The Good Time Coming

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

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18

Fanny remained alone until the summons to tea startled her from a
sad, half-dreaming state of mind.

Not to meet her father and mother at the tea-table would, she saw,
attract toward her a closer attention than if she mingled with the
family at their evening meal; and so she forced herself away from
the congenial seclusion of her own apartment. As she took her place
at the table, she was conscious that the eyes of her father and
mother, as well as those of Aunt Grace, were fixed scrutinizingly
upon her; and she felt the blood growing warmer in her cheeks, and
flushing her whole countenance. An unusual restraint marked the
intercourse of all during their meal. Two or three times Mr.
Markland sought to draw his daughter into a conversation; but she
replied to his remarks in the briefest manner, and evidently wished
to escape all notice.

"I'm really troubled about Fanny," said Mrs. Markland to her
husband, as they sat looking out upon the fading landscape, as the
twilight deepened.

"Where is she? I've not had a glimpse of her since tea."

"In her own room, I suppose, where she now spends the greater part
of her time. She has become reserved, and her eyes grow moist, and
her cheeks flushed, if you speak to her suddenly."

"You must seek her confidence," said Mr. Markland.

"I want that without the apparent seeking," was answered. "She knows
me as her truest friend, and I am waiting until she comes to me in
the most unreserved freedom."

"But will she come?"

"Oh, yes! yes!"--was the confidently-spoken answer. "Soon her heart
will be laid open to me like the pages of a book, so that I can read
all that is written there."

"Mr. Lyon awakened a strong interest in her feelings--that is
clearly evident."

"Too strong; and I cannot but regard his coming to Woodbine Lodge as
a circumstance most likely to shadow all our future."

"I do really believe," said Mr. Markland, affecting a playful mood,
"that you have a latent vein of superstition in your character."

"You may think so, Edward," was the seriously-spoken answer; "but I
am very sure that the concern now oppressing my heart is far more
deeply grounded than your words indicate. Who, beside Mr. Lamar,
told you that he saw, or believed that he saw, Mr. Lyon?"

"Mr. Allison."

"Mr. Allison!"

"Yes."

"Where did he see him?"

"He didn't see him at all," confidently answered Mr. Markland. "He
saw Mr. Willet."

"He believed that the person he saw was Mr. Lyon."

"So did I, until a nearer approach convinced me that I was in error.
If I could be deceived, the fact that Mr. Allison was also deceived
is by no means a remarkable circumstance."

"Was it in this neighbourhood that he saw the person he believed to
be Mr Lyon?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Markland's eyes fell to the ground, and she sat, for a long
time, so entirely abstracted, as almost to lose her consciousness of
external things.

"The dew is rather heavy this evening," said her husband, arousing
her by the words. She arose, and they went together into the
sitting-room, where they found all but Fanny. Soon after, Mr.
Markland went to his library, and gave up his thoughts entirely to
the new business in which he was engaged with Mr. Lyon. How, golden
was the promise that lured him on! He was becoming impatient to
tread with swift feet the path to large wealth and honourable
distinction that was opening before him. A new life had been born in
his mind--it was something akin to ambition. In former times,
business was regarded as the means by which a competency might be
obtained; and he pursued it with this end. Having secured wealth, he
retired from busy life, hoping to find ample enjoyment in the
seclusion of an elegant rural home. But, already, restlessness had
succeeded to inactivity, and now his mind was gathering up its
latent strength for new efforts, in new and broader fields, and
under the spur of a more vigorous impulse.

"Edward!" It was the low voice of his wife, and the soft touch of
her hand, that startled the dreaming enthusiast from visions of
wealth and power that dazzled him with their brilliancy.

"Come, Edward, it is growing late," said his wife.

"How late?" he replied, looking up from the paper he had covered
with various memoranda, and clusters of figures.

"It is past eleven o'clock."

"That cannot be, Agnes. It is only a short time since I left the
table.

"Full three hours. All have retired and are sleeping. Ah, my
husband! I do not like this new direction your thoughts are taking.
To me, there is in it a prophecy of evil to us all."

"A mere superstitious impression, Agnes dear: nothing more, you may
depend upon it. I am in the vigour of manhood. My mind is yet clear,
strong, and suggestive--and my reason, I hope, more closely
discriminating, as every man's should be with each added year of his
life. Shall I let all these powers slumber in disgraceful
inactivity! No, Agnes, it cannot, must not be."

