The Good Time Coming

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

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A few months of this new life wrought a wonderful change in
Markland. All the better elements of his nature were quickened into
activity. Useful daily employment tranquillized his spirits; and not
unfrequently he found himself repeating the words of Longfellow--

"Something attempted, something done,
Had earned a night's repose."

So entirely was every thing of earthly fortune wrecked, and so
changed were all his relations to the business world, that hope had
yet no power to awaken his mind to ambition. For the present,
therefore, he was content to receive the reward of daily toil, and
to be thankful that he was yet able to supply the real wants of his
family. A cheerful tone of feeling gradually succeeded the state of
deep depression from which he had suffered. His spirit, which had
walked in darkness, began to perceive that light was breaking in
through the hitherto impenetrable gloom, and as it fell upon the
path he was treading, a flower was seen here and there, while the
roughness his imagination had pictured became not visible.

Nearly a year had glided away since the wreck of Markland's fortune,
and little or no change in his worldly prospects was visible. He was
sitting late, one evening, reading aloud to his wife from a book
which the latter had received from Mrs. Willet. The rest of the
family had retired. Mrs. Markland was plying her needle busily.
Altered circumstances had made hourly industry on her part a
necessity; yet had they in no way dimmed the cheerful brightness of
her spirits.

"Come, Agnes," said her husband, closing the book, "it is growing
late; and you have worked long enough. I'm afraid your health will
suffer."

"Just a few minutes longer," replied Mrs. Markland, smiling. "I must
finish this apron for Frank. He will want it in the morning." And
her hand moved quicker.

"How true is every word you have been reading!" she added, after a
few moments. "Manifold indeed are the ways in which a wise
Providence dispenses good to the children of men. Mercy is seen in
the cloud as well as in the sunshine. Tears to the spirit are like
rain to the earth."

"The descent looked frightful," said Markland, after a pause--"but
we reached the lower ground uninjured. Invisible hands seemed to
bear us up."

"We have found the land far pleasanter than was imagined; and the
sky above of a purer crystal."

"Yes--yes. It is even so. And if the flowers that spring up at our
feet are not so brilliant, they have a sweeter perfume and a diviner
beauty."

"In this land," said Mrs. Markland, "we see in the visible things
that surround us what was rarely seen before--types of the invisible
things they represent."

"Ah, yes, yes! Scales have fallen from my eyes. I have learned a new
philosophy. In former times, Mr. Allison's words seemed full of
beautiful truths, yet so veiled, that I could not see their genuine
brightness. Now they are like sudden gleams of sunlight on a
darkened landscape."

"Seekers after happiness, like the rest of the world," said Mrs.
Markland, resting her hands upon the table by which she sat, and,
gazing earnestly into her husband's face, "we had lost our way, and
were moving with swift feet in the wrong direction. Suddenly, our
kind Father threw up before us an impassable mountain. Then we
seemed shut out from the land of promise forever, and were in
despair. But he took his weeping, murmuring children by the hand,
and led them gently into another path!"

"Into a narrower way"--Mr. Markland took up the words of his
wife--"and sought by few; yet, it has already brought us into a
pleasant region."

"To speak in less ideal language," said Mrs. Markland, "we have been
taught an all-important lesson. It is this: That there is over each
one of us an intimate providential care which ever has regard to our
eternal good. And the reason of our many and sad disappointments
lies in the fact, that we seek only the gratification of natural
life, in which are the very elements of dissatisfaction. All mere
natural life is selfish life; and natural ends gained only confirm
this selfish life, and produce misery instead of happiness."

"There is no rest," said Markland, "to the striving spirit that only
seeks for the good of this world. How clearly have I seen this of
late, as well in my own case as in that of others! Neither wealth
nor honour have in themselves the elements of happiness; and their
increase brings but an increase of trouble."

"If sought from merely selfish ends," remarked his wife. "Yet their
possession may increase our happiness, if we regard them as the
means by which we may rise into a higher life."

There followed a thoughtful pause. Mrs. Markland resumed her work,
and her husband leaned his head back and remained for some minutes
in a musing attitude.

"Don't you think," he said at length, "that Fanny is growing more
cheerful?"

"Oh, yes. I can see that her state of mind is undergoing a gradual
elevation."

"Poor child! What a sad experience, for one so young, has been hers!
How her whole character has been, to all seeming, transformed. The
light-hearted girl suddenly changed to a thoughtful, suffering
woman!"

