The Good Time Coming

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CHAPTER XLI.

THE first letter received by Mr. Lyon, gave only a vague account of
affairs.

"I arrived yesterday," wrote Leach, "and entered upon my work
immediately. The acquaintance with Mr. Ellis has been renewed. Last
evening I spent with the family, and learned that the Marklands were
living in a pleasant little cottage within sight of Woodbine Lodge;
but could glean few particulars in regard to them. Fanny has
entirely secluded herself. No one seemed to know any thing of her
state of mind, though something about a disappointment in love was
distantly intimated."

The next letter produced considerable excitement in the mind of Mr.
Lyon. His friend wrote:

"There is a person named Willet living in the neighbourhood, who is
very intimate in Markland's family. It is said by some that he more
than fancies the daughter. As he is rich, and of good reputation and
appearance, he may be a dangerous rival."

About a week later, Leach wrote:

"This Willet, of whom I spoke, is the owner of an elegant seat not
far from Markland's. He resides with his mother and sisters, who are
especial favourites among all the neighbours. Next week they give a
large party. In all probability Miss Markland will be there; and I
must contrive to be there also. Mr. Ellis and his family have
recently made their acquaintance, and have received invitations.
Your humble servant will be on the ground, if asking to go under the
shadow of their wings will gain the favour. He is not over modest,
you know. If Fanny Markland should be there, depend upon it, the
golden opportunity will not pass unimproved. She shall hear from
you."

Another week of suspense.

"Don't like the aspect of affairs," wrote the friend. "I was at Mr.
Willet's, and saw Miss Markland. The whole family were particularly
gracious to her. It was her first appearance in any company since
her father's failure. She looked pensive, but charming. In truth, my
friend, she is a girl worth the winning, and no mistake. I think her
lovely. Well, I tried all the evening to get an introduction to her,
but failed, being a stranger. Fortunately, at a late hour, I saw her
leave one of the elegant parlours alone, and go out upon the
portico. This was the opportunity, and I seized it. Boldly ad-
dressing her, I mentioned, after a little play of words, your name.
Said I had a message from you, and, as guardedly as possible,
declared your undying love. But I could not just make her out. She
showed great self-possession under the circumstances, and a
disposition to throw me off. I don't think her heart beats very
warmly toward you. This was the state of affairs when Mr. Willet
made his appearance, and I drew myself away. He said a few words to
her, when she placed her arm within his, and they walked into the
garden alone. I followed at a distance. After admiring a bit of
moon-light fancy-work, they strayed into a summer-house, and I got
close enough to hear what they were talking about; I found that she
was making particular inquiries as to my identity, and that he was
unable to give her the information she desired. I did not feel much
encouraged by the tone in which she alluded to me. Unfortunately, I
rustled a branch in my eagerness to catch every word, and so
discovered myself. Beating a hasty retreat, I went back to the
house, took my hat, and quietly retired, walking most of the way to
the city, a distance of several miles. I have not called upon the
family of Mr. Ellis, and am still in doubt whether it will be wise
to do so."

This communication almost maddened Lyon. There was evidently a rival
in the field, and one who had over him an immense advantage.
Impatiently he waited for the next letter. Three days elapsed before
it came. Tearing open the envelope, he read--

"I don't think there is much chance for you. This Willet has been a
particular friend of the family since their misfortunes. He bought
the cottage in which they live, and offered it to them at a moderate
rent, when almost every one else turned from them coldly. The two
families have ever since maintained a close intimacy; and it is
pretty generally thought that a closer relation will, ere long,
exist between them. I called upon the Ellis's yesterday. Their
reception was far from cordial. I tried to be self-possessed, and as
chatty as usual; but it was uphill work, you may depend on it. Once
I ventured an illusion to the party at Willets; but it was received
with an embarrassed silence. I left early and without the usual
invitation to repeat my visits. To-day I met Mr. Ellis in the
street, and received from him the cut direct! So, you see, affairs
are not progressing very favourably; and the worst is, I am in total
ignorance of the real effect of my interview with Miss Markland upon
her own mind. She may yet retain the communication I made as her own
secret, or have revealed it to her father. His reception of the
matter, if aware of what occurred, is a problem unsolved. I can,
therefore, only say, keep as cool as possible, and wait as patiently
as possible a few days longer, when you shall know the best or the
worst."

