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

LEE LYON."

Five times did Fanny attempt to answer this, and as often were her
letters destroyed by her own hands. Her sixth, if not more to her
own satisfaction, she sealed, and subscribed as directed. It read
thus:

"MR. LEE LYON:--MY DEAR SIR--Your unexpected visit, and equally
unexpected letter, have bewildered and distressed me. You enjoin a
continued silence in regard to your return from the South. Oh, sir!
remove that injunction as quickly as possible; for every hour that
it remains, increases my unhappiness. You have separated between me
and my good mother,--you are holding me back from throwing myself on
her bosom, and letting her see every thought of my soul. I cannot
very long endure the present. Why not at once write to my father,
and explain all to him? He must know that you came back, and the
sooner, it seems to me, will be the better. If I do not betray the
fact, waking, I shall surely do it in my sleep; for I think of it
all the time. Mother surprised me while reading your letter. I am
afraid she saw it in my hand. She importuned me to give her my full
confidence; and to refuse was one of the hardest trials of my life.
I feel that I am changing under this new, painful experience. The
ordeal is too fiery. If it continues much longer, I shall cease to
be what I was when you were here; and you will find me, on your
return, so changed as to be no longer worthy of your love. Oh, sir!
pity the child you have awakened from a peaceful, happy dream, into
a real life of mingled pain and joy. From the cup you have placed to
my lips, I drink with an eager thirst. The draught is delicious to
the taste, but it intoxicates--nay, maddens me!

"Write back to me at once, dear Mr. Lyon! I shall count the minutes
as hours, until your letter comes. Let the first words be--'Tell all
to your mother.' If you cannot write this, we must be as strangers,
for I will not bind myself to a man who would make me untrue to my
parents. You say that you love me. Love seeks another's happiness.
If you really love me, seek my happiness.

FANNY."

Many times did Fanny read over this letter before resolving to send
it. Far, very far, was it from satisfying her. She feared that it
was too cold--too repellant--too imperative. But it gave the true
alternative. She was not yet ready to abandon father and mother for
one who had thrown a spell over her heart almost as strong as the
enchantment of a sorcerer; and she wished him distinctly to
understand this.

Mr. Lyon was in a southern city when this letter came into his
hands. He was sitting at a table covered with various documents, to
the contents of which he had been giving a long and earnest
attention, when a servant brought in a number of letters from the
post-office. He selected from the package one post-marked Baltimore,
and broke the seal in a hurried and rather nervous manner. As he
opened it, an enclosure fell upon the table. It was superscribed
with his name, in the delicate hand of a woman. This was Fanny's
letter.

A careful observer would have seen more of selfish triumph in the
gleam that shot across his face, than true love's warm delight. The
glow faded into a look of anxiety as he commenced unfolding the
letter, which he read with compressed lips. A long breath, as if a
state of suspense were relieved, followed the perusal. Then he sat,
for some moments, very still, and lost in thought.

"We'll see about that," he murmured at length, laying the letter of
Fanny aside, and taking up sundry other letters which had come by
the same mail. For more than an hour these engrossed his attention.
Two of them, one from Mr. Markland, were answered during the time.

"Now, sweetheart," he said, almost lightly, as he took Fanny's
letter from the table. Every word was read over again, his brows
gradually contracting as he proceeded.

"There is some spirit about the girl; more than I had thought. My
going back was a foolish blunder. But the best will have to be made
of it. Not a whisper must come to Mr. Markland. That is a settled
point. But how is the girl to be managed?"

Lyon mused for a long time.

"Dear child!" He now spoke with a tender expression. "I have laid
too heavy a weight on your young heart, and I wish it were in my
power to remove it; but it is not."

He took a pen, as he said this, and commenced writing an answer to
Fanny's letter:--

"DEAREST ONE:--Tell all to your mother; but, in doing so, let it be
clearly in your mind that an eternal separation between us must
follow as a consequence. I do not say this as a threat--ah, no! Nor
are you to understand that I will be offended. No--no--no--nothing
of this. I only speak of what must come as the sure result. The
moment your father learns that I was at Woodbine Lodge, and had an
interview with his daughter, at a time when he thought me far
distant, our business and personal relations must cease. He will
misjudge me from evidence to his mind powerfully conclusive; and I
shall be unable to disabuse him of error, because appearances are
against me. But I put you in entire freedom. Go to your
mother-confide to her every thing; and, if it be possible, get back
the peace of which my coming unhappily robbed you. Think not of any
consequences to me--fatal though they should prove. The wide world
is before me still.

