credit is
good to almost any amount."

This proposition in regard to credit was no mere temporary
expedient, thought of at the time, to meet an unexpected
contingency. It had been all clearly arranged in the minds of
Fenwick and other ruling spirits in New York, and Markland was not
permitted to leave before his name, coupled with that of "some of
the best names in the city," was on promissory notes for almost
fabulous amounts.

Taking into account the former business experience of Mr. Markland,
his present reckless investments and still more reckless signing of
obligations for large sums, show how utterly blind his perceptions
and unsettled his judgment had become. The waters he had so
successfully navigated before were none of them strange waters. He
had been over them with chart, compass, and pilot, many times before
he adventured for himself. But now, with a richly freighted argosy,
he was on an unknown sea. Pleasantly the summer breeze had wafted
him onward for a season. Spice-islands were passed, and golden
shores revealed themselves invitingly in the distance. The haven was
almost gained, when along the far horizon dusky vapours gathered and
hid the pleasant land. Darker they grew, and higher they arose,
until at length the whole sky was draped, and neither sun nor stars
looked down from its leaden depths. Yet with a desperate courage he
kept steadily onward, for the record of observations since the
voyage began was too imperfect to serve as a guide to return. Behind
was certain destruction; while beyond the dark obscurity, the golden
land of promise smiled ever in the glittering sunshine.

CHAPTER XXIX.

MR. MARKLAND'S determination to visit the scene of the Company's
operations was no suddenly-formed impulse; and the manifest desire
that he should not do so, exhibited by Mr. Fenwick, in no way
lessened his purpose to get upon the ground as early as possible,
and see for himself how matters were progressing. His whole fortune
was locked up in this new enterprise, and his compeers were
strangers, or acquaintances of a recent date. To have acted with so
much blindness was unlike Markland; but it was like him to wish to
know all about any business in which he was engaged. This knowledge
he had failed to obtain in New York. There his imagination was
constantly dazzled, and while he remained there, uncounted, treasure
seemed just ready to fall at his feet. The lamp of Aladdin was
almost within his grasp. But, on leaving Fenwick and his sanguine
associates, a large portion of his enthusiasm died out, and his mind
reached forth into the obscurity around him and sought for the old
landmarks.

On returning home from this visit to New York, Mr. Markland found
his mind oppressed with doubts and questions, that could neither be
removed nor answered satisfactorily. His entire fortune, acquired
through years of patient labour, was beyond his reach, and might
never come back into his possession, however desperately he grasped
after it. And "Woodbine Lodge,"--its beauty suddenly restored to
eyes from which scales had fallen--held now only by an uncertain
tenure, a breath might sweep from his hand.

Suddenly, Markland was awakened, as if from a dream, and realized
the actual of his position. It was a fearful waking to him, and
caused every nerve in his being to thrill with pain. On the brink of
a gulf he found himself standing, and as he gazed down into its
fearful obscurity, he shuddered and grew sick. And now, having taken
the alarm, his thoughts became active in a new direction, and
penetrated beneath surfaces which hitherto had blinded his eyes by
their golden lustre. Facts and statements which before had appeared
favourable and coherent now presented irreconcilable discrepancies,
and he wondered at the mental blindness which had prevented his
seeing things in their present aspects.

It was not possible for a man of Mr. Markland's peculiar temperament
and business experience to sit down idly, and, with folded hands,
await the issue of this great venture. Now that his fears were
aroused, he could not stop short of a thorough examination of
affairs, and that, too, at the chief point of operations, which lay
thousands of miles distant.

Letters from Mr. Lyon awaited his return from New York. They said
little of matters about which he now most desired specific
information, while they seemed to communicate a great many important
facts in regard to the splendid enterprise in which they were
engaged. Altogether, they left no satisfactory impression on his
mind. One of them, bearing a later date than the rest, disturbed him
deeply. It was the first, for some months, in which allusion was
made to his daughter. The closing paragraph of this letter ran
thus:--

"I have not found time, amid this pressure of business, to write a
word to your daughter for some weeks. Say to her that I ever bear
her in respectful remembrance, and shall refer to the days spent at
Woodbine Lodge as among the brightest of my life."

