The Good Time Coming

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"Fanny! Love! Dear Fanny!" But the distressed father called to her
in vain, and in vain lifted her nerveless body erect. The oppressed
heart was stilled.

A cry of alarm quickly summoned the family, and for a short time a
scene of wild terror ensued; for, in the white face of the fainting
girl, all saw the image of death. A servant was hurriedly despatched
for their physician, and the body removed to one of the chambers.

But motion soon came back, feebly, to the heart; the lungs drew in
the vital air, and the circle of life was restored. When the
physician arrived, nature had done all for her that could be done.
The sickness of her spirit was beyond the reach of any remedy he
might prescribe.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE shock received by Fanny left her in a feeble state of mind as
well as body. For two or three days she wept almost constantly. Then
a leaden calmness, bordering on stupor, ensued, that, even more than
her tears, distressed her parents.

Meantime, the anxieties of Mr. Markland, in regard to the business
in which he had ventured more than all his possessions, were hourly
increasing. Now that suspicion had been admitted into his thought,
circumstances which had before given him encouragement bore a
doubtful aspect. He was astonished at his own blindness, and
frightened at the position in which he found himself placed.
Altogether dissatisfied with the kind and amount of information to
be gained in New York, his resolution to go South was strengthened
daily. Finally, he announced to his family that he must leave them,
to be gone at least two or three months. The intelligence came with
a shock that partially aroused Fanny from the lethargic state into
which she had fallen. Mrs. Markland made only a feeble, tearful
opposition. Upon her mind had settled a brooding apprehension of
trouble in the future, and every changing aspect in the progression
of events but confirmed her fears.

That her husband's mind had become deeply disturbed Mrs. Markland
saw but too clearly; and that this disturbance increased daily, she
also saw. Of the causes she had no definite information; but it was
not difficult to infer that they involved serious disappointments in
regard to the brilliant schemes which had so captivated his
imagination. If these disappointments had thrown him back upon his
home, better satisfied with the real good in possession, she would
not very much have regretted them. But, on learning his purpose to
go far South, and even thousands of miles beyond the boundaries of
his own country, she became oppressed with a painful anxiety, which
was heightened, rather than allayed, by his vague replies to all her
earnest inquiries in regard to the state of affairs that rendered
this long journey imperative.

"Interests of great magnitude," he would say, "require that all who
are engaged in them should be minutely conversant with their state
of progress. I have long enough taken the statements of parties at a
distance: now I must see and know for myself."

How little there was in all this to allay anxiety, or reconcile the
heart to a long separation from its life-partner, is clear to every
one. Mrs. Markland saw that her husband wished to conceal from her
the exact position of his affairs, and this but gave her startled
imagination power to conjure up the most frightful images. Fears for
the safety of her husband during a long journey in a distant
country, where few traces of civilization could yet be found, were
far more active than concern for the result of his business. Of that
she knew but little; and, so far as its success or failure had power
to affect her, experienced but little anxiety. On this account, her
trouble was all for him.

Time progressed until the period of Markland's departure was near at
hand. He had watched, painfully, the slow progress of change in
Fanny's state of mind. There was yet no satisfactory aspect. The
fact of his near departure had ruffled the surface of her feelings,
and given a hectic warmth to her cheeks and a tearful brightness to
her eyes. Most earnestly had she entreated him, over and over again,
not to leave them.

"Home will no longer be like home, dear father, when you are far
absent," she said to him, pleadingly, a few days before the
appointed time for departure had come. "Do not go away."

"It is no desire to leave home that prompts the journey, Fanny,
love," he answered, drawing his arm around her and pressing her
closely to his side. "At the call of duty, none of us should
hesitate to obey."

"Duty, father?" Fanny did not comprehend the meaning of his words.

"It is the duty of all men to thoroughly comprehend what they are
doing, and to see that their business is well conducted at every
point."

"I did not before understand that you had business in that distant
country," said Fanny.

"I am largely interested there," replied Mr. Markland, speaking as
though the admission to her was half-extorted.

"Not with Mr. Lyon, I hope?" said Fanny, quickly and earnestly. It
was the first time she had mentioned his name since the day his cold
allusion to her had nearly palsied her heart.