"And now, dear Fanny! If our ways in life must part, let us hold
each other at least in kind remembrance. It will ever grieve me to
think that our meeting occasioned a ripple to disturb the tranquil
surface of your feelings. I could not help loving you--and for that
I am not responsible. Alas! that, in loving, I should bring pain to
the heart of the beloved one.

"But why say more? Why trouble your spirit by revealing the
disturbance of mine? Heaven bless you and keep you, Fanny; and may
your sky be ever bathed in sunshine! I leave my destiny in your
hands, and pray for strength to bear the worst.

Adieu.
L. L."

There was a flitting smile on the lips of the young Englishman, as
he folded and sealed this letter, and a look of assurance on his
face, that little accorded with the words he had just written. Again
he took up his pen and wrote--

"MY DEAR D. C. L.:--Faithful as ever you have proved in this affair,
which is growing rather too complicated, and beginning to involve
too many interests. Miss Markland is fretting sadly under the
injunction of secresy, and says that I must release her from the
obligation not to mention my hasty return from the South. And so I
have written to her, that she may divulge the fact to her mother.
You start, and I hear you say--'Is the man mad?' No, not mad, my
friend; or, if mad, with a method in his madness. Fanny will not
tell her mother. Trust me for that. The consequences I have clearly
set forth--probable ruin to my prospects, and an eternal separation
between us. Do you think she will choose this alternative? Not she.
'Imprudent man! To risk so much for a pretty face!' I hear you
exclaim. Not all for a pretty face, my grave friend. The alliance,
if it can be made, is a good one. Markland, as far as I can learn,
is as rich as a Jew; he has a bold, suggestive mind, a large share
of enthusiasm, and is, take him all in all, just the man we want
actively interested in our scheme. Brainard, he writes me, has
backed out. I don't like that; and I like still less the reason
assigned for his doing so. 'A foolish report that you were seen in
the city some days after your departure for the South, has disturbed
his confidence, and he positively refuses to be a partner in the
arrangement.' That looks bad; doesn't it? Markland seems not to have
the slightest suspicion, and says that he will take the whole forty
thousand interest himself, if necessary. He was going, immediately,
to New York, to consult with Mr. Fenwick. A good move. Fenwick
understands himself thoroughly, and will manage our gentleman.

"Get the enclosed safely into the hands of Fanny, and with as little
delay as possible. I am growing rather nervous about the matter. Be
very discreet. The slightest error might ruin all. If possible,
manage to come in contact with Brainard, and hear how he talks of
me, and of our enterprise. You will know how to neutralize any
gratuitous assertions he may feel inclined to make. Also get, by
some means, access to Mr. Markland. I want your close observation in
this quarter. Write me, promptly and fully, and, for the present,
direct to me here. I shall proceed no farther for the present.

As ever, yours,
L. L."

CHAPTER XIX.

THE visit to New York, and interview with Mr. Fenwick, fully assured
Mr. Markland, and he entered into a formal agreement to invest the
sum of forty thousand dollars in the proposed scheme: ten thousand
dollars to be paid down at once, and the balance at short dates. He
remained away two days, and then returned to make immediate
arrangements for producing the money. The ten thousand dollars were
raised by the sale of State six per cent. stocks, a transaction that
at once reduced his annual income about six hundred dollars. The sum
was transmitted to New York.

"Have you reconsidered that matter?" inquired Markland, a few days
after his return, on meeting with Mr. Brainard.

"No, but I hope you have," was answered in a serious tone.

"I have been to New York since I saw you."

"Ah! and seen Mr. Fenwick again?"

"Yes."

"Did you mention the report of Lyon's return?"

"I did."

"How did it strike him?"

"As preposterous, of course."

"He did not credit the story?"

"Not he."

"Well, I hope, for your sake, that all will come out right."

"Never fear."

"By-the-way," said Mr. Brainard, "what do you really know about
Fenwick? You appear to have the highest confidence in his judgment.
Does this come from a personal knowledge of the man, or are you
governed in your estimate by common report?"

"He is a man of the first standing in New York. No name, in money
circles, bears a higher reputation."

Brainard slightly shrugged his shoulders.