A mad imprecation fell from the lips of Mr. Lyon, as he threw this
letter from him. He was baffled completely. Two more days of
wearying suspense went heavily by, and then another letter came to
the impatient waiter.

"This place," so Leach wrote, "will soon be too hot to hold me, I'm
afraid. If not mistaken in the signs, there's something brewing.
Twice, to-day, I've been inquired for at the hotel. To-morrow
morning early I shall prudently change my quarters, and drop down to
Washington in the early cars. A little change in the external man
can be effected there. On the day after, I will return, and, under
cover of my disguised exterior, renew operations. But I can't
flatter you with any hope of success. It's pretty generally believed
that Willet is going to marry Fanny Markland; and the match is too
good a one for a poor girl to decline. He is rich, educated,
honourable; and, people say, kind and good. And, to speak out my
thoughts on the subject, I think she'd be a fool to decline the
arrangement, even against your magnificent proposals. Still, I'm
heart and hand with you, and ready to venture even upon the old
boy's dominions to serve a long-tried friend. There is one
significant fact which I heard to-day that makes strong against you.
It is said that Mr. Willet is about making a change in his business,
and that Markland is to be associated with him in some new
arrangements. That looks as if matters were settled between the two
families. In my next letter I hope to communicate something more
satisfactory."

On the day after receiving this communication, Lyon, while walking
the floor in one of the parlours, saw a man pass in from the street,
and go hurriedly along the hall. The form struck him as strangely
like that of his friend from whom he was hourly in expectation of
another letter. Stepping quickly to the door of the room, he caught
a glimpse of the man ascending the staircase. To follow was a
natural impulse. Doubt was only of brief continuance.

"David!" he exclaimed, on reaching his own apartment. "In the name
of heaven! what does this mean?"

"That you are in danger," was replied, in a tone that made the
villain's heart leap.

"What?" The two men retired within the apartment.

"I fear they are on our track," said Leach.

"Who?"

"The law's fierce bloodhounds!"

"No! impossible!" The face of Lyon grew white as ashes, and his
limbs shook with a sudden, irrepressible tremor.

"Speak out plainly," he added. "What evidence is there of danger?"

"In my last letter, you will remember, I expressed some fear on this
head, and mentioned my purpose to go to Washington and assume a
disguise."

"I do, and have felt troubled about it."

"Well, I was off by the early train on the next morning. As good or
bad luck would have it, the very man who sat next me in the cars was
an individual I had met in the family of Mr. Ellis. He knew me, but
played shy for some time. I pretended not to recognise him at first,
but turning to him suddenly, after we had been under way for ten
minutes or so, I said, as if I had but just become aware of his
identity, 'Why, how are you? I did not know that I had an
acquaintance by my side.' He returned my warm greeting rather
distantly; but there was too much at stake to mind this, and I
determined to thaw him out, which I accomplished in due time. I
found him a free sort of a man to talk, after he got going, and so I
made myself quite familiar, and encouraged him to be outspoken. I
knew he had heard something about my adventure at Mr. Willet's, and
determined to get from him the stories that were afloat on that
subject. All came in good time. But the exaggeration was tremendous.
Fanny had concealed nothing from her father, and he nothing from Mr.
Willet. I was known as your agent and accomplice, and there was a
plan concocting to get possession of my person, and, through me, of
yours. 'Take a friend's advice,' said the man to me, as we stepped
from the cars at Washington, 'and give--a wide berth in future.' I
did take his advice, kept straight on, and am here."

"Confusion!" The pallid face of Lyon had flushed again, and was now
dark with congestion.

"When will the next boat leave for Vera Cruz?" inquired Leach.

"Day after to-morrow," was answered.

"We are in peril here every hour."

"But cannot leave earlier. I hope your fears have magnified the
danger."

"If there be danger at all, it cannot be magnified. Let them once
get you in their hands, and they will demand a fearful retribution."

"I am well aware of that, and do not mean to be left in their
power."

"The telegraph has, no doubt, already put the authorities here on
the alert. My very arrival may have been noted. It will not do for
us to be seen together."

"Ha! I did not think of that!" Lyon was more deeply disturbed. "You
had better go from here at once. Where is your baggage?"

