The Good Time Coming

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

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"Hark!" exclaimed Fanny, starting up at this moment, and leaning
close to the window. The sound that had fallen upon her ear had also
reached the ears of the mother.

"Oh! it's father!" fell almost wildly from the daughter's lips, and
she sprang out into the hall, and forth to meet him in the drenching
rain. Mrs. Markland could not rise, but sat, nerveless, until the
husband entered the room.

"Oh, Edward! Edward!" she then exclaimed, rising, and staggering
forward to meet him. "Thank our kind Father in heaven that you are
with us again!" And her head sunk upon his bosom, and she felt his
embracing arms drawn tightly around her. How exquisitely happy she
was for the moment! But she was aroused by the exclamation of
Fanny:--

"Oh, father! How pale you look!"

Mrs. Markland raised herself quickly, and gazed into her husband's
face. What a fearful change was there! He was pale and haggard; and
in his bloodshot eyes she read a volume of wretchedness.

"Oh, Edward! what has happened?" she asked, eagerly and tenderly.

"More than I dare tell you!" he replied, in a voice full of despair.

"Perhaps I can divine the worst."

Markland had turned his face partly away, that he might conceal its
expression. But the unexpected tone in which this sentence was
uttered caused him to look back quickly. There was no foreboding
fear in the countenance of his wife. She had spoken firmly--almost
cheerfully.

"The worst? Dear Agnes!" he said, with deep anguish in his voice.
"It has not entered into your imagination to conceive the worst!"

"All is lost!" she answered, calmly.

"All," he replied, "but honour, and a heart yet brave enough and
strong enough to battle with the world for the sake of its beloved
ones."

Mrs. Markland hid her face on the breast of her husband, and stood,
for some minutes, silent. Fanny approached her father, and laid her
head against him.

"All this does not appal me," said Mrs. Markland, and she looked up
and smiled faintly through tears that could not be repressed.

"Oh, Agnes! Agnes! can you bear the thought of being driven out from
this Eden?"

"Its beauty has already faded," was the quiet answer. "If it is ours
no longer, we must seek another home. And home, you know, dear
Edward, is where the heart is, and the loved ones dwell."

But not so calmly could Fanny bear this announcement. She had tried
hard, for her father's sake, to repress her feelings; but now they
gave way into hysterical weeping. Far beyond his words her thoughts
leaped, and already bitter self-reproaches had begun. Had she at
once informed him of Mr. Lyon's return, singular interview, and
injunction of secrecy, all these appalling consequences might have
been saved. In an instant this flashed upon her mind, and the
conviction overwhelmed her.

"My poor child," said Mr. Markland, sadly, yet with great
tenderness,--"would to heaven I could save you from the evil that
lies before us! But I am powerless in the hands of a stern
necessity."

"Oh, father!" sobbed the weeping girl, "if I could bear this change
alone, I would be happy."

"Let us all bear it cheerfully together," said Mrs. Markland, in a
quiet voice, and with restored calmness of spirit. "Heaven, as Mrs.
Willet says, with so much truth, is not without, but within us. The
elements of happiness lie not in external, but in internal things. I
do not think, Edward, even with all we had of good in possession,
you have been happy for the past year. The unsatisfied spirit turned
itself away from all that was beautiful in nature--from all it had
sought for as the means of contentment, and sighed for new
possessions. And these would also have lost their charms, had you
gained them, and your restless heart still sighed after an ideal
good. It may be--nay, it must be--in mercy, that our heavenly Father
permitted this natural evil to fall upon us. The night that
approaches will prove, I doubt not, the winter night in which much
bread will grow."

"Comforter!" He spoke the word with emotion.

"And should I not be?" was the almost cheerful answer. "Those who
cannot help should at least speak words of comfort."

"Words! They are more than words that you have spoken. They have in
them a substance and a life. But, Fanny, dear child!" he said,
turning to his still grieving daughter--"your tears distress me.
They pain more deeply than rebuking sentences. My folly"--

"Father! exclaimed Fanny--"it is I--not you--that must bear
reproach. A word might have saved all. Weak, erring child that I
was!, Oh! that fatal secret which almost crushed my heart with its
burden! Why did I not listen to the voice of conscience and duty?"

"Let the dead past rest," said Mr. Markland. "Your error was light,
in comparison with mine. Had I guarded the approaches to the
pleasant land, where innocence and peace had their dwelling-place,
the subtle tempter could never have entered. To mourn over the past
but weakens the spirit."

