by T. S. Arthur
“In this land,” said Mrs. Markland, “we see in the visible things that surround us what was rarely seen before—types of the invisible things they represent.”
“Ah, yes, yes! Scales have fallen from my eyes. I have learned a new philosophy. In former times, Mr. Allison’s words seemed full of beautiful truths, yet so veiled, that I could not see their genuine brightness. Now they are like sudden gleams of sunlight on a darkened landscape.”
“Seekers after happiness, like the rest of the world,” said Mrs. Markland, resting her hands upon the table by which she sat, and, gazing earnestly into her husband’s face, “we had lost our way, and were moving with swift feet in the wrong direction. Suddenly, our kind Father threw up before us an impassable mountain. Then we seemed shut out from the land of promise forever, and were in despair. But he took his weeping, murmuring children by the hand, and led them gently into another path!”
“Into a narrower way”—Mr. Markland took up the words of his wife—”and sought by few; yet, it has already brought us into a pleasant region.”
“To speak in less ideal language,” said Mrs. Markland, “we have been taught an all-important lesson. It is this: That there is over each one of us an intimate providential care which ever has regard to our eternal good. And the reason of our many and sad disappointments lies in the fact, that we seek only the gratification of natural life, in which are the very elements of dissatisfaction. All mere natural life is selfish life; and natural ends gained only confirm this selfish life, and produce misery instead of happiness.”
“There is no rest,” said Markland, “to the striving spirit that only seeks for the good of this world. How clearly have I seen this of late, as well in my own case as in that of others! Neither wealth nor honour have in themselves the elements of happiness; and their increase brings but an increase of trouble.”
“If sought from merely selfish ends,” remarked his wife. “Yet their possession may increase our happiness, if we regard them as the means by which we may rise into a higher life.”
There followed a thoughtful pause. Mrs. Markland resumed her work, and her husband leaned his head back and remained for some minutes in a musing attitude.
“Don’t you think,” he said at length, “that Fanny is growing more cheerful?”
“Oh, yes. I can see that her state of mind is undergoing a gradual elevation.”
“Poor child! What a sad experience, for one so young, has been hers! How her whole character has been, to all seeming, transformed. The light-hearted girl suddenly changed to a thoughtful, suffering woman!”
“She may be a happier woman in the end,” said Mrs. Markland.
“Is that possible?”
“Yes. Suffering has given her a higher capacity for enjoyment.”
“And for pain, also,” said Mr. Markland.
“She is wiser for the first experience,” was replied.
“Yes, there is so much in her favour. I wish,” added Mr. Markland, “that she would go a little more into company. It is not good for any one to live so secluded a life. Companionship is necessary to the spirit’s health.”
“She is not without companions, or, at least, a companion.”
“Flora Willet?”
“Yes.”
“Good, as far as it goes. Flora is an excellent girl, and wise beyond her years.”
“Can we ask a better companion for our child than one with pure feelings and true thoughts?”
“No. But I am afraid Flora has not the power to bring her out of herself. She is so sedate.”
“She does not lack cheerfulness of spirit, Edward.”
“Perpetual cheerfulness is too passive.”
“Her laugh, at times, is delicious,” said Mrs. Markland, “going to your heart like a strain of music, warming it like a golden sunbeam. Flora’s character is by no means a passive one, but rather the reverse.”
“She is usually very quiet when I see her,” replied Markland.
“This arises from an instinctive deference to those who are older.”
“Fanny is strongly attached to her, I think.”
“Yes; and the attachment I believe to be mutual.”
“Would not Flora, at your suggestion, seek to draw her gradually forth from her seclusion?”
“We have talked together on that subject several times,” replied Mrs. Markland, “and are now trying to do the very thing you suggest.”
“With any prospect of accomplishing the thing desired?”
“I believe so. There is to be company at Mr. Willet’s next week, and we have nearly gained Fanny’s consent to be present.”
“Have you? I am indeed gratified to learn this.”