"The common estimate of a man, in any community, is apt to be very
near the truth," said Mr. Markland.

"Generally speaking, this is so," was replied. "But every now and
then the public mind is startled by exceptions to the rule--and
these exceptions have been rather frequent; of late years. As for
Fenwick, he stands fair enough, in a general way. If he were to send
me an order for five thousand dollars' worth of goods, I would sell
him, were I a merchant, without hesitation. But to embark with him
in a scheme of so much magnitude is another thing altogether, and I
wonder at myself, now, that I was induced to consider the matter at
all. Since my withdrawal, and cooler thought on the subject, I
congratulate myself, daily, on the escape I have made."

"Escape! From what!" Mr. Markland looked surprised.

"From loss; it may be, ruin."

"You would hardly call the loss of twenty thousand dollars, ruin."

"Do you expect to get off with an investment of only twenty thousand
dollars?" asked Mr. Brainard.

"No; for I have agreed to put in forty thousand."

Brainard shook his head ominously, and looked very grave.

"I knew of no other man in the city with whom I cared to be
associated; and so, after you declined, took the whole amount that
wats to be raised here, myself."

"A hasty and unwise act, believe me, Mr. Markland," said the other.
"How soon do you expect returns from this investment?"

"Not for a year, at least."

"Say not for two years."

"Well--admit it. What then?"

"Your annual income is at once diminished in the sum of about
twenty-five hundred dollars, the interest on these forty thousand
dollars. So, at the end of two years, you are the loser of five
thousand dollars by your operation."

"It would be, if the new business paid nothing. But, when it begins
to pay, it will be at the rate of one or two hundred per cent. on
the amounts paid in."

"May be so."

"Oh! I am sure of it."

"The whole scheme has a fair front, I will admit," answered
Brainard. "But I have seen so many days that rose in sunshine go
down in storm, that I have ceased to be over confident. If forty
thousand were the whole of your investment, you might, for so large
a promised return, be justified in taking the risk."

"Mr. Fenwick thinks nothing further will be required," said
Markland.

"But don't you remember the letter, in which he stated, distinctly,
that several assessments would, in all probability, be made, pro
rata, on each partner?"

"Yes; and I called Mr. Fenwick's attention to that statement; for I
did not care to go beyond forty thousand."

"What answer did he make?"

"Later intelligence had exhibited affairs in such a state of
progress, that it was now certain no further advance of capital
would be required."

"I hope not, for your sake," returned Brainard.

"I am sure not," said Markland, confidently, A third party here
interrupted the conversation, and the two men separated.

As might be supposed, this interview did not leave the most
agreeable impression on the feelings of Markland. The fact that in
selling stocks and other property to the amount of forty thousand
dollars, and locking up that large sum in an unproductive
investment, he would diminish his yearly income over twenty-five
hundred dollars, did not present the most agreeable view of the
case. He had not thought of this, distinctly, before. A little
sobered in mind, he returned homeward during the afternoon. Ten
thousand dollars had gone forward to New York; and in the course of
next week he must produce a sum of equal magnitude. To do this,
would require the sale of a piece of real estate that had, in five
years, been doubled in value, and which promised to be worth still
more. He felt a particular reluctance to selling this property; and
the necessity for doing so worried his mind considerably. "Better
let well enough alone." "A bird in the hand is worth two in the
bush." One after another, these trite little sayings would come up
in his thoughts, unbidden, as if to add to his mental disquietude.

In spite of his efforts to thrust them aside, and to get back his
strong confidence in the new business, Mr. Markland's feelings
steadily declined towards a state of unpleasant doubt. Reason as he
would on the subject, he could not overcome the depression from
which he suffered.

"I am almost sorry that I was tempted to embark in this business,"
he at length said to himself, the admission being extorted by the
pressure on his feelings. "If I could, with honour and safety,
withdraw, I believe I would be tempted to do so. But that is really
not to be thought of now. My hands have grasped the plough, and
there must be no wavering or looking back. This is all an unworthy
weakness."