But of all that passed between these principal members of a family
upon whom misfortune had come like a flood, we cannot make a record.
The father's return soon became known to the rest, and the
children's gladness fell, like a sunny vail, over the sterner
features of the scene.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE disaster was complete. Not a single dollar of all Markland had
cast so blindly into the whirling vortex ever came back to him.
Fenwick disappeared from New York, leaving behind conclusive
evidence of a dark complicity with the specious Englishman, whose
integrity had melted away, like snow in the sunshine, beneath the
fire of a strong temptation. Honourably connected at home, shrewd,
intelligent, and enterprising, he had been chosen as the executive
agent of a company prepared to make large investments in a scheme
that promised large results. He was deputed to bring the business
before a few capitalists on this side of the Atlantic, and with what
success has been seen. His recreancy to the trust reposed in him was
the ruin of many.

How shall we describe the scenes that followed, too quickly, the
announcement by Mr. Markland that Woodbine Lodge was no longer to
remain in his possession? No member of the family could meet the
stern necessity without pain. The calmest of all the troubled
household was Mrs. Markland. Fanny, whom the event had awakened from
a partial stupor, gradually declined into her former state. She
moved about more like an automaton than a living figure; entering
into all the duties and activities appertaining to the approaching
change, yet seeming entirely indifferent to all external things. She
was living and suffering in the inner world, more than in the outer.
With the crushing out of a wild, absorbing love, had died all
interest in life. She was in the external world, but, so far as any
interest in passing events was concerned, not of it. Sad, young
heart. A most cruel experience was thine!

When the disastrous intelligence was made known to Aunt Grace, that
rather peculiar and excitable personage did not fail to say that it
was nothing more than she had expected; that she had seen the storm
coming, long and long ago, and had long and long ago lifted, without
avail, a voice of warning. As for Mr. Lyon, he received a double
share of execration--ending with the oft-repeated remark, that she
had felt his shadow when he first came among them, and that she knew
he must be a bad man. The ebullition subsided, in due time, and then
the really good-hearted spinster gave her whole thought and active
energy to the new work that was before them.

After the fierce conflict endured by Mr. Markland, ending wellnigh
fatally, a calmness of spirit succeeded. With him, the worst was
over; and now, he bowed himself, almost humbly, amid the ruins of
his shattered fortunes, and, with a heavy heart, began to
reconstruct a home, into which his beloved ones might find shelter.
Any time within the preceding five or six years, an intimation on
his part that he wished to enter business again would have opened
the most advantageous connections. It was different now. There had
been a season of overtrading. Large balances in England and France
were draining the Atlantic cities of specie, and short crops made it
impossible for western and southern merchants to meet their heavy
payments at the east. Money ruled high, in consequence; weak houses
were giving way, and a general uneasiness was beginning to prevail.
But, even if these causes had not operated against the prospects of
Mr. Markland, his changed circumstances would have been a sufficient
bar to an advantageous business connection. He was no longer a
capitalist; and the fact that he had recklessly invested his money
in what was now pronounced one of the wildest schemes, was looked
upon as conclusive evidence against his discretion and sound
judgment. The trite saying, that the world judges of men by success
or failure, was fully illustrated in his case. Once, he was referred
to as the shrewdest of business men; now, he was held up to
ambitious young tradesmen as a warning wreck, stranded amid the
breakers.

How painfully was Mr. Markland reminded, at almost every turn, of
the changed relations he bore to the world! He had not doubted his
ability to form a good business connection with some house of
standing, or with some young capitalist, ready to place money
against his experience and trade. But in this he was doomed to
disappointment. His friends spoke discouragingly; and everywhere he
met but a cold response to his views. Meantime, one creditor of the
Company, in New York, who held a matured piece of paper on which Mr.
Markland's name was inscribed, commenced a suit against him. To
prevent this creditor getting all that remained of his wasted
estate, an assignment for the benefit of all was made, and
preparations at once commenced for removing from Woodbine Lodge.

A few days after this arrangement, Mr. Willet, whose family had
gathered closer around their neighbours the moment the fact of their
misfortune was known, came over to see Mr. Markland and have some
talk with him about his future prospects. A brief conversation which
had taken place on the day previous opened the way for him to do so
without seeming to intrude. The impossibility of getting into
business at the present time was admitted, on both sides, fully. Mr.
Willet then said--

"If the place of salesman in a large jobbing-house would meet your
views, I believe I can manage it for you."