"Why not with Mr. Lyon, my child? Do you know any thing in regard to
him that would make such a connection perilous to my interest?" Mr.
Markland looked earnestly into the face of his daughter. Her eyes
did not fall from his, but grew brighter, and her person became more
erect. There was something of indignant surprise in the expression
of her countenance.

"Do you know any thing in regard to him that would make the
connection perilous to my interest?" repeated Mr. Markland.

"Will that man be true to the father, who is false to his child?"
said Fanny, in a deep, hoarse voice.

He looked long and silently into her face, his mind bewildered by
the searching interrogatory.

"False to you, Fanny!" he at length said, in a confused way. "Has he
been false to you?"

"Oh, father! father! And is it from you this question comes?"
exclaimed Fanny, clasping her hands together and then pressing them
tightly against her bosom.

"He spoke of you in his letter with great kindness," said Mr.
Markland. "I know that he has been deeply absorbed in a perplexing
business; and this may be the reason why he has not written."

"Father,"--Fanny's words were uttered slowly and impressively--"if
you are in any manner involved in business with Mr. Lyon--if you
have any thing at stake through confidence in him--get free from the
connection as early as possible. He is no true man. With the
fascinating qualities of the serpent, he has also the power to
sting."

"I fear, my daughter," said Mr. Markland, "that too great a
revulsion has taken place in your feelings toward him; that wounded
pride is becoming unduly active."

"Pride!" ejaculated Fanny--and her face, that had flushed, grew pale
again--"pride! Oh, father! how sadly you misjudge your child!
No--no. I was for months in the blinding mazes of a delicious dream;
but I am awake now--fully awake, and older--how much older it makes
me shudder to think--than I was when lulled into slumber by melodies
so new, and wild, and sweet, that it seemed as if I had entered
another state of existence. Yes, father, I am awake now; startled
suddenly from visions of joy and beauty into icy realities, like
thousands of other dreamers around me. Pride? Oh, my father!"

And Fanny laid her head down upon the breast of her parent, and wept
bitterly.

Mr. Markland was at a loss what answer to make. So entire a change
in the feelings of his daughter toward Mr. Lyon was unsuspected, and
he scarcely knew how to explain the fact. Fascinated as she had
been, he had looked for nothing else but a clinging to his image
even in coldness and neglect. That she would seek to obliterate that
image from her heart, as an evil thing, was something he had not for
an instant expected. He did not know how, treasured up in tenderest
infancy, through sunny childhood, and in sweetly dawning maidenhood,
innocence and truth had formed for her a talisman by which the
qualities of others might be tested. At the first approach of Mr.
Lyon this had given instinctive warning; but his personal
attractions were so great, and her father's approving confidence of
the man so strong, that the inward monitor was unheeded. But, after
a long silence following a series of impassioned letters, to find
herself alluded to in this cold and distant way revealed a state of
feeling in the man she loved so wildly, that proved him false beyond
all question. Like one standing on a mountain-top, who suddenly
finds the ground giving way beneath his feet, she felt herself
sweeping down through a fearfully intervening space, and fell, with
scarcely a pulse of life remaining, on the rocky ground beneath. She
caught at no object in her quick descent, for none tempted her hand.
It was one swift plunge, and the shock was over.

"No, father," she said, in a calmer voice, lifting her face from his
bosom--"it is not pride, nor womanly indignation at a deep wrong. I
speak of him as he is now known to me. Oh, beware of him! Let not
his shadow fall darker on our household."

The effect of this conversation in no way quieted the apprehensions
of Mr. Markland, but made his anxieties the deeper. That Lyon had
been false to his child was clear even to him; and the searching
questions of Fanny he could not banish from his thoughts.

"All things confirm the necessity of my journey," he said, when
alone, and in close debate with himself on the subject. "I fear that
I am in the toils of a serpent, and that escape, even with life, is
doubtful. By what a strange infatuation I have been governed! Alas!
into what a fearful jeopardy have I brought the tangible good things
given me by a kind Providence, by grasping at what dazzled my eyes
as of supremely greater value! Have I not been lured by a shadow,
forgetful of the substance in possession?"

CHAPTER XXXI.