Mr. Markland spoke with a fervid enthusiasm, that silenced his
wife--confusing her thoughts, but in no way inspiring her with
confidence. Hitherto, he had felt desirous of concealing from her
the fact that he was really entering into new business
responsibilities; but now, in his confident anticipations of
success, he divulged a portion of the enlarged range of operations
in which he was to be an active co-worker.

"We have enough, Edward," was the almost mournfully-uttered reply of
Mrs. Markland--"why, then, involve yourself in business cares? Large
transactions like those bring anxious days and wakeful nights. They
are connected with trouble, fatigue, disappointment, and, Edward!
_sometimes ruin_!"

Very impressively were the last words spoken; but Mr. Markland
answered almost lightly--

"None of your imagined drawbacks have any terror for me, Agnes. As
for the ruin, I shall take good care not to invite that by any large
risks or imprudent speculations. There are few dangers for wise and
prudent men, in any business. It is the blind who fall into the
ditch--the reckless who stumble. You may be very certain that your
husband will not shut his eyes in walking along new paths, nor
attempt the navigation of unaccustomed seas without the most
reliable charts."

To this, Mrs. Markland could answer nothing. But his words gave her
no stronger confidence in the successful result of his schemes; for
well assured was she, in her perceptive Christian philosophy, that
man's success in any pursuit was no accidental thing, nor always
dependent on his own prudence; the ends he had in view oftener
determining the result, than any merit or defect in the means
employed. So, the weight of concern which this new direction of her
husband's active purpose had laid upon her heart, was in no way
lightened by his confident assurances.

CHAPTER XVI.

MR. MARKLAND went to the city early on the next morning. Fanny had
not made her appearance when he left. This fact, at any other time,
would have excited his attention, and caused an earnest inquiry as
to the cause of her absence from the morning meal. But now his
thoughts were too intently fixed on other things. He had suddenly
become an aeriel castle-builder, and all his mind was absorbed in
contemplating the magnificent structures that were rising up at the
creative touch of imagination.

Mr. Brainard, upon whom he called immediately upon his arrival in
the city, was not so easily satisfied on the subject of Mr. Lyon's
alleged return to the city. He happened to know Mr. Willet, and,
while he admitted that there was a general resemblance between the
two men, did not consider it sufficiently striking to deceive any
one as to the identity of either.

"But _I_ was deceived," confidently asserted Mr. Markland.

"That is not so remarkable under the circumstances," was answered.
"You had Lyon distinctly in your thought, from being most positively
assured of his recent presence in your neighbourhood, and when a
stranger, bearing some resemblance to him, suddenly came in sight, I
do not wonder that you were on the instant deceived. I might have
been."

"I am sure of it. The likeness between the two men is remarkable."

"But Willet has no hair mole on his cheek; and to that mark, you
will remember, Lamar particularly testified."

"The mark may only have been in his mind, and not on the face of the
person he met. Believing it to be Mr. Lyon, he saw the hair mole, as
well as the other peculiarities of his countenance."

"No such explanations can satisfy me," replied Mr. Brainard. "I have
thought over the matter a great deal since I saw you, and my mind is
pretty well made up to withdraw from this whole business while I am
at liberty to do so, without pecuniary loss or any compromise of
honour."

"And let such a golden opportunity pass?" said Markland, in a voice
husky with disappointment.

"If you will," was calmly answered. "I am a firm believer in the
'bird in the hand' doctrine. There are a great many fine singers in
the bush, but I want to see them safely caged before I neglect the
door that shuts in the bird I possess already."

"But you surely cannot be in earnest about withdrawing from this
business," said Markland.

"Very much in earnest. Since yesterday, I have turned the matter
over in my mind constantly, and viewed it in many lights and from
many positions; and my deliberate convictions are, that it is wisest
for me to have nothing whatever to do with these splendid schemes;
and if you will be governed by an old stager's advice, resolve to
act likewise."

"When my hands are once fairly on the plough," answered Mr.
Markland, "I never look back. Before engaging in any new business, I
thoroughly examine its promise, and carefully weigh all the
probabilities of success or failure. After my decision is made, I
never again review the ground over which I travelled in coming to a
decision, but pass onward with faith and vigour in the
accomplishment of all that I have undertaken. More men are ruined by
vacillation than from any other cause."

"My observation brings me to another conclusion," quietly returned
Mr. Brainard. The earnest enthusiasm of the one, and the immovable
coolness of the other, were finely contrasted.

"And what is that?" inquired Mr. Markland.