"I am in no situation," replied Mr. Markland, "to make my own terms
with the world. Standing at the foot of the ladder, I must accept
the first means of ascent that offers."

"You will, then, take the place?"

"Yes, if the offer is made."

"The salary is not as large as I could wish," said Mr. Willet.

"How much?"

"Twelve hundred dollars."

"Get it for me, Mr. Willet, and I will be deeply grateful. That sum
will save my children from immediate want."

"I wish it were more, for your sake," replied the kind neighbour.
"But I trust it will be the beginning of better things. You will, at
least, gain a footing on the first round of the ladder."

"But the advantage is only in prospect," said Mr. Markland. "The
place is not yet mine."

"You have the refusal," was the pleased answer. "I had you in my
mind when I heard of the vacancy, and mentioned your name. The
principal of the firm said, without a word of hesitation, that if
you were available, you would just suit him."

"I shall not soon forget your real kindness," responded Markland,
grasping the hand of Mr. Willet. "You have proved, indeed, though an
acquaintance of recent date, a true friend. Ah, sir! my heart had
begun to despond. So many cold looks, changed tones, and
discouraging words! I was not prepared for them. When a man is no
longer able to stand alone, how few there are to reach out an arm to
give him support!"

"It is the way of the world," replied Mr. Willet; "and if we give it
credit for more virtue than it possesses, a sad disappointment
awaits us. But there are higher and better principles of action than
such as govern the world. They bring a higher and better reward."

"May the better reward be yours," said Mr. Markland, fervently. His
heart was touched by this real but unobtrusive kindness.

"When do you purpose leaving here?" next inquired Mr. Willet.

"As early as I can make arrangements for removing my family," was
answered.

"Where do you think of going?"

"Into the city."

"Would you not prefer remaining in this pleasant neighbourhood? I do
not see how my mother and sisters are going to give you all up. Mrs.
Markland has already won her way into all their affections, and they
have mourned over your misfortunes as deeply, I believe, as if they
had been our own. Pardon the freedom of speech which is only a warm
heart-utterance, when I say that there is a beauty in the character
of Mrs. Markland that has charmed us all; and we cannot think of
losing her society. Walker told me to-day that his wife was
dissatisfied with a country life, and that he was going to sell his
pleasant cottage. I offered him his price, and the title-deeds will
be executed to-morrow. Will you do me the favour to become my
tenant? The rent is two hundred and fifty dollars."

Mr. Willet spoke very earnestly. It was some moments before there
was any reply. Then Mr. Markland raised his eyes from the floor, and
said, in a low voice, that slightly trembled--

"I saw a house advertised for rent in the city, to-day, which I
thought would suit us. It was small, and the rent three hundred
dollars. On learning the owner's name, I found that he was an old
business friend, with whom I had been quite intimate, and so called
upon him. His reception of me was not over cordial. When I mentioned
my errand, he hesitated in his replies, and finally hinted something
about security for the rent. I left him without a word. To have
replied without an exposure of unmanly weakness would have been
impossible. Keenly, since my misfortunes, have I felt the change in
my relations to the world; but nothing has wounded me so sharply as
this! Mr. Willet, your generous interest in my welfare touches my
heart! Let me talk with my family on the subject. I doubt not that
we will accept your offer thankfully."

CHAPTER XXXVI.

"OUR Father in heaven never leaves us in a pathless desert," said
Mrs. Markland, light breaking through her tear-filled eye. Her
husband had just related the conversation held with Mr. Willet.
"When the sun goes down, stars appear."

"A little while ago, the desert seemed pathless, and no star
glittered in the sky," was answered.

"Yet the path was there, Edward; you had not looked close enough to
your feet," replied his wife.

"It was so narrow that it would have escaped my vision," he said,
faintly sighing.

"If it were not the safest way for you and for all of us, it would
not be the only one now permitted our feet to tread."