There had been no formal application for the hand of his daughter up
to this time; yet had it not crossed the thought of Markland that
any other result would follow; for the relation into which Lyon had
voluntarily brought himself left no room for honourable retreat. His
letters to Fanny more than bound him to a pledge of his hand. They
were only such as one bearing the tenderest affection might write.

Many weeks had elapsed since Fanny received a letter, and she was
beginning to droop under the long suspense. None came for her now,
and here was the cold, brief reference to one whose heart was
throbbing toward him, full of love.

Markland was stung by this evasive reference to his daughter, for
its meaning he clearly understood. Not that he had set his heart on
an alliance of Fanny with this man, but, having come to look upon
such an event as almost certain, and regarding all obstacles in the
way as lying on his side of the question, pride was severely shocked
by so unexpected a show of indifference. And its exhibition was the
more annoying, manifested, as it was, just at the moment when he had
become most painfully aware that all his worldly possessions were
beyond his control, and might pass from his reach forever.

"Can there be such baseness in the man?" he exclaimed, mentally,
with bitterness, as the thought flitted through his mind that Lyon
had deliberately inveigled him, and, having been an instrument of
his ruin, now turned from him with cold indifference.

"Impossible!" he replied, aloud, to the frightful conjecture. "I
will not cherish the thought for a single moment."

But a suggestion like this, once made to a man in his circumstances,
is not to be cast out of the mind by a simple act of rejection. It
becomes a living thing, and manifests its perpetual presence. Turn
his thought from it as he would, back to that point it came, and the
oftener this occurred, the more corroborating suggestions arrayed
themselves by its side.

Mr. Markland was alone in the library, with Mr. Lyon's hastily read
letters before him, and yet pondering, with an unquiet spirit, the
varied relations in which he had become placed, when the door was
quietly pushed open, and he heard light footsteps crossing the room.
Turning, he met the anxious face of his daughter, who, no longer
able to bear the suspense that was torturing her, had overcome all
shrinking maiden delicacy, and now came to ask if, enclosed in
either of his letters, was one for her. She advanced close to where
he was sitting, and, as he looked at her with a close observation,
he saw that her countenance was almost colourless, her lips rigid,
and her heart beating with an oppressed motion, as if half the blood
in her body had flowed back upon it.

"Fanny, dear!" said Mr. Markland, grasping her hand tightly. As he
did so, she leaned heavily against him, while her eyes ran eagerly
over the table.

Two or three times she tried to speak, but was unable to articulate.

"What can I say to you, love?" Her father spoke in a low, sad,
tender voice, that to her was prophetic of the worst.

"Is there a letter for me?" she asked, in a husky whisper.

"No, dear."

He felt her whole frame quiver as if shocked.

"You have heard from Mr. Lyon?" She asked this after the lapse of a
few moments, raising herself up as she spoke, and assuming a
calmness of exterior that was little in accord with the tumult
within.

"Yes. I have three letters of different dates."

"And none for me?"

"None."

"Has he not mentioned my name?"

A moment Mr. Markland hesitated, and then answered--

"Yes."

He saw a slight, quick flush mantle her face, that grew instantly
pale again.

"Will you read to me what he says?"

"If you wish me to do so." Mr. Markland said this almost
mechanically.

"Read it." And as her father took from the table a letter, Fanny
grasped his arm tightly, and then stood with the immovable rigidity
of a statue. She had already prophesied the worst. The cold, and, to
her, cruel words, were like chilling ice-drops on her heart. She
listened to the end, and then, with a low cry, fell against her
father, happily unconscious of further suffering. To her these brief
sentences told the story of unrequited love. How tenderly, how
ardently he had written a few months gone by! and now, after a long
silence, he makes to her a mere incidental allusion, and asks a
"respectful remembrance!" She had heard the knell of all her dearest
hopes. Her love had become almost her life, and to trample thus upon
it was like extinguishing her life.

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