"Why, that more men are ruined by a blind perseverance in going the
wrong way, than from any other cause. Were we infallible in
judgment, it might be well enough to govern ourselves in all
important matters on the principle you indicate. But, as we are not,
like wise navigators, we should daily make new observations, and
daily examine our charts. The smallest deviation from a right line
will make an immense error in the course of a long voyage."

"Wise business men are in little danger of making errors," said
Markland, confidently.

"A great many sad mistakes are made daily," returned Mr. Brainard.

"Not by wise men."

"If a man's projects succeed," was rejoined, "we applaud his sound
business judgment; if they fail, we see the cause of failure so
plainly, that we are astonished at his want of forethought in not
seeing it at the beginning. But, sir, there's a divinity that shapes
our ends, rough hew them as we will. Success or failure, I am well
convinced, do not always depend on the man himself."

"Is there no virtue, then, in human prudence?" asked Mr. Markland.

"I am not prepared to say how far we may depend on human prudence,"
replied the other; "but I know this, that if we fail to use it, we
will fail in most of our undertakings. Human prudence must be
exercised in all cases; but, too often, we let our confident hopes
take the place of prudence, as I think you are doing now."

"But surely, Mr. Brainard," said Markland, in an earnest, appealing
way, "you do not intend receding from this business?"

"My mind is fully made up," was answered.

"And so is mine," firmly replied Markland.

"To do what?"

"To take the whole interest myself."

"What?"

"To invest forty thousand dollars, instead of the proposed twenty,
at once."

"You show strong faith, certainly."

"My faith, you may be sure, is well grounded. Mr. Fenwick has
already put in that sum, and he is not the man to go blindly into
any business. Apart from my own clear intuitions, founded on the
most careful investigations, I would almost be willing to take risks
in any schemes that Mr. Fenwick approved, in the substantial way of
investment."

"A very different man am I," said Mr. Brainard. "Twenty years of
sharp experience are sufficient to make me chary of substituting
others' business judgment for my own."

"Ah, well!" returned Markland, his manner showing him to be
disappointed and annoyed. "I cannot but regret your hasty decision
in this matter. So far as it concerns myself, even if I saw cause to
recede, which I do not, I am too far committed, with both Fenwick
and Lyon, to hesitate."

"Every man must decide in such cases for himself," said Brainard. "I
always do. If you are fully assured in every particular, and have
confidence in your men, your way is of course clear."

"It is clear," was confidently answered, "and I shall walk in it
with full assurance of a successful end."

CHAPTER XVII.

IT was some time after her father left for the city, before Fanny
came down from her room. She was pale, and looked as if she had
passed a sleepless night. Her mother's concerned inquiries were
answered evasively, and it was very apparent that she wished to
avoid question and observation.

Aunt Grace again sought, in her obtrusive way, to penetrate the
mystery of Fanny's changed exterior, but was no more successful than
on the preceding evening.

"Don't worry her with so many questions, sister," said Mrs.
Markland, aside, to Aunt Grace; "I will know all in good time."

"Your good time may prove a very bad time," was answered, a little
sharply.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Mrs. Markland, turning her eyes
full upon the face of her companion.

"I mean that in any matter affecting so deeply a girl like Fanny,
the mother's time for knowing all about it is now. Something is
wrong, you may depend upon it."

At the commencement of this conversation, Fanny retired from the
room.

"The child's mind has been disturbed by the unfortunate letter from
Mr. Lyon. The something wrong goes not beyond this."

"Unfortunate! You may well say unfortunate. I don't know what has
come over Edward. He isn't the same man that he was, before that
foreign adventurer darkened our sunny home with his presence.
Unfortunate! It is worse than unfortunate! Edward's sending that
letter at all was more a crime than a mistake. But as to the wrong
in regard to Fanny, I am not so sure that it only consists in a
disturbance of her mind."

There was a look of mystery, blended with anxious concern, in the
countenance of Aunt Grace, that caused Mrs. Markland to say,
quickly--

"Speak out what is in your thoughts, Grace. Have no concealments
with me, especially on a subject like this."

"I may be over-suspicious--I may wrong the dear child--but--"

Aunt Grace looked unusually serious.

"But what?" Mrs. Markland had grown instantly pale at the strange
words of her husband's sister.

"John, the gardener, says that he saw Mr. Lyon on the day after
Edward went to New York."

"Where?"

"Not far from here."

"Deceived, as Edward was. John saw our new neighbour, Mr. Willet."