Mr. Markland had gained the entrance to Woodbine Lodge, but be was
in no state of mind to join his family. So he alighted and sent his
carriage forward, intending to linger on his way to the house, in
order to regain his lost equilibrium. He had been walking alone for
only a few minutes, with his eyes upon the ground, when a crackling
noise among the underwood caused him to look up, and turn himself in
the direction from which the sound came. In doing so, he caught
sight of the figure of a man retiring through the trees, and
evidently, from his movements, anxious to avoid observation. Mr.
Markland stood still and gazed after him until his figure passed
from sight. The impression this incident made upon him was
unpleasant. The person of the stranger was so much hidden by trees,
that he could make out no resemblance whatever.

It was near that part of Mr. Markland's grounds known as the
Fountain Grove, where this occurred, and the man, to all appearance,
had been there. The impulse for him to turn aside was, therefore,
but natural, and he did so. Passing through a style, and ascending
by a few steps to the level of the ornamental grounds surrounding
the grove and fountain, the first object that he saw was his
daughter Fanny, moving hastily in the direction of the summer-house
which has been described. She was only a short distance in advance.
Mr. Markland quickened his steps, as a vague feeling of uneasiness
came over him. The coincidence of the stranger and his daughter's
presence produced a most unpleasant impression.

"Fanny!" he called.

That his daughter heard him, he knew by the start she gave. But
instead of looking around, she sprang forward, and hastily entered
the summer-house. For a moment or two she was hidden from his view,
and in that short period she had snatched a letter from the table,
and concealed it in her bosom. Not sufficiently schooled in the art
of self-control was Fanny to meet her father with a calm face. Her
cheeks were flushed, and her chest rose and fell in hurried
respiration, as Mr. Markland entered the summer-house, where she had
seated herself.

"You are frightened, my child," said he, fixing his eyes with a look
of inquiry on her face. "Didn't you see me, as I turned in from the
carriage-way?" he added.

"No, sir," was falteringly answered. "I did not know that you had
returned from the city until I heard your voice. It came so
unexpectedly that I was startled."

Fanny, as she said this, did not meet her father's gaze, but let her
eyes rest upon the ground.

"Are you going to remain here?" asked Mr. Markland.

"I came to spend a little while alone in this sweet place, but I
will go back to the house if you wish it," she replied.

"Perhaps you had better do so. I saw a strange man between this and
the main road, and he seemed as if he desired to avoid observation."

Fanny started, and looked up, with an expression of fear, into her
father's face. The origin of that look Mr. Markland did not rightly
conjecture. She arose at once, and said--

"Let us go home."

But few words passed between father and daughter on the way, and
their brief intercourse was marked by a singular embarrassment on
both sides.

How little suspicion of the real truth was in the mind of Mr.
Markland! Nothing was farther from his thoughts than the idea that
Fanny had just received a letter from Mr. Lyon, and that the man he
had seen was the messenger by whom the missive had been conveyed to
the summer-house. A minute earlier, and that letter would have come
into his hands. How instantly would a knowledge of its contents have
affected all the purposes that were now leading him on with almost
the blindness of infatuation. The man he was trusting so implicitly
would have instantly stood revealed as a scheming, unprincipled
adventurer. In such estimation, at least, he must have been held by
Mr. Markland, and his future actions would have been governed by
that estimate.

The answer to Fanny's earnest, almost peremptory demand, to be
released from the injunction not to tell her parents of Mr. Lyon's
return, was in her possession, and the instant she could get away to
her own room, she tore the letter open. The reader already knows its
contents. The effect upon her was paralizing. He had said that she
was in freedom to speak, but the consequences portrayed were too
fearful to contemplate. In freedom? No! Instead of loosing the cords
with which he had bound her spirit, he had only drawn them more
tightly. She was in freedom to speak, but the very first word she
uttered would sound the knell of her young heart's fondest hopes.
How, then, could she speak that word? Lyon had not miscalculated the
effect of his letter on the inexperienced, fond young girl, around
whose innocent heart he had woven a spell of enchantment. Most
adroitly had he seemed to leave her free to act from her own
desires, while he had made that action next to impossible.

How rapidly, sometimes, does the young mind gain premature strength
when subjected to strong trial. Little beyond an artless child was
Fanny Markland when she first met the fascinating young stranger;
and now she was fast growing into a deep-feeling, strong-thinking
woman. Hitherto she had leaned with tender confidence on her
parents, and walked the paths lovingly where they led the way. Now
she was moving, with unaided footsteps, along a new and rugged road,
that led she knew not whither; for clouds and darkness were in the
forward distance. At every step, she found a new strength and a new
power of endurance growing up in her young spirit. Thought, too, was
becoming clearer and stronger. The mature woman had suddenly taken
the place of the shrinking girl.