"I ordered it to be sent up."

"Let me see after that. At once pass over to the Levee; go on board
the first boat that is leaving, whether bound up the river or for
Galveston. Only get off from the city, and then make your way to
Mexico. You will find me there."

Fear had now seized upon both of the men, and each saw consternation
in the other's face.

"I am off at the word," said Leach, as he grasped the hand of his
companion.

"Be discreet, self-possessed, and wary." Lyon spoke in a warning
voice.

"I will. And you take good heed to the same advice."

The men were yet standing face to face, each grasping the other's
hand, when both partly turned their heads to listen. There was a
sound of feet at the upper end of the passage, just at the landing,
and it came rapidly nearer. A breathless pause marked the deep
interest of the listeners. A few moments of suspense, in which Lyon
and his companion grew deadly pale, and then the noisy footsteps
were silenced at their very door. A smothered sound of voices was
followed by a trial of the lock, and then by a decided rapping. But
no answer was made to the summons.

Noiselessly, Mr. Lyon drew from a deep side-pocket a loaded
revolver; but the hand of his companion was laid quickly upon his
arm, and his lips, in dumb show, gave the word--

"Madness!"

Lyon shook him off, and deliberately pointed his weapon toward the
door.

"Hallo, there! Are you asleep?"

This loud call came after repeated knocking and rattling. But there
was no response, nor the slightest indication of life within the
chamber.

"They are here, I am certain." These words were distinctly heard by
the anxious inmates.

"Then we must break in the door," was resolutely answered.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, put up that pistol!" hoarsely whispered
Leach. "Such resistance will be fatal evidence against us. Better
open the door and put a bold face upon it."

"Too late!" was just whispered back, when the door flew open with a
crash, and the body of the man who had thrown himself against it
with a force greatly beyond the resistance, fell inward upon the
floor. At the same instant, Lyon exclaimed, in a quick, savage
voice--

"Back, instantly, or you are dead men!"

There was such a will in the words he uttered, that, for a moment,
the men, four in number, fell back from the open door, and in that
instant Lyon sprung past them, and, ere they could recover
themselves, was beyond their reach. His friend made an attempt to
follow, but was seized and made prisoner. The time spent in securing
him was so much of a diversion in favour of Lyon, who succeeded in
getting into the street, ere the alarm extended to the lower part of
the house, and passing beyond immediate observation. But escape from
the city was impossible. The whole police force was on the alert in
half an hour, and in less than an hour he was captured, disguised as
a sailor, on board of a vessel ready cleared and making ready to
drop down the river. He yielded quietly, and, after being taken
before the authorities in the case, was committed for hearing in
default of bail. The arrest was on a requisition from the governor
of New York.

CHAPTER XLII.

FANNY had not hesitated a moment on the question of communicating to
her father the singular occurrence at Mr. Willet's; and Mr. Markland
was prompt not only in writing to two or three of the principal
sufferers by Lyon in New York, but in drawing the attention of the
police to the stranger who had so boldly made propositions to his
daughter. Two men were engaged to watch all his movements, and on no
pretence whatever to lose sight of him. The New York members of the
Company responded instantly to Markland's suggestion, and one of
them came on to confer and act in concert with him. A letter
delivered at the post office to the stranger, it was ascertained,
came by way of New Orleans. A requisition from the governor of New
York to deliver up, as a fugitive from justice, the person of Lee
Lyon, was next obtained. All things were thus brought into readiness
for action, the purpose being to keep two police officers ever on
the track of his accomplice, let him go where he would. Inquiries
were purposely made for this man at the hotel, in order to excite a
suspicion of something wrong, and hasten his flight from the city;
and when he fled at last, the officers, unknown to him, were in the
cars. The telegraph gave intelligence to the police at New Orleans,
and all was in readiness there for the arrival of the party. How
promptly action followed has been seen. On the day after Lyon's
arrest, he was on his way northward, in custody of two officers, who
were already well enough acquainted with his character to be ever on
the alert. Several attempts at escape were made, but they succeeded
in delivering him safely in New York, where he was committed to
prison.

