The Good Time Coming

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

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"In the Ten Commandments?"

"Yes. In them we find the sum of all religion. They make the highway
along which man may return, without danger of erring, to the order
and happiness that were lost far back in the ages now but dimly seen
in retrospective vision. No lion is found in this way, nor any
ravenous beast; but the redeemed of the Lord may walk there, and
return with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads."

"It will be in vain, then, for man to hope for any real good in this
life, except he keep the commandments," said Mr. Markland.

"All in vain," was answered. "And his keeping of them must involve
something more than a mere literal obedience. He must be in that
interior love of what they teach, which makes obedience to the
letter spontaneous, and not constrained. The outward act must be the
simple effect of a living cause."

"Ah, my friend!" sighed Mr. Markland. "It may be a true saying, but
who can hear it?"

"We have wandered far in the wrong direction--are still moving with
a swift velocity that cannot be checked without painfully jarring
the whole machinery of life; but all this progress is toward misery,
not happiness, and, as wise men, it behooves us stop, at no matter
what cost of present pain, and begin retracing the steps that have
led only to discontent and disappointment. It is all in vain that we
fondly imagine that the good we seek lies only a little way in
advance--that the Elysian fields will, in the end, be reached. If we
are descending instead of ascending, how are we ever to gain the
mountain top? If we turn our backs upon the Holy City, and move on
with rapid footsteps, is there any hope that we shall ever pass
through its gates of pearl or walk its golden streets? To the
selfish natural mind, it is a 'hard saying' as you intimate, for
obedience to the commandments requires the denial and rejection of
self; and such a rejection seems like an extinguishment of the very
life. But, if we reject this old, vain life, a new vitality, born of
higher and more enduring principles, will at once begin. Remember
that we are spiritually organized forms, receptive of life. If the
life of selfish and perverted ends becomes inactive, a new, better,
and truer life will begin. We must live; for life, inextinguishable
life, is the inheritance received from the Creator, who is life
eternal in himself. It is with us to determine the quality of life.
Live we must, and forever--whether in order or disorder, happiness
or misery, is left to our own decision."

"How the thought, as thus presented," said Mr. Markland, very
soberly--almost sadly, "thrills me to the very centre of my being!
Ah! my excellent friend, what vast interests does this living
involve!"

"Vast to each one of us."

"I do not wonder," added Mr. Markland, "that the old hermits and
anchorites, oppressed, so to speak, by the greatness of immortal
interests over those involved in natural life, separated themselves
from the world, that, freed from its allurements, they might lead
the life of heaven."

"Their mistake," said Mr. Allison, "was quite as fatal as the
mistake of the worldling. Both missed the road to heaven."

"Both?" Mr. Markland looked surprised.

"Yes; for the road to heaven lies through the very centre of the
world, and those who seek bypaths will find their termination at an
immense distance from the point they had hoped to gain. It is by
neighbourly love that we attain to a higher and diviner love. Can
this love be born in us, if, instead of living in and for the
world's good, we separate ourselves from our kind, and pass the
years in fruitless meditation or selfish idleness? No. The active
bad man is often more useful to the world than the naturally good or
harmless man who is a mere drone. Only the brave soldier receives
the laurels of his country's gratitude; the skulking coward is
execrated by all."

The only response on the part of Markland was a deep sigh. He saw
the truth that would make him free, but did not feel within himself
a power sufficient to break the cords that bound him. The two men
walked on in silence, until they came near a lovely retreat, half
obscured by encircling trees, the scene of Fanny's recent and
impassioned interview with Mr. Lyon. The thoughts of Mr. Allison at
once reverted to his own meeting with Fanny in the same place, and
the disturbed condition of mind in which he found her. The image of
Mr. Lyon also presented itself. As the two men paused, at a point
where the fountain and some of the fine statues were visible, Mr.
Allison said, with an abruptness that gave the pulse of his
companion a sudden acceleration--

"Did your English friend, Mr. Lyon, really go South, before you left
New York?"

"He did. But why do you make the inquiry?" Mr. Markland turned, and
fixed his eyes intently upon the old man's face.

"I was sure that I met him a day or two ago. But I was mistaken, as
a man cannot be in two places at once."

"Where did you see the person you took for Mr. Lyon?"

"Not far distant from here?"

"Where?"

"A little way from the railroad station. He was coming in this
direction, and, without questioning the man's identity, I naturally
supposed that he was on his way to your house."

"Singular! Very singular!" Mr. Markland spoke to himself.