"Maybe so, and maybe not; and I am strongly inclined to believe in
the maybe not. As for that Lyon, I have no faith in him, and never
had, as you know, from the beginning. And I shouldn't be at all
surprised if he were prowling about here, trying to get stolen
interviews with Fanny."

"Grace! How dare you suggest such a thing?" exclaimed Mrs. Markland,
with an energy and indignation almost new to her character.

Grace was rather startled by so unexpected a response from her
sister-in-law, and for a moment or two looked abashed.

"Better be scared than hurt, you know, Agnes," she replied, coolly,
as soon as she had recovered herself.

"Not if scared by mere phantoms of our own diseased imaginations,"
said Mrs. Markland.

"There is something more solid than a phantom in the present case,
I'm afraid. What do you suppose takes Fanny away so often, all by
herself, to the Fountain Grove?"

"Grace Markland! What can you mean by such a question?" The mother
of Fanny looked frightened.

"I put the question to you for answer," said Grace, coolly. "The
time was, and that time is not very distant, when Fanny could
scarcely be induced to go a hundred yards from the house, except in
company. Now, she wanders away alone, almost daily; and if you
observe the direction she takes, you will find that it is toward
Fountain Grove. And John says that it was near this place that he
met Mr. Lyon."

"Mr. Willet, you mean," said Mrs. Markland, firmly.

"None are so blind as those who will not see," retorted Aunt Grace,
in her impulsive way. "If any harm comes to the child, you and
Edward will have none but yourselves to blame. Forewarned,
forearmed, is a wise saying, by which you seem in no way inclined to
profit."

Even while this conversation was in progress, the subject of it had
taken herself away to the sweet, retired spot where, since her
meeting with Mr. Lyon, she had felt herself drawn daily with an
almost irresistible influence. As she passed through the thick,
encircling grove that surrounded the open space where the beautiful
summer-house stood and the silvery waters sported among the statues,
she was startled by a rustling noise, as of some one passing near.
She stopped suddenly, her heart beating with a rapid motion, and
listened intently. Was she deceived, or did her eyes really get
uncertain glimpses of a form hurriedly retiring through the trees?
For nearly a minute she stood almost as still as one of the marble
figures that surrounded the fountain. Then, with slow, almost
stealthy footsteps, she moved onward, glancing, as she did so, from
side to side, and noting every object in the range of vision with a
sharp scrutiny. On gaining the summer-house, the first object that
met her eyes was a folded letter, lying upon the marble table. To
spring forward and seize it was the work of an instant. It bore her
own name, and in the now familiar hand of Lee Lyon!

A strong agitation seized upon the frame of the young girl, as she
caught up the unexpected letter. It was some moments before her
trembling fingers could break the seal and unfold the missive. Then
her eyes drank in, eagerly, its contents:

"MY EVER DEAR FANNY:--Since our meeting at the fountain, I cannot
say to you all that I would say in any letter under care to your
father, and so I entrust this to a faithful messenger, who will see
that it reaches your hands. I am now far to the South again, in
prosecution of most important business, the safe progress of which
would be interrupted, and the whole large result endangered, were
your father to know of my visit at Woodbine Lodge at a time when he
thought me hundreds of miles distant. So, for his sake, as well as
my own, be discreet for a brief period. I will not long permit this
burden of secrecy to lie upon your dear young heart--oh no! I could
not be so unjust to you. Your truest, best, wisest counsellor is
your mother, and she should know all that is in your heart. Keep
your secret only for a little while, and then I will put you in full
liberty to speak of all that has just occurred. None will approve
your discretion more than your parents, I know, when all the grave
reasons for this concealment are disclosed. Dear Fanny! how
ever-present to me you are. It seems, often, as if you were moving
by my side. In lonely moments, how like far off, sweet music, comes
your voice stealing into my heart. Beloved one!--"

A sudden sound of approaching feet caused Fanny to crumple the
letter, scarcely half read, in her hand, and thrust it into her
bosom. Turning towards the point from whence the noise came, she
perceived the form of her mother, who was only a few paces distant.
Mrs. Markland saw the letter in Fanny's hand, and also saw the hasty
motion of concealment. When she entered the summer-house where her
daughter, who had risen up hurriedly, stood in the attitude of one
suddenly alarmed, she marked with deep concern the agitated play of
her countenance, and the half-guilty aversion of her eyes.