"She may be a happier woman in the end," said Mrs. Markland.

"Is that possible?"

"Yes. Suffering has given her a higher capacity for enjoyment."

"And for pain, also," said Mr. Markland.

"She is wiser for the first experience," was replied.

"Yes, there is so much in her favour. I wish," added Mr. Markland,
"that she would go a little more into company. It is not good for
any one to live so secluded a life. Companionship is necessary to
the spirit's health."

"She is not without companions, or, at least, a companion."

"Flora Willet?"

"Yes."

"Good, as far as it goes. Flora is an excellent girl, and wise
beyond her years."

"Can we ask a better companion for our child than one with pure
feelings and true thoughts?"

"No. But I am afraid Flora has not the power to bring her out of
herself. She is so sedate."

"She does not lack cheerfulness of spirit, Edward."

"Perpetual cheerfulness is too passive."

"Her laugh, at times, is delicious," said Mrs. Markland, "going to
your heart like a strain of music, warming it like a golden sunbeam.
Flora's character is by no means a passive one, but rather the
reverse."

"She is usually very quiet when I see her," replied Markland.

"This arises from an instinctive deference to those who are older."

"Fanny is strongly attached to her, I think."

"Yes; and the attachment I believe to be mutual."

"Would not Flora, at your suggestion, seek to draw her gradually
forth from her seclusion?"

"We have talked together on that subject several times," replied
Mrs. Markland, "and are now trying to do the very thing you
suggest."

"With any prospect of accomplishing the thing desired?"

"I believe so. There is to be company at Mr. Willet's next week, and
we have nearly gained Fanny's consent to be present."

"Have you? I am indeed gratified to learn this."

"Flora has set her heart on gaining Fanny's consent, and will leave
no influence untried."

"Still, Fanny's promise to go is withheld?"

"Yes; but I have observed her looking over her drawers, and showing
more interest in certain articles therein than she has evinced for a
long, long time."

"If she goes, she will require a new dress," said Mr. Markland.

"I think not. Such preparation would be too formal at present. But,
we can make that all right."

"Oh! it will give me so much pleasure! Do not leave any influence
untried."

"You may be sure that we will not," answered Mrs. Markland; "and,
what is more, you have little to fear touching our success."

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE efforts of Flora Willet were successful; and Fanny Markland made
one of the company that assembled at her brother's house. Through an
almost unconquerable reluctance to come forth into the eye of the
world, so to speak, she had broken; and, as one after another of the
guests entered the parlours, she could hardly repress an impulse to
steal away and hide herself from the crowd of human faces thickly
closing around her. Undesired, she found herself an object of
attention; and, in some cases, of clearly-expressed sympathy, that
was doubly unpleasant.

The evening was drawing to a close, and Fanny had left the company
and was standing alone in one of the porticos, when a young man,
whose eyes she had several times observed earnestly fixed upon her,
passed near, walked a few paces beyond, and then turning, came up
and said, in a low voice--"Pardon this slight breach of etiquette,
Miss Markland. I failed to get a formal introduction. But, as I have
a few words to say that must be said, I am forced to a seeming
rudeness."

Both the manner and words of the stranger so startled Fanny, that
her heart began to throb wildly and her limbs to tremble. Seeing her
clasp the pillar by which she stood, he said, as he offered an arm--

"Walk with me, for a few minutes at the other end of the portico. We
will be less observed, and freer from interruption."

But Fanny only shrunk closer to the pillar.

"If you have any thing to say to me, let it be said here," she
replied. Her trembling voice betrayed her agitation.

"What I have to say, concerns you deeply," returned the young man,
"and you ought to hear it in a calmer mood. Let us remove a little
farther from observation, and be less in danger of interruption."

"Speak, or retire!" said Fanny, with assumed firmness, waving her
hand as she spoke.

But the stranger only bent nearer.

"I have a word for you from Mr. Lyon," said he, in a low, distinct
whisper.

It was some moments before Fanny made answer. There was a wild
strife in her spirit. But the tempest was of brief duration.
Scarcely a perceptible tremor was in her voice, as she answered,

"It need not be spoken."

"Say not so, Miss Markland. If, in any thing, you have
misapprehended him--"

"Go, sir!" And Fanny drew herself up to her full height, and pointed
away with her finger.

