by T. S. Arthur
With an angry imprecation, Lyon dashed this letter on the floor. “Mad girl!” he said; “did I not warn her fully of the consequences? Write to her father? What shall I write? Tell him that I have deceived him! That when he thought me far away I was sitting beside his daughter, and tempting her to act towards him with concealment, if not duplicity! Madness! folly!”
“I was a fool,” he communed with himself in a calmer mood, “to put so much in jeopardy for a woman! Nay, a girl—a mere child. But what is to be done? Three days only intervene between this time and the period at which our secret will be made known; so, whatever is to be done must be determined quickly. Shall I treat the matter with Markland seriously, or lightly? Not seriously, for that will surely cause him to do the same. Lightly, of course; for the manner in which I speak of it will have its influence. But first, I must manage to get him off to New York, and in the hands of Fenwick. The larger his actual investment in this business, the more easily the matter will be settled.”
So he drew a sheet of paper before him, and wrote:
“MY DEAR MR. MARKLAND:—I have had so much important correspondence with Mr. Fenwick, our managing agent in New York, consequent on letters from London and Liverpool by last steamer, that I have been unable to proceed further than this point, but shall leave to-morrow. Mr. Fenwick has some very important information to communicate, and if he has not found time to write you, I would advise your going on to New York immediately. At best, hurried business letters give but imperfect notions of things. An hour’s interview with Mr. Fenwick will enable you to comprehend the present state of affairs more perfectly than the perusal of a volume of letters. Some new aspects have presented themselves that I particularly wish you to consider. Mr. Fenwick has great confidence in your judgment, and would, I know, like to confer with you.
“Do not fail to bring me to the remembrance of Mrs. Markland and Fanny.
Ever yours,
LEE LYON.”
“This for to-day’s mail,” said he, is he folded the letter. “If it does the work it is designed to accomplish, time, at least, will be gained. Now for the harder task.”
Three times he tried to address Mr. Markland again, and as often tore up his letter. A fourth trial brought something nearer the mark.
“I’m afraid,” he wrote, “a certain hasty act of mine, of which I ought before to have advised you, may slightly disturb your feelings. Yet don’t let it have that effect, for there is no occasion whatever. Soon after leaving for the South, I wrote you to go to New York. The next mail brought me letters that rendered such a visit unnecessary, and fearing a communication by mail might not reach you promptly, I returned rapidly, and hastened to Woodbine Lodge to see you. Approaching your dwelling, I met Fanny, and learned from her that you had left for New York. Foolishly, as I now see it, I desired your daughter to keep the fact a secret for a short period, fearing lest you might not clearly comprehend my reason for returning. I wished to explain the matter myself. This trifling affair, it seems, has made Fanny very unhappy. I am really sorry. But it is over now, and I trust her spirits will rise again. You understand me fully, and can easily see why I might naturally fall into this trifling error.
“I wrote you yesterday, and hope you acted upon my suggestion. I proceed South in an hour. Every thing looks bright.”
CHAPTER XXII.
“IT must be done this evening, Fanny,” said Mrs. Markland, firmly. “The week has expired.”
“Wait until to-morrow, dear mother,” was urged in a manner that was almost imploring.
“My promise was for one week. Even against my own clear convictions of right, have I kept it. This evening, your father must know all.”
Fanny buried her face, in her hands and wept violently. The trial and conflict of that week were, to Mrs. Markland, the severest, perhaps, of her whole life. Never before had her mind been in so confused a state; never had the way of duty seemed so difficult to find. A promise she felt to be a sacred thing; and this feeling had constrained her, even in the face of most powerful considerations, to remain true to her word. But now, she no longer doubted or hesitated; and she was counting the hours that must elapse before her husband’s return from the city, eager to unburden her heart to him.
“There is hardly time,” said Fanny, “for a letter to arrive from Mr. Lyon.”
“I cannot help it, my child. Any further delay on my part would be criminal. Evil, past all remedy, may have already been done.”
“I only asked for time, that Mr. Lyon might have an opportunity to write to father, and explain every thing himself.”
“Probably your father has heard from him to-day. If so, well; but, if not, I shall certainly bring the matter to his knowledge.”
There was something so decisive about Mrs. Markland, that Fanny ceased all further attempts to influence her, and passively awaited the issue.
The sun had only a few degrees to make ere passing from sight behind the western mountains. It was the usual time for Mr. Markland’s return from the city, and most anxiously was his appearing looked for. But the sun went down, and the twilight threw its veil over wood and valley, and still his coming was delayed. He had gone in by railroad, and not by private conveyance as usual. The latest train had swept shrieking past, full half an hour, when Mrs. Markland turned sadly from the portico, in which she had for a long time been stationed, saying to Grace, who had been watching by her side—
“This is very strange! What can keep Edward? Can it be possible that he has remained in the city all night? I’m very much troubled. He may be sick.”
“More likely,” answered Grace, in a fault-finding way, “he’s gone trapseing off to New York again, after that Englishman’s business. I wish he would mind his own affairs.”