"I met Fanny a little while afterward," continued Mr. Allison, "and
I learned from her that Mr. Lyon had actually left the city. No
doubt I was mistaken; but the person I saw was remarkably like your
friend from England."

"Where did you meet Fanny?" abruptly asked Mr. Markland.

"In the little summer-house, yonder. I stepped aside, as I often do,
to enjoy the quiet beauty of the place for a few moments, and found
your daughter there alone. She answered, as you have done, my
inquiry about Mr. Lyon, that he left for the South a few days
before."

"He did. And yet, singularly enough, you are not the only one who
has mentioned to me that a person resembling Mr. Lyon was seen after
he had left for the South--seen, too, almost on the very day that
letters from him arrived by mail. The coincidence is at least
remarkable."

"Remarkable enough," answered the old man, "to lead you, at least,
to a close scrutiny into the matter."

"I believe it only to be a coincidence," said Mr. Markland, more
confidently.

"If the fact of his being here, at the time referred to, would
change in any respect your relation to him, then let me advise the
most rigid investigation. I cannot get rid of the impression that he
really was here--and, let me speak a plainer word--nor that he met
your daughter in the summer-house."

Markland started as if an adder had stung him, uttering the word--

"Impossible!"

"Understand me," calmly remarked the old man, "I do not say that it
was so. I have no proof to offer. But the impression has haunted me
ever since, and I cannot drive it away."

"It is only an impression, then?"

"Nothing more."

"But what, was there in my daughter's conduct that led you to so
strange an impression?"

"Her manner was confused; a thing that has never happened at any
previous meeting with her. But, then, I came upon her suddenly, as
she sat in the summer-house, and gave her, in all probability, a
nervous start."

"Most likely that is the true interpretation. And I can account for
her rather disturbed state of mind on other grounds than a meeting
with Mr. Lyon."

"That is good evidence on the other side," returned Mr. Allison,
"and I hope you will pardon the freedom I have taken in speaking out
what was in my thoughts. In no other way could I express so strongly
the high regard I have for both yourself and family, and the
interest I feel in your most excellent daughter. The singular
likeness to Mr. Lyon in the person I met, and the disturbed state in
which Fanny appeared to be, are facts that have kept almost constant
possession of my mind, and haunted me ever since. To mention these
things to you is but a common duty."

"And you have my thanks," said Mr. Markland, "my earnest thanks."

The two men had moved on, and were now at some distance from the
point where the sight of the fountain and summer-house brought a
vivid recollection to the mind of Mr. Allison of his interview with
Fanny.

"Our ways part here," said the old man.

"Will you not keep on to the house? Your visits always give
pleasure," said Mr. Markland.

"No--not at this time. I have some matters at home requiring present
attention."

They stood and looked into each other's faces for a few moments, as
if both had something yet in their minds unsaid, but not yet in a
shape for utterance--then separated with a simple "Good-by."

CHAPTER XIII.

THIS new testimony in regard to the presence of Mr. Lyon in the
neighbourhood, at a time when he was believed to be hundreds of
miles away, and still receding as rapidly as swift car and steamer
could bear him, might well disturb, profoundly, the spirit of Mr.
Markland. What could it mean? How vainly he asked himself this
question. He was walking onward, with his eyes upon the ground, when
approaching feet made him aware of the proximity of some one.
Looking up, he saw a man coming down the road from his house, and
only a few rods distant from him.

"Mr. Lyon, now!" he exclaimed, in a low, agitated voice. "What does
this mean?" he added, as his mind grew bewildered, and his footsteps
were stayed.

Another moment, and he saw that he had erred in regard to the man's
identity. It wars not Mr. Lyon, but a stranger. Advancing again,
they met, and the stranger, pausing, said:

"Mr. Markland, I believe?"

"That is my name, sir," was answered.

"And my name is Willet."

"Ah, yes!" said Mr. Markland extending his hand. "I learned, to-day,
in the city, that you had purchased Ashton's fine place. I am happy,
sir, to make your acquaintance, and if there is any thing in which I
can serve you, do not hesitate to command me."

"Many thanks for your kind offer," returned Mr. Willet. "A stranger
who comes to reside in the country has need of friendly
consideration; and I stand just in that relation to my new
neighbours. To certain extent I am ignorant of the ways and means
appertaining to the locality; and can only get enlightened through
an intercourse with the older residents. But I have no right to be
obtrusive, or to expect too much concession to a mere stranger.
Until I am better known, I will only ask the sojourner's
kindness--not the confidence one friend gives to another."