"Mr. Lyon has ever loved you with the most passionate devotion,"
said the stranger. "In some degree he is responsible for the
misfortune of your father; and now, at the first opportunity for
doing so, he is ready to tender a recompense. Partly for this
purpose, and partly to bear to you the declaration of Mr. Lyon's
unwavering regard, am I here."

"He has wronged, deeply wronged my father," replied Fanny, something
of the imperious tone and manner with which she had last spoken
abating. "If prepared to make restitution in any degree, the way can
easily be opened."

"Circumstances," was answered, "conspired to place him in a false
position, and make him the instrument of wrong to those for whom he
would at any time have sacrificed largely instead of becoming the
minister of evil."

"What does he propose?" asked Fanny.

"To restore your father to his old position. Woodbine Lodge can be
purchased from the present owner. It may become your home again."

"It is well," said Fanny. "Let justice be done."

She was now entirely self-possessed, bore herself firmly erect, and
spoke without apparent emotion. Standing with her back to the
window, through which light came, her own face was in shadow, while
that of her companion was clearly seen.

"Justice will be done," replied the young man, slightly embarrassed
by the replies of Fanny, the exact meaning of which he did not
clearly perceive.

"Is that all you have to communicate?" said the young girl, seeing
that he hesitated.

"Not all."

"Say on, then."

"There are conditions."

"Ah! Name them."

"Mr. Lyon still loves you with an undying tenderness."

Fanny waved her hand quickly, as if rejecting the affirmation, and
slightly averted her head, but did not speak.

"His letters ceased because he was in no state to write; not because
there was any change in his feelings toward you. After the terrible
disaster to the Company, for which he has been too sweepingly
blamed, he could not write."

"Where is he now?" inquired the maiden.

"I am not yet permitted to answer such a question."

There came a pause.

"What shall I say to him from you?"

"Nothing!" was the firm reply.

"Nothing? Think again, Miss Markland."

"Yes; say to him, that the mirror which once reflected his image in
my heart, is shattered forever."

"Think of your father," urged the stranger.

"Go, sir!" And Fanny again waved her hand for him to leave her.
"Your words are an offence to me."

A form intercepted at this moment the light which came through one
of the doors opening upon the portico, and Fanny stepped forward a
pace or two.

"Ah! Miss Markland, I've been looking for you."

It was Mr. Willet. The stranger moved away as the other approached,
yet remained near enough to observe them. Fanny made no response.

"There is a bit of moonlight scenery that is very beautiful," said
Mr. Willet. "Come with me to the other side of the house."

And he offered his arm, through which Fanny drew hers without
hesitation. They stepped from the piazza, and passed in among the
fragrant shrubbery, following one of the garden walks, until they
were in view of the scene to which Mr. Willet referred. A heavy bank
of clouds had fallen in the east, and the moon was just struggling
through the upper, broken edges, along which her gleaming silver lay
in fringes, broad belts, and fleecy masses, giving to the dark
vapours below a deeper blackness. Above all this, the sky was
intensely blue, and the stars shone down with a sharp, diamond-like
lustre. Beneath the bank of clouds, yet far enough in the foreground
of this picture to partly emerge from obscurity, stood, on an
eminence, a white marble building, with columns of porticos, like a
Grecian temple. Projected against the dark background were its
classic outlines, looking more like a vision of the days of Pericles
than a modern verity.

"Only once before have I seen it thus," said Mr. Willet, after his
companion had gazed for some time upon the scene without speaking,
"and ever since, it has been a picture in my memory."

"How singularly beautiful!" Fanny spoke with only a moderate degree
of enthusiasm, and with something absent in her manner. Mr. Willet
turned to look into her face, but it lay too deeply in shadow. For a
short time they stood gazing at the clouds, the sky, and the snowy
temple. Then Mr. Willet passed on, with the maiden, threading the
bordered garden walks, and lingering among the trees, until they
came to one of the pleasant summer-houses, all the time seeking to
awaken some interest in her mind. She had answered all his remarks
so briefly and in so absent a manner, that he was beginning to
despair, when she said, almost abruptly--

"Did you see the person who was with me on the portico, when you
came out just now?"

"Yes."

"Do you know him?"

"He's a stranger to me," said Mr. Willet; "and I do not even
remember his name. Mr. Ellis introduced him."

"And you invited him to your house?"

"No, Miss Markland. We invited Mr. and Mrs. Ellis, and they brought
him as their friend."

