The Good Time Coming

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"So he did," answered Fanny, in a quickened tone of voice, and with
a manner slightly disturbed.

"Then I was in error," said Mr. Allison, speaking partly to himself.
"I thought I passed him in the road, half an hour ago. The
resemblance was at least a very close one. You are certain he went
South?"

"Oh! yes, sir," replied Fanny, quickly.

Mr. Allison looked intently upon her, until her eyes wavered and
fell to the ground. He continued to observe her for some moments,
and only withdrew his gaze when he saw that she was about to look
up. A faint sigh parted the old man's lips. Ah! if a portion of his
wisdom, experience, and knowledge of character, could only be
imparted to that pure young spirit, just about venturing forth into
a world where mere appearances of truth deceive and fascinate!

"Does Mr. Lyon design returning soon from the South?"

"I heard him say to father that he did not think he would be in this
part of the world again for six or eight months."

And again the eyes of Fanny shunned the earnest gaze of Mr. Allison.

"How far South does he go?"

"I am not able to answer you clearly; but I think I heard father say
that he would visit Central America."

"Ah! He is something of a traveller, then?"

"Yes, sir; he has travelled a great deal."

"He is an Englishman?"

"Yes, sir. His father is an old business friend of my father's."

"So I understood."

There was a pause, in which Mr. Allison seemed to be thinking
intently.

"It is a little singular, certainly," said he, as if speaking only
to himself.

"What is singular?" asked Fanny, looking curiously at her companion.

"Why, that I should have been so mistaken. I doubted not, for a
moment, that the person I saw was Mr. Lyon."

Fanny did not look up. If she had done so, the gaze fixed upon her
would have sent a deeper crimson to her cheek than flushed it a few
moments before.

"Have you any skill in reading character, Fanny?" asked Mr. Allison,
in a changed and rather animated voice, and with a manner that took
away the constraint that had, from the first, oppressed the mind of
the young girl.

"No very great skill, I imagine," was the smiling answer.

"It is a rare, but valuable gift," said the old man. "I was about to
call it an art; but it is more a gift than an art; for, if not
possessed by nature, it is too rarely acquired. Yet, in all pure
minds, there is something that we may call analogous--a perception
of moral qualities in those who approach us. Have you never felt an
instinctive repugnance to a person on first meeting him?"

"Oh, yes."

"And been as strongly attracted in other cases?"

"Often."

"Have you ever compared this impression with your subsequent
knowledge of the person's character?"

Fanny thought for a little while, and then said--

"I am not sure that I have, Mr. Allison."

"You have found yourself mistaken in persons after some acquaintance
with them?"

"Yes; more than once."

"And I doubt not, that if you had observed the impression these
persons made on you when you met them for the first time, you would
have found that impression a true index to their character. Scarcely
noticing these first impressions, which are instinctive perceptions
of moral qualities, we are apt to be deceived by the exterior which
almost every one assumes on a first acquaintance; and then, if we
are not adepts at reading character, we may be a long time in
finding out the real quality. Too often this real character is
manifested, after we have formed intimate relations with the person,
that may not be dissolved while the heart knows a life-throb. Is
that not a serious thought, Fanny?"

"It is, Mr. Allison,--a very serious, and a solemn thought."

"Do you think that you clearly comprehend my meaning?"

"I do not know that I see all you wish me to comprehend," answered
Fanny.

"May I attempt to make it clearer?"

"I always listen to you with pleasure and profit, Mr. Allison," said
Fanny.

"Did you ever think that your soul had senses as well as your body?"
inquired the old man.

"You ask me a strange question. How can a mere spirit--an airy
something, so to speak--have senses?"

"Do you never use the words--'I see it clearly'--meaning that you
see some form of truth presented to your mind. As, for instance,--if
I say, 'To be good is to be happy,' you will answer, 'Oh, yes; I see
that clearly.' Your soul, then, has, at least, the sense of sight.
And that it has the sense of taste also, will, I think, be clear to
you, when you remember bow much you enjoy the reading of a good
book, wherein is food for the mind. Healthy food is sometimes
presented in so unpalatable a shape, that the taste rejects it; and
so it is with truth, which is the mind's food. I instance this, to
make it clearer to you. So you see that the soul has at least two
senses--sight and taste. That it has feeling needs scarcely an
illustration. The mind is hurt quite as easily as the body, and, the
path of an injury is usually more permanent. The child who has been
punished unjustly feels the injury inflicted on his spirit, days,
months, and, it may be, years, after the body has lost the smarting
consciousness of stripes. And you know that sharp words pierce the
mind with acutest pain. We may speak daggers, as well as use them.
Is this at all clear to you, Miss Markland?"