"I SHOULD have been contented amid so much beauty, and with even
more than my share of earthly blessings." Thus Mr. Markland communed
with himself, walking about alone, near the close of the day
preceding that on which his appointed journey was to begin. "Am I
not acting over again that old folly of the substance and shadow?
Verily, I believe it is so. Ah! will we ever be satisfied with any
achievement in this life? To-morrow I leave all by which I am here
surrounded, and more, a thousand-fold more--my heart's beloved ones;
and for what? To seek the fortune I was mad enough to cast from me
into a great whirlpool, believing that it would be thrown up at my
feet again, with every disk of gold changed into a sparkling
diamond. I have waited eagerly on the shore for the returning tide,
but yet there is no reflux, and now my last hope rests on the
diver's strength and doubtful fortune. I must make the fearful
plunge."

A cold shudder ran through the frame of Mr. Markland, as he
realized, too distinctly, the image he had conjured up. A feeling of
weakness and irresolution succeeded.

"Ah!" he murmured to himself, "if all had not been so blindly cast
upon this venture, I might be willing to wait the issue, providing
for the worst by a new disposition of affairs, and by new efforts
here. But I was too eager, too hopeful, too insanely confident.
Every thing is now beyond my reach."

This was the state of his mind when Mr. Allison, whom he had not met
in a familiar manner for several weeks, joined him, saying, as he
came up with extended hand, and fine face, bright with the generous
interest in others that always burned in his heart--

"What is this I hear, Mr. Markland? Is it true that you are going
away, to be absent for some months? Mr. Willet was telling me about
it this morning."

"It is too true," replied Mr. Markland, assuming a cheerful air, yet
betraying much of the troubled feeling that oppressed him. "The
calls of business cannot always be disregarded."

"No--but, if I understand aright, you contemplate going a long
distance South--somewhere into Central America."

"Such is my destination. Having been induced to invest money in a
promising enterprise in that far-off region, it is no more than
right to look after my interests there."

"With so much to hold your thoughts and interests here," said Mr.
Allison, "I can hardly understand why you should let them wander off
so far from home."

"And I can hardly understand it myself," returned Mr. Markland, in a
lower tone of voice, as if the admission were made reluctantly. "But
so it is. I am but a man, and man is always dissatisfied with his
actual, and always looking forward to some good time coming. Ah,
sir, this faculty of imagination that we possess is one of the
curses entailed by the fall. It is forever leading us off from a
true enjoyment of what we have. It has no faith in to-day--no love
for the good and beautiful that really exists."

"I can show you a person whose imagination plays no truant pranks
like this," replied Mr. Allison. "And this shall be at least one
exception to your rule."

"Name that person," was the half-incredulous response.

"Your excellent wife," said Mr. Allison.

For some moments Mr. Markland stood with his eyes cast down; then,
lifting them to the face of the old man, he said:

"The reference is true. But, if she be not the only exception, the
number who, like her, can find the best reward in the present, are,
alas! but few."

"If not found in the present, Mr. Markland, will it ever be found?
Think!"

"Never!" There was an utterance of grief in the deep tone that thus
responded-for conviction had come like a quick flash upon his heart.

"But who finds it, Mr. Allison?" he said, shortly after, speaking
with stern energy. "Who comprehends the present and the actual? who
loves it sufficiently? Ah, sir! is the present ever what a fond,
cheating imagination prefigured it?"

"And knowing this so well," returned the, old man, "was it wise for
you to build so largely on the future as you seem to have done?"

"No, it was not wise." The answer came with a bitter emphasis.

"We seek to escape the restlessness of unsatisfied desire," said Mr.
Allison, "by giving it more stimulating food, instead of firmly
repressing its morbid activities. Think you not that there is
something false in the life we are leading here, when we consider
how few and brief are the days in which we experience a feeling of
rest and satisfaction? And if our life be false--or, in other words,
our life-purposes--what hope for us is there in any change of
pursuit or any change of scene?"

"None--none," replied Mr. Markland.

"We may look for the good time coming, but look in vain. Its morning
will never break over the distant mountain-tops to which our eyes
are turned."

"Life is a mockery, a cheating dream!" said Mr. Markland, bitterly.

"Not so, my friend," was the calmly spoken answer.

"Not so. Our life here is the beginning of an immortal life. But, to
be a happy life, it must be a true one. All its activities must have
an orderly pulsation."