"Ah!" There was something of relief in her tone.

"But what of him?" said Mr. Willet. "Why do you inquire about him so
earnestly?"

Fanny made no answer.

"Did he in any way intrude upon you?" Mr. Willet spoke in a quicker
voice.

"I have no complaint to make against him," replied Fanny. "And yet I
ought to know who he is, and where he is from."

"You shall know all you desire," said her companion. "I will obtain
from Mr. Ellis full information in regard to him."

"You will do me a very great favour."

The rustling of a branch at this moment caused both of them to turn
in the direction from which the sound came. The form of a man was,
for an instant, distinctly seen, close to the summer-house. But it
vanished, ere more than the dim outline was perceived.

"Who can that be, hovering about in so stealthy a manner?" Mr.
Willet spoke with rising indignation, starting to his feet as he
uttered the words.

"Probably the very person about whom we were conversing," said
Fanny.

"This is an outrage! Come, Miss Markland, let us return to the
house, and I will at once make inquiry of Mr. Ellis about this
stranger."

Fanny again took the proffered arm of Mr. Willet, and the two went
silently back, and joined the company from which they had a little
while before retired. The latter at once made inquiry of Mr. Ellis
respecting the stranger who had been introduced to him. The answers
were far from being satisfactory.

"He is a young man whose acquaintance I made about a year ago. He
was then a frequent visitor in my family, and we found him an
intelligent, agreeable companion. For several months he has been
spending his time at the South. A few weeks ago, he returned and
renewed his friendly relations. On learning that we were to be among
your guests on this occasion, he expressed so earnest a desire to be
present, that we took the liberty sometimes assumed among friends,
and brought him along. If we have, in the least, trespassed on our
privileges as your guests, we do most deeply regret the
circumstance."

And this was all Mr. Willet could learn, at the time, in reference
to the stranger, who, on being sought for, was nowhere to be found.
He had heard enough of the conversation that passed between Mr.
Willet and Fanny, as he listened to them while they sat in the
summer-house, to satisfy him that if he remained longer at
"Sweetbrier," he would become an object of the host's too careful
observation.

CHAPTER XL.

A FEW weeks prior to the time at which the incidents of the
preceding chapter occurred, a man, with a rough, neglected exterior,
and face almost hidden by an immense beard, landed at New Orleans
from one of the Gulf steamers, and was driven to the St. Charles
Hotel. His manner was restless, yet wary. He gave his name as
Falkner, and repaired at once to the room assigned to him.

"Is there a boarder in the house named Leach?" he made inquiry of
the servant who came up with his baggage.

"There is," was replied.

"Will you ascertain if he is in, and say that I wish to see him?"

"What name, sir?" inquired the servant.

"No matter. Give the number of my room."

The servant departed, and in a few minutes conducted a man to the
apartment of the stranger.

"Ah! you are here!" exclaimed the former, starting forward, and
grasping tightly the hand that was extended to receive him. "When
did you arrive?"

"This moment."

"From--?"

"No matter where from, at present. Enough that I am here." The
servant had retired, and the closed door was locked. "But there is
one thing I don't just like."

"What is that?"

"You penetrated my disguise too easily."

"I expected you, and knew, when inquired for, by whom I was wanted."

"That as far as it goes. But would you have known me if I had passed
you in the street?"

The man named Leach took a long, close survey of the other, and then
replied--

"I think not, for you are shockingly disfigured. How did you manage
to get that deep gash across your forehead?"

"It occurred in an affray with one of the natives; I came near
losing my life."

"A narrow escape, I should say."

"It was. But I had the satisfaction of shooting the bloody rascal
through the heart." And a grin of savage pleasure showed the man's
white teeth gleaming below the jetty moustache.--"Well, you see I am
here," he added, "boldly venturing on dangerous ground."

"So I see. And for what? You say that I can serve you again; and I
am in New Orleans to do your bidding."

"You can serve me, David," was answered, with some force of
expression. "In fact, among the large number of men with whom I have
had intercourse, you are the only one who has always been true to
me, and" (with a strongly-uttered oath) "I will never fail you, in
any extremity."

"I hope never to put your friendship to any perilous test," replied
the other, smiling. "But say on."

"I can't give that girl up. Plague on her bewitching face! it has
wrought upon me a kind of enchantment. I see it ever before me as a
thing of beauty. David! she must be mine at any sacrifice!"

"Who? Markland's pretty daughter?"