"Oh, very clear! How strange that I should never have thought of
this myself! Yes--I see, hear, taste, and feel with my mind, as well
as with my body."

"Think a little more deeply," said the old man. "If the mind have
senses, must it not have a body?"

"A body! You are going too deep for me, Mr. Allison. We say mind and
body, to indicate that one is immaterial, and the other
substantial."

"May there not be such a thing as a spiritual as well as a material
substance?"

"To say spiritual substance, sounds, in my ears, like a
contradiction in terms," said Fanny.

"There must be a substance before there can be a permanent
impression. The mind receives and retains the most lasting
impressions; therefore, it must be an organized substance--but
spiritual, not material. You will see this clearer, if you think of
the endurance of habit. 'As the twig is bent, the tree's inclined,'
is a trite saying that aptly illustrates the subject about which we
are now conversing. If the mind were not a substance and a form, how
could it receive and retain impressions?"

"True."

"And to advance a step further--if the mind have form, what is that
form?"

"The human form, if any," was the answer.

"Yes. And of this truth the minds of all men have a vague
perception. A cruel man is called a human monster. In thus speaking,
no one thinks of the mere physical body, but of the inward man.
About a good man, we say there is something truly human. And believe
me, my dear young friend, that our spirits are as really organized
substances as our bodies--the difference being, that one is an
immaterial and the other a material substance; that we have a
spiritual body, with spiritual senses, and all the organs and
functions that appertain to the material body, which is only a
visible and material outbirth from the spiritual body, and void of
any life but what is thence derived."

"I see, vaguely, the truth of what you say," remarked Fanny, "and am
bewildered by the light that falls into my mind."

"My purpose in all this," said Mr. Allison, "is to lead you to the
perception of a most important fact. Still let your thoughts rest
intently on what I am saying. You are aware of the fact, that
material substances, as well inorganic as organic, are constantly
giving off into the atmosphere minute particles, which we call
odors, and which reveal to us their quality. The rose and
nightshade, the hawthorn and cicuta fill the air around them with
odors which our bodily senses instantly perceive. And it is the same
with animals and men. Each has a surrounding material sphere, which
is perceived on a near approach, and which indicates the material
quality. Now, all things in nature are but effects from interior
causes, and correspond to them in every minute particular. What is
true of the body will be found true of the mind. Bodily form and
sense are but the manifestation, in this outer world, of the body
and senses that exist in the inner world. And if around the natural
body there exist a sphere by which the natural senses may determine
its quality of health or impurity, in like manner is there around
the spiritual body a sphere of its quality, that may be discerned by
the spiritual senses. And now come back to the philosophy of first
impressions, a matter so little understood by the world. These first
impressions are rarely at fault, and why? Because the spiritual
quality is at once discerned by the spiritual sense. But, as this
kind of perception does not fall into the region of thought, it is
little heeded by the many. Some, in all times, have observed it more
closely than others, and we have proverbs that could only have
originated from such observation. We are warned to beware of that
man from whose presence a little child shrinks. The reason to me is
plain. The innocent spirit of the child is affected by the evil
sphere of the man, as its body would be if brought near to a noxious
plant that was filling the air with its poisonous vapours. And now,
dear Fanny,"--Mr. Allison took the maiden's hand in his, and spoke
in a most impressive voice--"think closely and earnestly on what I
have said. If I have taxed your mind with graver thoughts than are
altogether pleasant, it is because I desire most sincerely to do you
good. The world into which you are about stepping, is a false and
evil world, and along all its highways and byways are scattered the
sad remains of those who have perished ere half their years were
numbered; and of the crowd that pressed onward, even to the farthest
verge of natural life, how few escape the too common lot of
wretchedness! The danger that most threatens you, in the
fast-approaching future, is that which threatens every young maiden.
Your happiness or misery hangs nicely poised, and if you have not a
wise discrimination, the scale may take a wrong preponderance. Alas!
if it should be so!"

Mr. Allison paused a moment, and then said:

"Shall I go on?"