Mr. Markland slowly raised a hand, and, pressing it strongly against
his forehead, stood motionless for some moments, his mind deeply
abstracted.

"My thoughts flow back, Mr. Allison," he said, at length, speaking
in a subdued tone, "to a period many months gone by, and revives a
conversation held with you, almost in this very place. What you then
said made a strong impression on my mind. I saw, in clear light, how
vain were all efforts to secure happiness in this world, if made
selfishly, and thus in a direction contrary to true order. The great
social man I recognised as no mere idealism, but as a verity. I saw
myself a member of this body, and felt deeply the truth then uttered
by you, that just in proportion as each member thinks of and works
for himself alone will that individual be working in selfish
disorder, and, like the member of the human body that takes more
than its share of blood, must certainly suffer the pain of
inflammation. The truth then presented to my mind was like a flood
of light; but I did not love the truth, and shut my eyes to the
light that revealed more than I wished to know. Ah, sir! if I could
have accepted all you then advanced--if I could have overcome the
false principle of self-seeking then so clearly shown to be the
curse of life--I would not have involved myself in business that
must now separate me for months from my home and family."

"And should you achieve all that was anticipated in the beginning,"
said Mr. Allison, "I doubt if you will find pleasure enough in the
realization to compensate for this hour of pain, to say nothing of
what you are destined to suffer during the months of separation that
are before you."

"Your doubts are my own," replied Markland, musingly. "But,"--and he
spoke in a quicker and lighter tone,--"this is all folly! I must go
forward, now, to the end. Why, then, yield to unmanly weakness?"

"True, sir," returned the old man. "No matter how difficult the way
in which our feet must walk, the path must be trodden bravely."

"I shall learn some lessons of wisdom by this experience," said Mr.
Markland, "that will go with me through life. But, I fear, they will
be all too dearly purchased."

"Wisdom," was the answer, "is a thing of priceless value."

"It is sometimes too dearly bought, for all that."

"Never," replied the old man,--"never. Wisdom is the soul's true
riches; and there is no worldly possession that compares with it in
value. If you acquire wisdom by any experience, no matter how severe
it may prove, you are largely the gainer. And here is the
compensation in every affliction, in every disappointment, and in
every misfortune. We may gather pearls of wisdom from amid the ashes
and cinders of our lost hopes, after the fires have consumed them."

Mr. Markland sighed deeply, but did not answer. There was a dark sky
above and around him; yet gleams of light skirted a cloud here and
there, telling him that the great sun was shining serenely beyond.
He felt weak, sad, and almost hopeless, as he parted from Mr.
Allison, who promised often to visit his family during his absence;
and in his weakness, he lifted his heart involuntarily upward, and
asked direction and strength from Him whom he had forgotten in the
days when all was light around him, and, in the pride and strength
of conscious manhood, he had felt that he possessed all power to
effect the purposes of his own will.

CHAPTER XXXII.

AFTER a night that was sleepless to at least three members of the
family the morning of the day on which Mr. Markland was to start on
his journey came. Tearful eyes were around him. Even to the last,
Fanny begged him not to leave them, and almost clung to him at the
moment of parting. Finally, the separation was accomplished, and,
shrinking back in the carriage that conveyed him to the city, Mr.
Markland gave himself up to sad reveries. As his thoughts reached
forward to the point of his destination, and he tried to arrange in
his mind all the information he had relating to the business in
which he was now embarked, he saw more clearly than ever the feeble
hold upon his fortune that remained to him. Less confident, too, was
he of the good result of his journey. Now that he was fairly on the
way, doubt began to enter his mind.

This was Mr. Markland's state of feelings on reaching the city. His
first act was to drive to the post-office, to get any letters that
might have arrived for him. He received only one, and that was from
New York. The contents were of a startling character. Mr. Fenwick
wrote:

"Come on immediately. Your presence is desired by all the members of
the Company here. We have news of an unexpected and far from
pleasant character."

This was all; but it came with a painful shock upon the feelings of
Mr. Markland. Its very vagueness made it the more frightful to him;
and his heart imagined the worst.

Without communicating with his family, who supposed him on his
journey southward, Mr. Markland took the first train for New York,
and in a few hours arrived in that city, and called at the office of
Mr. Fenwick. A single glance at the agent's countenance told him
that much was wrong. A look of trouble shadowed it, and only a
feeble smile parted his lips as he came forward to meet him.