“He would not have done this without sending us word,” replied Mrs. Markland.
“Oh! I’m not so sure of that. I’m prepared for any thing.”
“But it’s not like Edward. You know that he is particularly considerate about such things.”
“He used to be. But Edward Markland of last year is not the Edward Markland of to-day, as you know right well,” returned the sister-in-law.
“I wish you wouldn’t speak in that way about Edward any more, Grace. It is very unpleasant to me.”
“The more so, because it is the truth,” replied Grace Markland. “Edward, I’ll warrant you, is now sweeping off towards New York. See if I’m not right.”
“No, there he is now!” exclaimed Mrs. Markland, stepping back from the door she was about to enter, as the sound of approaching feet arrested her ear.
The two women looked eagerly through the dusky air. A man’s form was visible. It came nearer.
“Edward!” was just passing joyfully from the lips of Mrs. Markland, when the word was suppressed.
“Good-evening, ladies,” said a strange voice, as a man whom neither of them recognised paused within a few steps of where they stood.
“Mr. Willet is my name,” he added.
“Oh! Mr. Willet, our new neighbour,” said Mrs. Markland, with a forced composure of manner. “Walk in, if you please. We were on the lookout for Mr. Markland. He has not yet arrived from the city, and we are beginning to feel anxious about him.”
“I am here to relieve that anxiety,” replied the visitor in a cheerful voice, as he stepped on the portico. “Mr. Markland has made me the bearer of a message to his family.”
“Where is he? What has detained him in the city?” inquired Mrs. Markland, in tones expressing her grief and disappointment.
“He has gone to New York,” replied Mr. Willet.
“To New York!”
“Yes. He desired me to say to you, that letters received by the afternoon’s mail brought information that made his presence in New York of importance. He had no time, before the cars started, to write, and I, therefore, bring you his verbal message.”
It had been the intention of Mr. Willet to accept any courteous invitation extended by the family to pass
a part of the evening with them; but, seeing how troubled Mrs. Markland was at the absence of her husband, he thought it better to decline entering the house, and wait for a better opportunity to make their more intimate acquaintance. So he bade her a good evening, after answering what further inquiries she wished to make, and returned to his own home.
Aunt Grace was unusually excited by the information received through their neighbour, and fretted and talked in her excited way for some time; but nothing that she said elicited any reply from Mrs. Markland, who seemed half stupefied, and sat through the evening in a state of deep abstraction, answering only in brief sentences any remarks addressed to her. It seemed to her as if her feet had wandered somehow into the mazes of a labyrinth, from which at each effort to get free she was only the more inextricably involved. Her perceptions had lost their clearness, and, still worse, her confidence in them was diminishing. Heretofore she had reposed all trust in her husband’s rational intelligence; and her woman’s nature had leaned upon him and clung to him as the vine to the oak. As his judgment determined, her intuitions had approved. Alas for her that this was no longer! Hitherto she had walked by his side with a clear light upon their path. She was ready to walk on still, and to walk bravely so far as herself was concerned, even though her straining eyes could not penetrate the cloudy veil that made all before her darkness and mystery.
Fanny, who had looked forward with a vague fear to her father’s return on that evening, felt relieved on hearing that he had gone to New York, for that would give sufficient time for him to receive a letter from Mr. Lyon.
Thus it was with the family of Mr. Markland on this particular occasion. A crisis, looked for with trembling anxiety, seemed just at, hand; and yet it was still deferred—leaving, at least in one bosom, a heart-sickness that made life itself almost a burden.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE close of the next day did not bring Mr. Markland, but only a hurried letter, saying that important business would probably keep him in New York a day or two longer. A postscript to the letter read thus:
“Mr. Elbridge will send you a deed of some warehouse property that I have sold. Sign and return it by the bearer.”
If Mr. Markland had only said where a letter would reach him in New York, his wife would have lost no time in writing fully on the subject of Mr. Lyon’s conduct toward Fanny. But, as there was great uncertainty about this, she felt that she could only await his return. And now she blamed herself deeply for having kept her word to Fanny. It was one of those cases, she saw, in which more evil was likely to flow from keeping a blind, almost extorted promise, than from breaking it.
“I ought to have seen my duty clearer,” she said, in self-condemnation. “What blindness has possessed me!” And so she fretted herself, and admitted into her once calm, trusting spirit, a flood of self-reproaches and disquietude.
Fanny, now that the so anxiously dreaded period had gone by, and there was hope that her father would learn all from Mr. Lyon before he returned home, relapsed into a more passive state of mind. She had suffered much beyond her natural powers of endurance, in the last few days. A kind of reaction now followed, and she experienced a feeling of indifference as to results and consequences, that was a necessary relief to the over-strained condition of mind which had for some time existed.
On the day following, another letter was received from Mr. Markland.