"Oh, yes! Speak freely. I am listening to your words as if they came
from the lips of my own father."

"An error in marriage is one of life's saddest errors, said Mr.
Allison.

"I believe that," was the maiden's calm remark; yet Mr. Allison saw
that her eyes grew instantly brighter, and the hue of her cheeks
warmer.

"In a _true_ marriage, there must be good moral qualities. No
pure-minded woman can love a man for an instant after she discovers
that he is impure, selfish, and evil. It matters not how high his
rank, how brilliant his intellect, how attractive his exterior
person, how perfect his accomplishments. In her inmost spirit she
will shrink from him, and feel his presence as a sphere of
suffocation. Oh! can the thought imagine a sadder lot for a
true-hearted woman! And there is no way of escape. Her own hands
have wrought the chains that bind her in a most fearful bondage."

Again Mr. Allison paused, and regarded his young companion with a
look of intense interest.

"May heaven spare you from such a lot!" he said, in a low, subdued
voice.

Fanny made no reply. She sat with her eyes resting on the ground,
her lips slightly parted, and her cheeks of a paler hue.

"Can you see any truth in what I have been saying?" asked Mr.
Allison, breaking in upon a longer pause than he had meant should
follow his last remark.

"Oh, yes, yes; much truth. A new light seems to have broken suddenly
into my mind."

"Men bear about them a spiritual as well as a natural sphere of
their quality."

"If there is a spiritual form, there must be a spiritual quality,"
said Fanny, partly speaking to herself, as if seeking more fully to
grasp the truth she uttered.

"And spiritual senses, as well, by which qualities may be
perceived," added Mr. Allison.

"Yes,--yes." She still seemed lost in her own thoughts.

"As our bodily senses enable us to discern the quality of material
objects, and thus to appropriate what is good, and reject what is
evil; in like manner will our spiritual senses serve us, and in a
much higher degree, if we will but make the effort to use them."

"I see but darkly. Oh! that my vision were clearer!" exclaimed the
maiden, while a troubled expression slightly marred her beautiful
face.

"Ever, my dear young friend," said Mr. Allison, impressively, "be
true to your native instincts. They will quickly warn you, if evil
approaches. Oh! heed the warning. Give no favourable regard to the
man toward whom you feel an instinctive repulsion at the first
meeting. No matter what his station, connections, or personal
accomplishments--heed the significant warning. Do not let the
fascinations of a brilliant exterior, nor even ardent expressions of
regard, make you for a moment forget that, when he first came near
you, your spirit shrunk away, as from something that would do it
harm. If you observe such a man closely, weigh all that he does and
says, when ardent in the pursuit of some desired object, you will
not lack for more palpable evidences of his quality than the simple
impression which the sphere of his life made at your first meeting.
Guarded as men are, who make an exterior different from their real
quality, they are never able to assume a perfect disguise--no more
than a deformed person can so hide, by dress, the real shape, that
the attentive eye cannot discern its lack of symmetry. The eyes of
your spirit see truths, as your natural eyes see material objects;
and truths are real things. There are true principles, which, if
obeyed, lead to what is good; and there are false principles, which,
if followed, lead to evil. The one conducts to happiness, the other
to inevitable misery. The warning which another sense, corresponding
with the perception of odours in the body, gives you of evil in a
man, at his first approach, is intended to put you on your guard,
and lead to a closer observation of the person. The eyes of your
understanding, if kept clear, will soon give you evidence as to his
quality that cannot be gainsaid. And, believe me, Fanny, though a
slight acquaintance may seem to contradict the instinctive judgment,
in nine cases out of ten the warning indication will be verified in
the end. Do you understand me?"

"Oh, yes--yes," was the low, but earnest response. Yet the maiden's
eyes were not lifted from the ground.

"Will you try and remember what I have said, Fanny?"

"I can never forget it, Mr. Allison--never!" She seemed deeply
disturbed.

Both were silent for some time. Mr. Allison then said:

"But the day is waning, my dear young friend. It is time we were
both at home."

"True." And Fanny arose and walked by the old man's side, until
their ways diverged. Both of their residences were in sight and near
at hand.

"Do not think of me, Fanny," said Mr. Allison, when about parting
with his companion, "as one who would oppress you with thoughts too
serious for your years. I know the dangers that lie in your path of
life, and only seek to guard you from evil. Oh! keep your spirit
pure, and its vision clear. Remember what I have said, and trust in
the unerring instinct given to every innocent heart."