"What news have you?" eagerly inquired Mr. Markland.

"Bad news, I am sorry to say," was answered.

"What is its nature?" The face of Mr. Markland was of an ashen hue,
and his lips quivered.

"I fear we have been mistaken in our man," said Mr. Fenwick.

"In Lyon?"

"Yes. His last letters are of a very unsatisfactory character, and
little in agreement with previous communications. We have, besides,
direct information from a partly on the ground, that tends to
confirm our worst fears."

"Worst fears of what?" asked Markland, still strongly agitated.

"Unfair--nay, treacherous--dealing."

"Treachery!"

"That word but feebly expresses all we apprehend."

"It involves fearful meaning in the present case," said Markland, in
a hoarse voice.

"Fearful enough," said Fenwick, gloomily.

"I was just on the eve of starting for the ground of the Company's
operations, when your letter reached me this morning. An hour later,
and I would have been on my journey southward," said Mr. Markland.

"It is well that I wrote, promptly," remarked Fenwick. "You were, at
least, saved a long and fruitless journey."

"It will yet have to be taken, I fear," said Markland.

Fenwick shook his head ominously, and muttered, half to
himself--"Vain--vain!"

"Will you state clearly, yet in brief, the nature of the information
you have received from Mr. Lyon?" said Markland. "I comprehend
nothing yet."

"His last communication," was answered, "gives a hurried, rather
confused account of the sudden flooding of the main shaft, in
sinking which a large part of the capital invested has been
expended, and the hopeless abandonment of the work in that
direction."

"Do you believe this statement?" asked Mr. Markland.

"I have another letter from one of the party on the ground, bearing
the same date."

"What does he say?"

"But little of the flooded shaft. Such an occurrence had, however,
taken place, and the writer seemed to think it might require a
steam-engine and pump to keep it clear, involving a delay of several
months. The amount of water which came in was sufficient to cause a
suspension of work, which he thought might be only temporary; but he
could not speak with certainty in regard to that. But the most
serious part of his communication is this:"

Mr. Fenwick took a letter from his desk, and read:--

"The worst feature of the case is the lack of funds. The Government
officials have demanded the immediate payment of the second, third,
and fourth instalments due on the Company's grant of land, and have
announced their purpose to seize upon all the effects here, and
declare a forfeiture, unless these dues are forthcoming at the end
of the present month. Mr. Lyon is greatly troubled, but mysterious.
He has not, from the first day of his arrival out up to the present
moment, admitted any one fully into his counsels. I know he has been
seriously hampered for lack of funds, but was not aware, until now,
that the second and third instalments of purchase-money remained
unpaid; and my knowledge of this, and the impending danger from the
Government, was only acquired through accident. No doubt Mr. Lyon
has fully advised you of all the facts in the case; still, I feel it
to be my duty also to refer to the subject."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Mr. Markland, as Fenwick paused, and
lifted his eyes from the letter. "The second, third, and fourth
instalments not paid! What can it mean? Was not the money forwarded
to Mr. Lyon?"

"He took out funds to meet the second and third regular payments;
and the money for the fourth went forward in good time. There is
something wrong."

"Wrong!" Mr. Markland was on his feet, and pacing the floor in an
agitated manner. "Something wrong! There exists, I fear, somewhere
in this business a conspiracy to swindle."

And as he said this, he fixed his eyes intently on the countenance
of Mr. Fenwick.

"The agent with whom we intrusted so much has, I fear, abused our
confidence," said Mr. Fenwick, speaking calmly, and returning the
steady gaze of Markland.

"Who is the person who gives this information about the unpaid
instalments?" asked the latter.

"A man in whose word every reliance may be placed."

"You know him personally?"

"Yes."

"Is his position on the ground such as to bring him within the reach
of information like that which he assumes to give?"

"Yes."

"Is he a man of intelligence?"

"He is."

"And one of cool judgment?"

"Yes; and this is why the information he gives is of such serious
import. He would never communicate such information on mere rumour
or inference. He knows the facts, or he would not have averred to
their existence."

"Has there been a meeting of the Board?" inquired Markland.

"There was a hurried meeting yesterday afternoon; and we shall
convene again at six this evening."

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