There was a charm about the stranger's manner, and a peculiar music
in his voice, that won their way into the heart of Mr. Markland.

"Believe me, sir," he replied, "that my tender of friendly offices
is no unmeaning courtesy. I comprehend, entirely, your position; for
I once held just your relation to the people around me. And now, if
there are any questions to which an immediate answer is desired, ask
them freely. Will you not return with me to my house?"

"Thank you! Not now. I came over to ask if you knew a man named
Burk, who lives in the neighbourhood."

"Yes; very well," answered Mr. Markland.

"Is he a man to be depended upon?"

"He's clever, and a good man about a place; but, I am sorry to say,
not always to be depended upon."

"What is the trouble with him?" asked Mr. Willet.

"The trouble with most men who occasionally drink to excess."

"Oh! That's it. You've said enough, sir; he won't suit me. I shall
have to be in the city for a time, almost every day, and would not,
by any means, feel safe or comfortable in knowing that such a person
was in charge of things. Besides, my mother, who is getting in
years, has a particular dread of an intoxicated man, and I would on
no account expose her to the danger of being troubled from this
cause. My sisters, who have lived all their lives in cities, will be
timid in the country, and I therefore particularly desire the right
kind of a man on the premises--one who may be looked to as a
protector in my absence. You understand, now, what kind of a person
I want?"

"Clearly."

"This Burk would not suit."

"I'm afraid not. But for the failing I have mentioned, you could
hardly find a more capable, useful, or pleasant man in the
neighbourhood; but this mars all."

"It mars all for me, and for reasons I have just mentioned," said
Mr. Willet; "so we will have to pass him by. Is there any other
available man about here, who would make a trusty overseer?"

"I do not think of one, but will make it my business to inquire,"
returned Mr. Markland. "How soon will you move out?"

"In about a week. On Monday we shall send a few loads of furniture."

"Cannot you hire Mr. Ashton's gardener? He is trusty in every
respect."

"Some one has been ahead of me," replied Mr. Willet. "He is already
engaged, and will leave to-morrow."

"I'm sorry for that. Mr. Ashton spoke highly of him."

"His work speaks for him," said Mr. Willet. "The whole place is in
beautiful order."

"Yes, it has always been the pride of its owner, and admiration of
the neighbourhood. I don't know how Mr. Ashton could make up his
mind to part with it."

"I am certainly much obliged to him for yielding it to me," said Mr.
Willet. "I regard myself as particularly fortunate. But I will not
detain you. If you should think or hear of any one who will suit my
purpose, I shall be under particular obligations if you will let me
know."

"If I can serve you in the matter, be sure that I will do so,"
replied Mr. Markland.

Mr. Willet thanked him warmly for the proffered kindness, and then
the two men separated, each strongly and favourably impressed by the
other.

"That startling mystery is solved," said Mr. Markland, taking a deep
breath. "This is the other Dromio. I don't wonder that Mr. Allison
and Mr. Lamar were deceived. I was, for a moment. What a likeness he
bears to Mr. Lyon! Ah, well!--the matter has worried me, for a short
time, dreadfully. I was sure that I knew my man; but this strange
affirmation in regard to him threw me into terrible doubts. Thank
fortune! the mystery is completely solved. I must go back to the
city this very afternoon, and see Brainard. It will not do for him
to remain long in doubt. His mind might take a new direction, and
become interested in some other enterprise. There is no other man
with whom, in so important a business as this, I would care to be
associated."

And Mr. Markland, thus communing with himself, moved onward, with
light and rapid footsteps, toward his dwelling. A mountain had been
lifted from his heart.

CHAPTER XIV.

"YOU had a visitor this afternoon," said Mr. Markland, as he sat
conversing with his wife and daughter, soon after his arrival from
the city.

"I believe not," returned Mrs. Markland. "Oh, yes. I met a gentleman
coming from this direction, and he said that he had been here."

"A gentleman? Who?"

"Our new neighbour, Mr. Willet."

"I did not know that he called."

"He may only have inquired for me at the door," said Mr. Markland.
"I wish you had seen him."

"What kind of a man does he appear to be?" asked Mrs. Markland.

"My first impressions are favourable. But there is a singular fact
in regard to his appearance in our neighbourhood."

Mrs. Markland and Fanny looked up curiously.

"I have been very much worried, since my return;" and Mr. Markland's
eyes rested on his daughter, as he said this. The change that
instantly passed over her face a little surprised him. Her eyes fell
under his gaze, and the crimson blood rose to her forehead.