CHAPTER XX.

HALF the night, following the receipt of Mr. Lyon's letter, was
spent in writing an answer. Imploringly she besought him to release
her, truly, from the obligation to secrecy with which he had bound
her. Most touchingly did she picture her state of mind, and the
change wrought by it upon her mother. "I cannot bear this much
longer," she said. "I am too weak for the burden you have laid upon
me. It must be taken away soon, or I will sink under the weight. Oh,
sir! if, as you say, you love me, prove that love by restoring me to
my parents. Now, though present with them in body, I am removed from
them in spirit. My mother's voice has a strange sound in my ears;
and when she gazes sadly into my face I can hardly believe that it
is my mother who is looking upon me. If she touches me, I start as
if guilty of a crime. Oh, sir! to die would be easy for me now. What
a sweet relief utter forgetfulness would be."

When Fanny awoke on the next morning, she found her mother standing
beside her bed, and gazing down upon her face with a tender, anxious
look. Sleep had cleared the daughter's thoughts and tranquilized her
feelings. As her mother bent over and kissed her, she threw her arms
around her neck and clung to her tightly.

"My dear child!" said Mrs. Markland, in a loving voice.

"Dear, dear mother!" was answered, with a gush of feeling.

"Something is troubling you, Fanny. You are greatly changed. Will
you not open your heart to me?"

"Oh, mother!" She sobbed out the words.

"Am I not your truest friend?" said Mrs. Markland, speaking calmly,
but very tenderly.

Fanny did not reply.

"Have I ever proved myself unworthy of your confidence?" She spoke
as if from wounded feeling.

"Oh, no, no, dearest mother!" exclaimed Fanny. "How can you ask me
such a question?"

"You have withdrawn your confidence," was almost coldly said.

"Oh, mother!" And Fanny drew her arms more tightly about her
mother's neck, kissing her cheek passionately as she did so.

A little while Mrs. Markland waited, until her daughter's mind grew
calmer; then she said--

"You are concealing from me something that troubles you. Whatever
doubles you is of sufficient importance to be intrusted to your
mother. I am older, have had more experience than you, and am your
best friend. Not to confide in me is unjust to yourself, for, in my
counsels, more than in those of your own heart, is there safety."

Mrs. Markland paused, and waited for some time, but there was no
response from Fanny. She then said--

"You have received a letter from Mr. Lyon."

Fanny started as if a sudden blow had aroused her.

"And concealed the fact from your mother."

No answer; only bitter weeping.

"May I see that letter?" asked the mother, after a short pause. For
nearly a minute she waited for a reply. But there was not a word
from Fanny, who now lay as still as death. Slowly Mrs. Markland
disengaged her arm from her daughter's neck, and raised herself
erect. For the space of two or three minutes she sat on the bedside.
All this time there was not the slightest movement on the part of
Fanny. Then she arose and moved slowly across the room. Her hand was
on the door, and the sound of the latch broke the silence of the
room. At this instant the unhappy girl started up, and cried, in
tones of anguish--

"Oh, my mother! my mother! come back!"

Mrs. Markland returned slowly, and with the air of one who
hesitated. Fanny leaned forward against her, and wept freely.

"It is not yet too late, my child, to get back the peace of mind
which this concealment has destroyed. Mr. Lyon has written to you?"

"Yes, mother."

"May I see his letter?"

There was no answer.

"Still not willing to trust your best friend," said Mrs. Markland.

"_Can_ I trust you?" said Fanny, raising herself up suddenly, and
gazing steadily into her mother's face. Mrs. Markland was startled
as well by the words of her daughter as by the strange expression of
her countenance.

"Trust me? What do you mean by such words?" she answered.

"If I tell you a secret, will you, at least for a little while, keep
it in your own heart."

"Keep it from whom?"

"From father."

"You frighten me, my child! What have you to do with a secret that
must be kept from your father!"

"I did not desire its custody."

"If it concerns your own or your father's welfare, so much the more
is it imperative on you to speak to him freely. No true friend could
lay upon you such an obligation, and the quicker you throw it off
the better. What is the nature of this secret?"

"I cannot speak unless you promise me."

"Promise what?"

"To conceal from father what I tell you."

"I can make no such promise, Fanny."

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