The old man had taken her hand, and was looking tenderly down upon
her sweet, young face. Suddenly her eyes were lifted to his. There
was a strong light in them.

"God bless you, sir!"

The energy with which these unexpected words were spoken, almost
startled Mr. Allison. Ere he had time for a response, Fanny had
turned from him, and was bounding away with fleet footsteps toward
her home.

CHAPTER X.

EARNESTLY as Fanny Markland strove to maintain a calm exterior
before her mother and aunt, the effort availed not; and so, as early
in the evening as she could retire from the family, without
attracting observation, she did so. And now she found herself in a
state of deep disquietude. Far too young was the maiden to occupy,
with any degree of calmness, the new position in which she was so
unexpectedly placed. The sudden appearance of Mr. Lyon, just when
his image was beginning to take the highest place in her mind, and
the circumstances attending that appearance, had, without effacing
the image, dimmed its brightness. Except for the interview with Mr.
Allison, this effect might not have taken place. But his words had
penetrated deeply, and awakened mental perceptions that it was now
impossible to obscure by any fond reasonings in favour of Mr. Lyon.
How well did Fanny now remember the instant repulsion felt towards
this man, on their first meeting. She had experienced an instant
constriction about the heart, as if threatened with suffocation. The
shadow, too, about which Aunt Grace had spoken, had also been
perceived by her. But in a little while, under the sunshine of a
most fascinating exterior, all these first impressions were lost,
and, but for the words of Mr. Allison, would have been regarded as
false impressions. Too clearly had the wise old man presented the
truth--too clearly had he elevated her thoughts into a region where
the mind sees with a steadier vision--to leave her in danger of
entering the wrong way, without a distinct perception that it was
wrong.

In a single hour, Fanny's mind had gained a degree of maturity,
which, under the ordinary progression of her life, would not have
come for years. But for this, her young, pure heart would have
yielded without a struggle. No voice of warning would have mingled
in her ears with the sweet voice of the wooer. No string would have
jarred harshly amid the harmonies of her life. The lover who came to
her with so many external blandishments--who attracted her with so
powerful a magnetism--would have still looked all perfection in her
eyes. Now, the film was removed; and if she could not see all that
lay hidden beneath a fair exterior, enough was visible to give the
sad conviction that evil might be there.

Yet was Fanny by no means inclined to turn herself away from Mr.
Lyon. Too much power over her heart had already been acquired. The
ideal of the man had grown too suddenly into a most palpable image
of beauty and perfection. Earnestly did her heart plead for him.
Sad, even to tears, was it, at the bare thought of giving him up.
There was yet burning on her pure forehead the hot kiss he had left
there a few hours before--her hand still felt his thrilling
touch--his words of love were in her ears--she still heard the
impassioned tones in which he had uttered his parting "God bless
you!"

Thus it was with the gentle-hearted girl, exposed, far too soon in
life, to influences which stronger spirits than hers could hardly
have resisted.

Midnight found Mrs. Markland wakeful and thoughtful. She had
observed something unusual about Fanny, and noted the fact of her
early retirement, that evening, from the family. Naturally enough,
she connected this change in her daughter's mind with the letter
received from Mr. Lyon, and it showed her but too plainly that the
stranger's image was fixing itself surely in the young girl's heart.
This conviction gave her pain rather than pleasure. She, too, had
felt that quick repulsion towards Mr. Lyon, at their first meeting,
to which we have referred; and with her, no after acquaintance ever
wholly removed the effect of a first experience like this.

Midnight, as we have said, found her wakeful and thoughtful. The
real cause of her husband's absence was unknown to her; but,
connecting itself, as it did, with Mr. Lyon,--he had written her
that certain business, which he had engaged to transact for Mr.
Lyon, required his presence in New York,--and following so soon upon
his singularly restless and dissatisfied state of mind, the fact
disquieted her. The shadow of an approaching change was dimming the
cheerful light of her spirit.