"What has worried you?" tenderly inquired Mrs. Markland.

"I met with a strange rumour in the city."

"About what?"

"About Mr. Lyon."

Mrs. Markland's whole manner changed, her usual quiet aspect giving
place to strongly manifested interest. Her eyes, as well as those of
her husband, turned to-ward Fanny, who, by partial aversion, sought
to hide from close observation her suffused countenance.

"What of Mr. Lyon?" asked Mrs. Markland.

"At least two persons have affirmed, quite positively, that they saw
Mr. Lyon, as well in the city as in this neighbourhood, on the day
before yesterday," said Mr. Markland.

The colour suddenly receded from the face of his wife, who looked
half-frightened at so unexpected an announcement. Fanny turned
herself further away from observation.

"Saw Mr. Lyon! Can it be possible he did not go South at the time he
said that he would leave?" Mrs. Markland's voice was troubled.

"He went, of course," was the cheerful, confident answer of Mr.
Markland.

"You are sure of it?"

"Oh, yes!"

"How do you explain the mystery, if it may so be called?"

"After hours of doubt, perplexity, and uneasiness, I met the man
himself."

"Not Mr. Lyon?"

Fanny started at her father's announcement, and partly turned toward
him a face that was now of a pallid hue.

"No; not Mr. Lyon," said Mr. Markland, in answer to his wife's
ejaculation, "but a person so nearly resembling him, that, for a few
moments, even I was deceived."

"How singular! Who was the man?"

"Our new neighbour, Mr. Willet."

"Why, Edward! That is remarkable."

"Yes, it is really so. I had just parted from Mr. Allison, who was
certain of having seen Mr. Lyon in this neighbourhood, on the day
before yesterday, when I met Mr. Willet. I can assure you that I was
startled when my eyes first rested upon him. For a few moments,
pulsation was suspended. A nearer approach corrected my error; and a
brief conversation with our new neighbour, gave me a strong
prepossession in his favour."

Before this sentence was completed, Fanny had arisen and gone
quietly from the room. For a few moments after her departure, the
father's and mother's eyes rested upon the door through which her
graceful form had vanished. Then they looked at each other, sighed,
and were silent.

The moment Fanny was beyond the observation of her parents, wings
seemed added to her feet, and she almost flew to her chamber.

"Bless the child! What's the matter? She looks frightened to death!"
exclaimed Aunt Grace, who met her on the way, and she followed her
quickly. But, when she tried to open the chamber door, she found it
locked within.

"Fanny! Fanny, child!" She rattled at the lock, as she thus called
the name of her niece.

But no sound came from within.

"Fanny! Fanny!"

The sound of feet was on the floor.

"Fanny!"

"What is wanted, aunt?" said a low, husky voice, close to the door
within. It did not seem like the voice of Fanny.

"I wish to see you for a few moments. Let me in."

"Not now, Aunt Grace. I want to be alone," was answered, in the same
altered voice.

"Mercy on us!" sighed Aunt Grace, as she turned, disappointed and
troubled, from the door of her niece's chamber. "What is coming over
the house? and what ails the child? That dreadful Mr. Lyon is at the
bottom of all this. Oh! I wish the ship that brought him over had
sunk in the middle of the ocean. I knew he would bring trouble, the
moment my eyes rested upon him; and it is here quicker than I
expected."

Fanny, oh entering her room, had fallen, half-fainting, across her
bed. It required a strong effort to arouse herself and sufficiently
command her voice to answer the call of her aunt and refuse to admit
her. As soon as the latter had gone away, she staggered back to her
bed, and again threw herself upon it, powerless, for the time, in
mind as well as body. Never, before, had she concealed anything from
her parents--never acted falsely, or with even a shadow of
duplicity. Into what a fearful temptation had she suddenly fallen;
and what a weight of self-condemnation, mingled with doubt and fear,
pressed upon her heart. At the moment when she was about revealing
all to her father, and thus ending his doubts, her purpose was
checked by the unlooked-for announcement that a person so nearly
resembling Mr. Lyon, as even for a moment to deceive her father, was
in the neighbourhood, checked the words that were rising to her
lips, and sealed them, for the time, in silence. To escape from the
presence of her parents was her next impulse, and she obeyed it.