“You must not expect me until the last of this week,” he said. “Business matters of great importance will keep me here until that time. I have a letter from Mr. Lyon which I do not much like. It seems that he was at Woodbine Lodge, and saw Fanny, while I was away in New York. I have talked with a Mr. Fenwick here, a gentleman who knows all about him and his business, and he assures me that the reasons which Mr. Lyon gave for returning as he did from the South are valid. What troubles me most is that Fanny should have concealed it from both you and her father. We will talk this matter over fully on my return. If I had known it earlier, it might have led to an entire change of plans for the future. But it is too late now.
“I wrote you yesterday that I wished you to sign a deed which Mr. Elbridge would send out. He will send two more, which I would also like you to sign. I am making some investments here of great prospective value.”
Mrs. Markland read this letter over and over again, and sat and thought about its contents until her mind grew so bewildered that it seemed as if reason were about to depart. If it was suggested that she ought not to sign the deeds that were to be presented for her signature, the suggestion was not for a single moment entertained; but rather flung aside with something of indignation.
A day or two after Mr. Willet called with the message from Mr. Markland, he went over again to Woodbine Lodge. It was late in the afternoon, and Fanny was sitting in the portico that looked from the western front of the dwelling, with her thoughts so far away from the actual things around her that she did not notice the approach of any one, until Mr. Willet, whom she had never met, was only a few yards distant; then she looked up, and as her eyes rested upon him, she started to her feet and struck her hands together, uttering an involuntary exclamation of surprise. The name of Mr. Lyon was half uttered, when she saw her mistake, and made a strong effort to compose her suddenly disturbed manner.
“Mrs. Markland is at home, I presume,” said the visitor, in a respectful manner, as he paused a few paces distant from Fanny, and observed, with some surprise, the agitation his appearance had occasioned.
“She is. Will you walk in, sir?” The voice of Fanny trembled, though she strove hard to speak calmly and with apparent self-possession.
“My name is Mr. Willet.”
“Oh! our new neighbour.” And Fanny forced a smile, while she extended her hand, as she added:
“Walk in, sir. My mother will be gratified to see you.”
“Has your father returned from New York?” inquired Mr. Willet, as he stood looking down upon the face of Miss Markland, with a feeling of admiration for its beauty and innocence.
“Not yet. Mother does not look for him until the last of this week.”
“He did not expect to be gone over a single day, when he left?”
“No, sir. But business has detained him. Will you not walk in, Mr. Willet?” The earnestness with which he was looking into her face was disconcerting Fanny. So she stepped toward the door, and led the way into the house.
“Mr. Willet,” said Fanny, introducing her visitor, as they entered the sitting-room.
Mrs. Markland extended her hand and gave their new neighbour a cordial reception. Aunt Grace bowed formally, and fixed her keen eyes upon him with searching glances. While the former was thinking how best to entertain their visitor, the latter was scrutinizing his every look, tone, word, and movement. At first, the impression made upon her was not altogether favourable; but gradually, as she noted every particular of his conversation, as well as the various changes of his voice and countenance, her feelings toward him underwent a change; and when he at length addressed a few words to her, she replied, with unusual blandness of manner.
“How are your mother and sisters?” inquired Mrs. Markland, soon after Mr. Willet came in. “I have not yet called over to see them, but shall do so to-morrow.”
“They are well, and will be exceedingly gratified to receive a visit from you,” replied Mr. Willet.
“How are they pleased with the country?”
“That question they would find it difficult yet to answer. There is much pleasant novelty, and much real enjoyment of nature’s varied beauties. A sense of freedom and a quietude of spirit, born of the stillness that, to people just from the noisy town, seems brooding over all things. Some of the wants, created by our too artificial mode of living in cities, are occasionally felt; but, on the whole, we are gainers, so far, by our experiment.”
“Your sisters, I am sure, must enjoy the beauty with which you are surrounded. There is not a lovelier place than the one you have selected in the whole neighbourhood.”
Mr. Willet fixed his eyes so earnestly on the countenance of Fanny, that she partly averted her face to conceal the warm flush that came to her cheeks.
“I shall be happy to make her acquaintance,” she replied. “Our circle of friends cannot be so large here as in the city; but we may find compensation in closer attachments.”
“I will say to my mother and sisters, that they may expect to see you to-morrow,” And Mr. Willet looked from face to face.
“Yes; we will ride over to-morrow,” said Mrs. Markland.
“And you, also, Miss Markland.” The courteous manner in which this was said quite won the heart of Aunt Grace, and she replied that she would give herself that pleasure.
Mr. Willet sat for an hour, during which time he conversed in the most agreeable and intelligent manner; and, on retiring, left behind him a very favourable impression.
“I like that man,” said Aunt Grace, with an emphasis that caused Mrs. Markland to look toward her and smile.
“That’s a little remarkable. You are not very apt to like men at first sight.”
“I like him, for he’s a true man and a gentleman,” returned Aunt Grace. “And true men, I think, are scarce articles.”
“Ever hasty in your conclusions, whether favourable or unfavourable,” said Mrs. Markland.