"Safest it may be for me; but your feet could walk, securely, a
pathway strewn with flowers. Ah me! the thought that my folly--"

"Edward," Mrs. Markland interrupted him in a quick, earnest voice,
"if you love me, spare me in this. When I laid my hand in yours on
that happy day, which was but the beginning of happier ones, I began
a new life. All thought, all affection, all joy in the present and
hope in the future, were thenceforth to be mingled with your
thought, affection, joy, and hope. Our lives became one. It was
yours to mark out our way through the world; mine to walk by your
side. The path, thus far, has been a flowery one, thanks to your
love and care! But no life-path winds always amid soft and fragrant
meadows. There are desert places on the road, and steep acclivities;
and there are dark, devious valleys, as well as sunny hill-tops.
Pilgrims on the way to the Promised Land, we must pass through the
Valley and the Shadow of Death, and be imprisoned for a time in
Doubting Castle, before the Delectable Mountains are gained. Oh,
Edward, murmur not, but thank God for the path he has shown us, and
for the clear light that falls so warmly upon it. These friends,
whom he has given us in this our darkest hour, are the truest
friends we have yet known. Is it not a sweet compensation for all we
lose, to be near them still, and to have the good a kind Father
dispenses come to us through their hands? Dear husband! in this
night of worldly life, a star of celestial beauty has already
mirrored itself in my heart, and made light one of its hitherto
darkened chambers."

"Sweet philosopher!" murmured her husband, in a softened voice. "A
spirit like yours would illuminate a dungeon."

"If it can make the air bright around my husband, its happiness will
be complete," was softly answered.

"But these reverses are hard to bear," said Mr. Markland, soberly.

"Harder in anticipation than in reality. They may become to us
blessings."

"Blessings? Oh, Agnes! I am not able to see that. It is no light
thing for a man to have the hard accumulations of his best years
swept from him in a moment, and to find himself, when just passing
the meridian of his life, thrown prostrate to the earth."

"There may be richer treasures lying just beneath the surface where
he has fallen, than in all the land of Ophir toward which he was
pressing in eager haste," said Mrs. Markland.

"It may be so." Markland spoke doubtingly.

"It must be so!" was emphatically rejoined. "Ah, Edward, have I not
often warned you against looking far away into the future, instead
of stooping to gather the pearls of happiness that a good Providence
has scattered so profusely around us? They are around us still."

Markland sighed.

"And you may be richer far than imagination has yet pictured. Look
not far away into the shadowy uncertainties of coming time for the
heart's fruition. The stones from which its temple of happiness is
to be erected, if ever built, lie all along the path your feet are
treading. It has been so with you from the beginning--it is so now."

"If I build not this temple, it will be no fault of yours," said
Markland, whose perceptions were becoming clearer.

"Let us build it together," answered his wife. "There will be no
lack of materials."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

WHEN the offer of Mr. Walker's cottage was made known in the family,
there was a passive acquiescence in the change on the part of all
but Aunt Grace. Her pride was aroused.

"It's very kind in Mr. Willet," she said--"very kind, but scarcely
delicate under the circumstances."

"Why not delicate?" inquired Mr. Markland.

"Did they think we were going into that little pigeon-box, just
under the shadow of Woodbine Lodge. If we have to come down so low,
it will not be in this neighbourhood. There's too much pride in the
Markland blood for that!"

"We have but little to do with pride now," said Mrs. Markland.

Her husband sighed. The remark of his sister had quickened his
blood.

"It is the best we can do!" he remarked, sadly.

"Not by any means," said Grace. "There are other neighbourhoods than
this, and other houses to be obtained. Let us go from here; not
remain the observed of all curious observers--objects of remark and
pity!"

Her brother arose while she was speaking, and commenced walking the
room in a disturbed manner. The words of Grace had aroused his
slumbering pride.

"Rather let us do what is best under the circumstances," said Mrs.
Markland, in her quiet way. "People will have their own thoughts,
but these should never turn us from a right course."

"The sight of Woodbine Lodge will rebuke me daily," said Mr.
Markland.

"You cannot be happy in this neighbourhood." Grace spoke in her
emphatic way. "It is impossible!"

"I fear that it is even so," replied her brother.

"Then," said Mrs. Markland, in a firm voice, "we will go hence. I
place nothing against the happiness of my husband. If the sight of
our old home is to trouble him daily, we will put mountains between,
if necessary."

Markland turned toward his wife. She had never looked more beautiful
in his eye.

"Is self-negation to be all on her part?" The thought, flashing
through his mind, changed the current of his feelings, and gave him
truer perceptions.

"No, Agnes," he said, "while a faint smile played around his lips,
"we will not put mountains between us and this neighbourhood. Pride
is a poor counsellor, and they who take heed to her words, sow the
seeds of repentance. In reverse of fortune, we stand not alone.
Thousands have walked this rugged road before us; and shall we
falter, and look weakly back?"

