The Good Time Coming

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.

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.