On the day, and almost at the very hour, when the iron doors closed
drearily on the criminal, Fanny Markland was alone with Mr. Willet.
At the earnest desire of Flora, she had gone over to spend the
afternoon at Sweetbriar. The brother came out from the city at
dinner-time, and did not return again--the attractions of his fair
guest being more than he could resist. There had been music and
conversation during the afternoon, and all had been done by the
family to render the visit of Fanny as agreeable as possible; but
she did not seem in as good spirits as usual--her eyes were dreamy,
and her voice had in it a shade of sadness.

Toward evening, she walked out with Flora and her brother. The
conversation turned on the beautiful in nature, and Mr. Willet
talked in his earnest way--every sentence full of poetry to the ears
of at least one absorbed listener. In a pause of the conversation,
Flora left them and went back to the house. For a little while the
silence continued, and then Mr. Willet said, in a tone so changed
that its echo in the maiden's heart made every pulse beat quicker,--

"Fanny, there is one question that I have long desired to ask."

She lifted her eyes to his face timidly, and looked steadily at him
for a few moments; then, as they fell to the ground, she replied--

"You can ask no question that it will not give me pleasure to
answer."

"But this, I fear, will give you pain," said he.

"Pain, you have taught me, is often a salutary discipline."

"True, and may it be so in the present instance. It is not unknown
to me that Mr. Lyon once held a place in your regard--I will go
farther, and say in your affections."

Fanny started, and moved a step from him; but he continued--

"The question I wish to ask is, does there yet remain in your heart
a single point that gives back a reflection of his image? In plainer
words, is he any thing to you?"

"No, nothing!" was the emphatic, almost indignant, answer.

"It is said," resumed Mr. Willet, "that you once loved him."

"He came to me," replied Fanny, "a young, artless, trusting girl, as
an angel of light. Nay, I was only a child, whose ears were unused
to warmer words than fell from the loving lips of parents. Suddenly,
he opened before me a world of enchantment. My whole being was on
fire with a delicious passion. I believed him true and good, and
loved him, because, in my eyes, he was the embodiment of all human
perfections. But time proved that I had only loved an enchanting
ideal, and my heart rejected him with intense loathing."

"Enough," said Willet; "I feel that it must be so."

The two remained silent for the space of nearly a minute; Mr. Willet
then resumed--

"Forgive me if my question has seemed indelicate, and be assured
that I asked it from no idle curiosity. Let me go a little farther;
and, my dear young lady, retain your calmness of spirit. Look into
your heart, but keep every pulsation under control. Since our first
meeting, I have felt a deep interest in you. What you have suffered
has pained me seriously; but the pain has given way to pleasure, for
out of the fire you have come up pure and strong, Fanny! I have but
one word more--there is a sacred place in my heart, and your image
has long been the inhabitant. Here is my hand--will you lay your own
within it, that I may grasp it as mine for life?"

Willet extended his hand as he spoke. There was only a moment's
hesitation on the part of Fanny, who stood with her head bent so far
down that the expression of her face could not be seen. Raising her
eyes in which joy shone through blinding tears, she extended her
hand, which was seized, grasped tightly for an instant, and then
covered with kisses.

CHAPTER XLIII.

NO sooner was Lyon completely in the power of the men he had wronged
to an extent that left no room for mercy, than he made offers of
compromise. A public trial involved not only public disgrace, but he
had too good reasons to fear conviction and penal retribution. This
was the greatest evil he had to dread, and so he made up his mind to
part with at least a portion of his ill-gotten gains. Interview
after interview was held with the parties representing the Company
for which he had been agent, and a final arrangement made for the
restitution of about two hundred thousand dollars--his release not
to take place until the money, or its value, was in the hands of his
creditors. Nearly three months passed in efforts to consummate this
matter, and at last the sum of one hundred and eighty thousand
dollars was obtained, and the miserable, disgraced man set free. He
went forth into the world again with the bitterness of a
life-disappointment at his heart, and a feeling of almost murderous
hate against the men whose confidence he had betrayed, and who
obtained from him only a partial recompense.

Of the sum restored, there fell to Mr. Markland's share about
twenty-five thousand dollars. Its possession quickened in his heart
the old ambitious spirit, and he began to revolve in his thoughts
the ways and means of recovering, by aid of this remnant of his
fortune, the wealth which a scheming villain had wrested from his
grasp. Mr. Willet, whose marriage with his daughter was on the eve
of taking place, had made to him certain proposals in regard to
business, that promised a sure but not particularly brilliant
return. All the required capital was to be furnished. He had not yet
accepted this offer, but was about doing so, when expectation ended
in certainty, and his proportion of the money recovered from Lyon
was paid into his hands.