"My dear child!" she said, in a low, serious voice, as she laid a
hand upon her, "what am I to understand by the singular change that
has passed over you, and particularly by the strong disturbance of
this moment? Why are you here alone? And why are you so startled at
your mother's appearance?"

Fanny only bowed her face upon her mother's bosom, and, sobbed
violently.

As the wildness of her emotion subsided, Mrs. Markland said:--

"Speak freely to your best friend, my darling child! Hide nothing
from one who loves you better than any human heart can love you."

But Fanny answered not, except by a fresh gush of tears.

"Have you nothing to confide to your mother?" inquired Mrs. Markland
in as calm a voice as she could assume, after waiting long enough
for the heart of her daughter to beat with a more even stroke.

"Nothing," was answered in a voice as calm as that in which the
interrogation was asked.

"Nothing, Fanny? Oh, my child! Do not deceive your mother!"

Fanny drew her slight form up into something of a proud attitude,
and stood for an instant looking at her mother almost defiantly. But
this was only for an instant. For scarcely was the position assumed,
ere she had flung herself forward, again sobbing violently, into her
arms.

But, for all this breaking down of her feelings, Fanny's lips
remained sealed. She was not yet prepared to give up her lover's
secret--and did not do so.

CHAPTER XVIII.

ALL doubt in regard to the presence of Mr. Lyon in the neighborhood,
as affirmed by Mr. Lamar and others, had, as we have seen, passed
from the mind of Markland. He was entirely satisfied that the
individual seen by these men was Mr. Willet. But since the refusal
of Brainard, regarded as one of the shrewdest men in the city, to
enter into a speculation to him so full of promise, he did not feel
altogether easy in mind. He had spoken more from impulse than sound
judgment, when he declared it to be his purpose to risk forty
thousand dollars in the scheme, instead of twenty thousand. A cooler
state left room for doubts. What did he really know of Mr. Lyon, on
whose discretion, as an agent, so much would depend? The question
intruded itself, like an unwelcome guest; and his effort to answer
it to his own satisfaction was in vain. Had he been in possession of
his daughter's secret, all would have been plain before him. Not for
an instant would he have hesitated about keeping faith with a man
who could so deceive him.

"I must see Mr. Fenwick again," he said, in his perplexity, after
leaving the office of Mr. Brainard.

"Forty thousand dollars is a large sum to invest; and I shall have
to sell some of my best property to raise it property yearly
increasing in value. Twenty thousand I could have managed by parting
with stocks. What folly in Brainard! I'm sadly out with him. Yes, I
must see Mr. Fenwick immediately."

In the next train that left for New York, Mr. Markland was a
passenger. A hurried note, received by his family that evening,
announced the fact of his journey, and threw a deeper shadow on the
heart of his troubled wife.

Vainly had Mrs. Markland striven to gain the unreserved confidence
of Fanny. The daughter's lips were sealed. Pressing importunity
plainly wrought something akin to estrangement; and so, with tears
in her eyes and anguish in her heart, the mother turned from her
pale-faced child, and left her alone. An hour after being surprised
by her mother at the Fountain Grove, Fanny glided into her own room,
and turned the key. The letter of Mr. Lyon was still in her bosom,
and now, with eager hands, she drew it forth, and read to the end--

--"Beloved one! How often have I blessed the kind Providence that
led me into your presence. How strange are these things! For years I
have moved amid a blaze of beauty, and coldly turned away from a
thousand glittering attractions. But, when my eyes first saw you,
there was a pause in my heart's pulsations. I felt that my soul's
companion was discovered to me; that, henceforth, my life and yours
were to blend. Ah, dear one! wonder not that, from a hasty impulse,
I decided to return and see your father. I fear, now, that the cause
most strongly influencing me was the desire to look upon your face
and feel the thrilling touch of your hand once more. Perhaps it is
well he was absent, for I am not so sure that his cooler judgment
would have seen sufficient cause for the act. All is going on now
just as he, and I, and all concerned, could wish; and not for the
world would I have him know, _at present_, our secret. Stolen
waters, they say, are sweet. I know not. But that brief, stolen
interview at the fountain, was full of sweetness to me. You looked
the very Naiad of the place--pure, spiritual, the embodiment of all
things lovely. Forgive this warmth of feeling. I would not wound the
instinctive delicacy of a heart like yours. Only believe me sincere.
Will you not write to me? Direct your letters, under cover, to D. C.
L., Baltimore P. O., and they will be immediately forwarded. I will
write you weekly. The same hand that conveys this, will see that my
letters reach you. Farewell, beloved one!

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18