Fully half an hour passed before calmness was restored to the mind
of Fanny, and she could think with any degree of clearness. From
childhood, up to this period of her life, her mother had been her
wise counsellor, her loving friend, her gentle monitor. She had
leaned upon her in full confidence--had clung to her in weakness, as
the vine to its strong support. And now, when she most needed her
counsel, she shrunk from her, and feared to divulge the secret that
was burning painfully into her heart. And yet, she did not purpose
to keep her secret; for that, her reason and filial love both told
her, was wrong; while all the time a low, sweet, almost sad voice,
seemed murmuring in her ear--"Go to your mother!"

"I must, I will go to her!" she said, at last, firmly. "A daughter's
footsteps must be moving along dangerous ways, if she fears to let
her mother know the paths she is treading. Oh, mother!" and she
clasped her hands almost wildly against her bosom. "My good, wise,
loving mother!--how could I let a stranger come in between us, and
tempt my heart from its truth to you for a moment! Yes, yes, you
must know all, and this very hour."

Acting from this better state of mind, Fanny unlocked her door, and
was passing along one of the passages in the direction of her
mother's room, when she met Aunt Grace.

"Oh! child! child! what is the matter with you?" exclaimed the aunt,
catching hold of her, and looking intently into her pale face.
"Come, now, tell me all about it--that's a dear, good girl."

"Tell you about what, Aunt Grace?" said Fanny, with as much firmness
as she could assume, trying, as she spoke, to disengage herself from
the firm grasp with which she was held.

"About all this matter that troubles you. Why, dear me! you look
just as if you'd come out of a spell of sickness. What is it, dear?
Now do tell your aunty, who loves you just as well as if you were
her own child. Do, love."

And Aunt Grace tried to draw the head of Fanny close to her bosom.
But her niece struggled to be free, answering, as she did so--

"Don't question me now, Aunt Grace, please. Only let me go to
mother. I want to see her."

"She is not in her room," said Miss Markland.

"Are you certain?"

"Oh, yes. I have just come from there."

"Where is she, then?"

"In the library, with your father."

Without a word more, Fanny turned from her aunt, and, gliding back
to her own chamber, entered, and closed the door.

"Oh, dear, dear, dear! What does ail the child?" almost sobbed Aunt
Grace, wringing her hands together, as she stood, with a bewildered
air, gazing upon the door through which the form of her niece had
just passed. "Something is the matter--something dreadful. And it
all comes of Edward's foolish confidence in a stranger, that I could
see, with half an eye, was not a man to be trusted."

For some minutes, Miss Markland remained standing as her niece had
left her, trying to make up her mind to act in some decided way for
the remedy of existing troubles.

"I'll just speak to Edward plainly about this business," she at
length said, with considerable warmth of manner. "Shall I stand,
with sealed lips, and witness such a sacrifice? No--no--no!"

And with nothing clearly settled or arranged in her thoughts, Aunt
Grace started for the library, with the intention of speaking out
plainly to her brother. The opportunity for doing so, however, did
not occur; for, on entering the library, she found it empty.

CHAPTER XV.

MR. MARKLAND was entirely satisfied. All doubt vanished from his
mind. The singular resemblance of their new neighbour to Mr. Lyon
cleared up the whole mystery. It was Mr. Willet who had been
mistaken for the young Englishman.

"If it were not so late," he said, glancing at the sun, as he stood
in the porch, "I would go into the city and see Mr. Brainard. It is
unfortunate that any doubtful questions in regard to Mr. Lyon should
have intruded themselves upon him, and his mind should be disabused
as quickly as possible. It is singular how positive some men are,
right or wrong. Now, Lamar was almost ready to be sworn that he saw
Mr. Lyon in the city day before yesterday, although he was, at the
time, distant from him many hundreds of miles; and, but for my
fortunate meeting with Willet this afternoon, his confident
assertion of his belief would, in all probability; have caused the
most disastrous consequences. From what light causes do most
important events sometimes spring!"

On returning to her own apartment, the thoughts of Fanny began to
flow in another channel. The interest which the young stranger had
awakened in her mind was no fleeting impulse. His image,
daguerreotyped on her heart, no light breath could dim. That he was
good and honourable, she believed; and, therefore, had faith in him.
Yet had his sudden appearance and injunction of silence disturbed
her, as we have seen, very deeply. Her guileless heart shrunk from
concealment, as if it were something evil. How bewildered were all
her perceptions, usually so calm! A sense of relief had been felt,
the instant she saw that her father's mind was no longer in doubt on
the question of Mr. Lyon's return from the South--relief, that he
was deceived in a matter which might involve the most serious
consequences. But this feeling did not very long remain; and she
became the subject of rapidly alternating states.

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