A rapid change of feelings and plans was the consequence. On the day
that cheeks covering the whole sum awarded to Mr. Markland were
received from New York, he returned early in the afternoon from the
city, his mind buoyant with hope in the future. As the cars swept
around a particular curve on approaching the station at which he was
to alight, "Woodbine Lodge" came in full view, and, with a sudden
impulse he exclaimed "It shall be mine again!"

"The man is not all crushed out of me yet!" There was a proud
swelling of the heart as Markland said this. He had stepped from the
cars at the station, and with a firmer step than usual, and a form
more erect, was walking homeward. Lawn Cottage was soon in view,
nestling peacefully amid embowering trees. How many times during the
past year had a thankful spirit given utterance to words of
thankfulness, as, at day's decline, his homeward steps brought in
view this pleasant hiding-place from the world! It was different
now: the spot wore a changed aspect, and, comparatively, looked
small and mean, for his ideas had suddenly been elevated toward
"Woodbine Lodge," and a strong desire for its re-possession had
seized upon him.

But if, to his disturbed vision, beauty had partially faded from the
external of his home, no shadow dimmed the brightness within. The
happy voices of children fell in music on his ears, and small arms
clasping his neck sent electric thrills of gladness to his heart.
And how full of serene joy was the face of his wife, the angel of
his home as she greeted his return, and welcomed him with words that
never disturbed, but always tranquillized!

"There is a better time coming, Agnes," he said in an exultant
voice, when they were alone that evening. He had informed her of the
settlement of his affairs in New York, and reception of the sum
which had been awarded to him in the division of property recovered
from Mr. Lyon.

"A better time, Edward?" said Mrs. Markland. She seemed slightly
startled at his words, and looked half timidly into his face.

"Yes, a better time, love. I have too long been powerless in the
hands of a stern necessity, which has almost crushed the life out of
me; but morning begins to break, the night is passing, and my way in
the world grows clear again."

"_In_ the world, or _through_ the world?" asked Mrs. Markland, in a
voice and with an expression of countenance that left her meaning in
no doubt.

He looked at her for several moments, his face changing until the
light fading left it almost shadowed.

"Edward," said Mrs. Markland, leaning toward him, and speaking
earnestly, but, lovingly, "you look for a better time. How better?
Are we not happy here? Nay, did we ever know more of true happiness
than since we gathered closer together in this pleasant home? Have
we not found a better time in a true appreciation of the ends of
life? Have we not learned to live, in some feeble degree, that inner
and higher life, from the development of which alone comes the
soul's tranquillity? Ah, Edward, do not let go of these truths that
we have learned. Do not let your eyes become so dazzled by the
splendour of the sun of this world as to lose the power to see into
the inner world of your spirit, and behold the brighter sun that can
make all glorious there."

Markland bent his head, and for a little while a feeling of sadness
oppressed him. The hope of worldly elevation, which had sprung up
with so sudden and brilliant a flame, faded slowly away, and in its
partial death the pains of dissolution were felt. The outer,
visible, tangible world had strong attractions for his natural mind;
and its wealth, distinctions, luxuries, and honours, looked
fascinating in the light of his natural affections; yet glimpses had
already been given to him of another world of higher and diviner
beauty. He had listened, entranced, to its melodies, that came as
from afar off; its fragrant airs had awakened his delighted sense;
he had seen, as in a vision, the beauty of its inhabitants, and now
the words of his wife restored all to his remembrance.

"The good time for which all are looking, and toiling, and waiting
so impatiently," said Mrs. Markland, after a pause, "will never come
to any unless in a change of affection."

"The life must be changed."

"Yes, or, in better words, the love. If that be fixed on mere
outward and natural things, life will be only a restless seeking
after the unattainable--for the natural affections only grow by what
they feed upon--desire ever increasing, until the still panting,
unsatisfied heart has made for itself a hell of misery."

"Thanks, angel of my life!" returned Markland, as soon as he had, in
a measure, recovered himself. "Even the painful lessons I have been
taught would fade from my memory, but for thee!"

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