Scarcely a moment since the reception of her husband's letter,
enclosing one for Fanny, was the fact that Mr. Lyon had made
advances toward her daughter--yet far too young to have her mind
bewildered by love's mazy dream--absent from her mind. It haunted
even her sleeping hours. And the more she thought of it, the more
deeply it disturbed her. As an interesting, and even brilliant,
companion, she had enjoyed his society. With more than usual
interest had she listened to his varied descriptions of personages,
places, and events; and she had felt more than a common admiration
for his high mental accomplishments. But, whenever she imagined him
the husband of her pure-hearted child, it seemed as if a heavy hand
lay upon her bosom, repressing even respiration itself.

Enough was crowding into the mind of this excellent woman to drive
slumber from her eyelids. The room adjoining was occupied by Fanny,
and, as the communicating door stood open, she was aware that the
sleep of her child was not sound. Every now and then she turned
restlessly in her bed; and sometimes muttered incoherently. Several
times did Mrs. Markland raise herself and lean upon her elbow, in a
listening attitude, as words, distinctly spoken, fell from the lips
of her daughter. At last the quickly uttered sentence, "Mother!
mother! come!" caused her to spring from the bed and hurry to her
child.

"What is it, Fanny? What has frightened you?" she said, in a gentle,
encouraging voice. But Fanny only muttered something incoherent, in
her sleep, and turned her face to the wall.

For several minutes did Mrs. Markland sit upon the bedside,
listening, with an oppressed feeling, to the now calm respiration of
her child. The dreams which had disturbed her sleep, seemed to have
given place to other images. The mother was about returning to her
own pillow, when Fanny said, in a voice of sad entreaty--

"Oh! Mr. Lyon! Don't! don't!"

There was a moment or two of breathless stillness, and then, with a
sharp cry of fear, the sleeper started up, exclaiming--

"Mother! father! Oh, come to me! Come!"

"Fanny, my child!" was the mother's instant response, and the yet
half-dreaming girl fell forward into her arms, which were closed
tightly around her. What a strong thrill of terror was in every part
of her frame!

"Dear Fanny! What ails you? Don't tremble so! You are safe in my
arms. There, love, nothing shall harm you."

"Oh, mother! dear mother! is it you?" half sobbed the not yet
fully-awakened girl.

"Yes, love. You are safe with your mother. But what have you been
dreaming about?"

"Dreaming!" Fanny raised herself from her mother's bosom, and looked
at her with a bewildered air.

"Yes, dear--dreaming. This is your own room, and you are on your own
bed. You have only been frightened by a fearful dream."

"Only a dream! How thankful I am! Oh! it was terrible!"

"What was it about, daughter?" asked Mrs. Markland.

Fanny, whose mind was getting clearer and calmer, did not at once
reply.

"You mentioned the name of Mr. Lyon," said the mother.

"Did I?" Fanny's voice expressed surprise.

"Yes. Was it of him that you were dreaming?"

"I saw him in my dream," was answered.

"Why were you afraid of him?"

"It was a very strange dream, mother--very strange," said Fanny,
evidently not speaking from a free choice.

"I thought I was in our garden among the flowers. And as I stood
there, Mr. Lyon came in through the gate and walked up to me. He
looked just as he did when he was here; only it seemed that about
his face and form there was even a manlier beauty. Taking my hand,
he led me to one of the garden chairs, and we sat down side by side.
And now I began to see a change in him. His eyes, that were fixed
upon mine, grew brighter and deeper, until it seemed as if I could
look far down into their burning depths. His breath came hot upon my
face. Suddenly, he threw an arm around me, and then I saw myself in
the strong folds of a great serpent! I screamed for help, and next
found myself in your arms. Oh! it was a strange and a fearful
dream!"

"And it may not be all a dream, Fanny," said Mrs. Markland, in a
very impressive voice.

"Not all a dream, mother!" Fanny seemed startled at the words.

"No, dear. Dreams are often merely fantastic. But there come visions
in sleep, sometimes, that are permitted as warnings, and truly
represent things existing in real life."

"I do not understand you, mother."

"There is in the human mind a quality represented by the serpent,
and also a quality represented by the dove. When our Saviour said of
Herod, 'Go tell that fox,' he meant to designate the man as having
the quality of a fox."

"But how does this apply to dreams?" asked Fanny.

"He who sends his angels to watch over and protect us in sleep, may
permit them to bring before us, in dreaming images, the embodied
form of some predominating quality in those whose association may do
us harm. The low, subtle selfishness of the sensual principle will
then take its true form of a wily serpent."

Fanny caught her breath once or twice, as these words fell upon her
ears, and then said, in a deprecating voice--

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