"Yes."

"Better start some other game," was bluntly answered. "Your former
attempt to run this down came near ruining every thing."

"No danger of that now. The ingots are all safe;" and the man gave a
shrug.

"Lyon--"

"My name is Falkner. Don't forget it, if you please!" The speaker
contracted his brows.

"Falkner, then. What I want to say is this: Let well enough alone.
If the ingots are safe, permit them to remain so. Don't be foolhardy
enough to put any one on the scent of them."

"Don't be troubled about that. I have sacrificed too much in gaining
the wealth desired ever to hold it with a careless or relaxing
grasp. And yet its mere possession brings not the repose of mind,
the sense of independence, that were so pleasingly foreshadowed.
Something is yet lacking to make the fruition complete. I want a
companion; and there is only one, in the wide world, who can be to
me what I desire."

"Fanny Markland?"

"Yes."

"You wish to make her your wife?"

"She is too pure to be happy in any other relation. Yes; I wish to
gain her for my bride."

"A thing more difficult than you imagine."

"The task may be difficult; but, I will not believe, impossible."

"And it is in this matter you desire my service?"

"Yes."

"I am ready. Point the way, and I will go. Digest the plan, and I am
the one to carry it out."

"You must go North."

"Very well."

"Do you know how her father is situated at present?"

"He is a poor clerk in a jobbing-house."

"Indeed! They stripped him of every thing?"

"Yes. Woodbine Lodge vanished from beneath his feet as if it had
been an enchanted island."

"Poor man! I am sorry for him. I never contemplated so sweeping a
disaster in his case. But no one can tell, when the ball leaves his
hand, what sort of a strike will be made. How does he bear it, I
wonder?"

"Don't know. It must have been a terrible fall for him."

"And Fanny? Have you learned nothing in regard to her?"

"Nothing."

"Did you keep up a correspondence with the family whose acquaintance
you made in--?"

"The family of Mr. Ellis? No; not any regular correspondence. We
passed a letter or two, when I made a few inquiries about the
Marklands, and particularly mentioned Fanny; but heard no further
from them."

"There are no landmarks, then?" said Lyon.

"None."

"You must start immediately for the North. I will remain here until
word comes from you. Ascertain, first, if you can, if there is any
one connected with the Company who is yet on the alert in regard to
myself; and write to me all the facts you learn on this head
immediately. If it is not safe to remain in the United States, I
will return to the city of Mexico, and we can correspond from there.
Lose no time in gaining access to Miss Markland, and learn her state
of mind in regard to me. She cannot fail to have taken her father's
misfortunes deeply to heart; and your strongest appeal to her may be
on his behalf. It is in my power to restore him to his former
position, and, for the sake of his daughter, if needful, that will
be done."

"I comprehend you; and trust me to accomplish all you desire, if in
human power. Yet I cannot help expressing surprise at the singular
fascination this girl has wrought upon you. I saw her two or three
times, but perceived nothing very remarkable about her. She is
pretty enough; yet, in any company of twenty women, you may pick out
three far handsomer. What is the peculiar charm she carries about
her?"

"It is nameless, but all-potent, and can only be explained
psychologically, I suppose. No matter, however. The girl is
necessary to my happiness, and I must secure her."

"By fair means, or foul?" His companion spoke inquiringly.

"I never hesitate about the means to be employed when I attempt the
accomplishment of an object," was replied. "If she cannot be
prevailed upon to come to me willingly, stratagem--even force--must
be used. I know that she loves me; for a woman who once loves, loves
always. Circumstances may have cooled, even hardened, the surface of
her feelings, but her heart beneath is warm toward me still. There
may be many reasons why she would not voluntarily leave her home for
the one I promised her, however magnificent; but, if removed without
her own consent, after the change, she may find in my love the
highest felicity her heart could desire."

"My faith is not strong," said Leach, "and never has been, in the
stability of love. But you have always manifested a weakness in this
direction; and, I suppose, it runs in the blood. Probably, if you
carry the girl off, (not so easy a thing, by-the-way, nor a safe
operation to attempt,) you can make all smooth with her by doing
something handsome for her father."

"No doubt of it. I could restore Woodbine Lodge to his possession,
and settle two or three thousand a year on him beside."

"Such arguments might work wonders," said the accomplice.

A plan of operations was settled during the day, and early on the
next morning the friend of Mr. Lyon started northward.

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