"Not so, Edward!" returned his wife, with enthusiasm; "we will
neither falter nor look back. Our good and evil are often made by
contrasts. We shall not find the way rugged, unless we compare it
too closely with other ways our feet have trodden, and sigh vainly
over the past, instead of accepting the good that is awarded us in
the present. Let us first make the 'rough paths of peevish nature
even,' and the way will be smooth to our feet."

"You will never be happy in this neighbourhood, Edward," said his
sister, sharply; for she saw that the pride her words had awakened
was dying out.

"If he is not happy here, change of place will work no difference."
Mrs. Markland spoke earnestly.

"Why not?" was the quick interrogation of Grace.

"Because happiness is rarely, if ever, produced by a change of
external relations. We must have within us the elements of
happiness; and then the heart's sunshine will lie across our
threshold, whether it be of palace or cottage."

"Truer words were never spoken," said Mr. Markland, "and I feel
their better meaning. No, Agnes, we will not go out from this
pleasant neighbourhood, nor from among those we have proved to be
friends. If Woodbine Lodge ever looks upon me rebukingly, I will try
to acknowledge the justice of the rebuke. I will accept Mr. Willet's
kind offer to-morrow. But what have you to say, Fanny?" Mr. Markland
now turned to his daughter, who had not ventured a word on the
subject, though she had listened with apparent interest to the
conference. "Shall we take Mr. Walker's cottage?"

"Your judgment must decide that, father," was answered.

"But have you no choice in the case, Fanny? We can remove into the
city, or go into some other neighbourhood."

"I will be as happy here as anywhere. Do as seems best, father."

A silence, made in a measure oppressive by Fanny's apparent
indifference to all change, followed. Before other words were spoke,
Aunt Grace withdrew in a manner that showed a mind disturbed. The
conference in regard to the cottage was again resumed, and ended in
the cheerful conclusion that it would afford them the pleasantest
home, in their changed circumstances, of any that it was possible
for them to procure.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

PREPARATION was at once made for the proposed removal. Mr. Walker
went back to the city, and the new owner of the cottage, Mr. Willet,
set carpenters and painters at work to make certain additions which
he thought needful to secure the comfort of his tenants, and to put
every thing in the most thorough repair. Even against the
remonstrance of Mr. Markland, who saw that his generous-minded
neighbour was providing for his family a house worth almost double
the rent that was to be paid, he carried out all his projected
improvements.

"You will embarrass me with a sense of obligation," said Mr.
Markland, in seeking to turn him from a certain purpose regarding
the cottage.

"Do not say so," answered Mr. Willet; "I am only offering
inducements for you to remain with us. If obligation should rest
anywhere, it will be on our side. I make these improvements because
the house is now my own property, and would be defective, to my
mind, without them. Pray, don't let your thoughts dwell on these
things."

Thus he strove to dissipate the feeling of obligation that began to
rest on the mind of his unfortunate neighbour, while he carried out
his purpose. In due time, under the assignment which had been made,
Woodbine Lodge and a large part of the elegant and costly furniture
contained in the mansion, were sold, and the ownership passed into
other hands. With a meagre remnant of their household goods, the
family retired to a humbler house. Some pitied, and stood at a
distance; some felt a selfish pleasure in their fall; and some, who
had courted them in their days of prosperity, were among the
foremost to speak evil against them. But there were a few, and they
the choicest spirits of the neighbourhood, who only drew nearer to
these their friends in misfortune. Among them was Mr. Allison, one
of those wise old men whose minds grow not dim with advancing years.
He had passed through many trying vicissitudes, had suffered, and
come up from the ordeal purer than when the fire laid hold upon the
dross of nature.

A wise monitor had he been in Markland's brighter days, and now he
drew near as a comforter. There is strength in true words kindly
spoken. How often was this proved by Mr. and Mrs. Markland, as their
venerable friend unlocked for them treasures of wisdom!

The little parlour at "Lawn Cottage," the name of their new home,
soon became the scene of frequent reunions among choice spirits,
whose aspirations went higher and deeper than the external and
visible. In closing around Mr. Markland, they seemed to shut him
out, as it were, from the old world in which he had hoped, and
suffered, and struggled so vainly; and to open before his purer
vision a world of higher beauty. In this world were riches for the
toiler, and honour for the noble--riches and honour far more to be
desired than the gems and gold of earth or its empty tributes of
praise.

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