“Flora has set her heart on gaining Fanny’s consent, and will leave no influence untried.”
“Still, Fanny’s promise to go is withheld?”
“Yes; but I have observed her looking over her drawers, and showing more interest in certain articles therein than she has evinced for a long, long time.”
“If she goes, she will require a new dress,” said Mr. Markland.
“I think not. Such preparation would be too formal at present. But, we can make that all right.”
“Oh! it will give me so much pleasure! Do not leave any influence untried.”
“You may be sure that we will not,” answered Mrs. Markland; “and, what is more, you have little to fear touching our success.”
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE efforts of Flora Willet were successful; and Fanny Markland made one of the company that assembled at her brother’s house. Through an almost unconquerable reluctance to come forth into the eye of the world, so to speak, she had broken; and, as one after another of the guests entered the parlours, she could hardly repress an impulse to steal away and hide herself from the crowd of human faces thickly closing around her. Undesired, she found herself an object of attention; and, in some cases, of clearly-expressed sympathy, that was doubly unpleasant.
The evening was drawing to a close, and Fanny had left the company and was standing alone in one of the porticos, when a young man, whose eyes she had several times observed earnestly fixed upon her, passed near, walked a few paces beyond, and then turning, came up and said, in a low voice—”Pardon this slight breach of etiquette, Miss Markland. I failed to get a formal introduction. But, as I have a few words to say that must be said, I am forced to a seeming rudeness.”
Both the manner and words of the stranger so startled Fanny, that her heart began to throb wildly and her limbs to tremble. Seeing her clasp the pillar by which she stood, he said, as he offered an arm—
“Walk with me, for a few minutes at the other end of the portico. We will be less observed, and freer from interruption.”
But Fanny only shrunk closer to the pillar.
“If you have any thing to say to me, let it be said here,” she replied. Her trembling voice betrayed her agitation.
“What I have to say, concerns you deeply,” returned the young man, “and you ought to hear it in a calmer mood. Let us remove a little farther from observation, and be less in danger of interruption.”
“Speak, or retire!” said Fanny, with assumed firmness, waving her hand as she spoke.
But the stranger only bent nearer.
“I have a word for you from Mr. Lyon,” said he, in a low, distinct whisper.
It was some moments before Fanny made answer. There was a wild strife in her spirit. But the tempest was of brief duration. Scarcely a perceptible tremor was in her voice, as she answered,
“It need not be spoken.”
“Say not so, Miss Markland. If, in any thing, you have misapprehended him—”
“Go, sir!” And Fanny drew herself up to her full height, and pointed away with her finger.
“Mr. Lyon has ever loved you with the most passionate devotion,” said the stranger. “In some degree he is responsible for the misfortune of your father; and now, at the first opportunity for doing so, he is ready to tender a recomp
ense. Partly for this purpose, and partly to bear to you the declaration of Mr. Lyon’s unwavering regard, am I here.”
“He has wronged, deeply wronged my father,” replied Fanny, something of the imperious tone and manner with which she had last spoken abating. “If prepared to make restitution in any degree, the way can easily be opened.”
“Circumstances,” was answered, “conspired to place him in a false position, and make him the instrument of wrong to those for whom he would at any time have sacrificed largely instead of becoming the minister of evil.”
“What does he propose?” asked Fanny.
“To restore your father to his old position. Woodbine Lodge can be purchased from the present owner. It may become your home again.”
“It is well,” said Fanny. “Let justice be done.”
She was now entirely self-possessed, bore herself firmly erect, and spoke without apparent emotion. Standing with her back to the window, through which light came, her own face was in shadow, while that of her companion was clearly seen.
“Justice will be done,” replied the young man, slightly embarrassed by the replies of Fanny, the exact meaning of which he did not clearly perceive.
“Is that all you have to communicate?” said the young girl, seeing that he hesitated.
“Not all.”
“Say on, then.”
“There are conditions.”
“Ah! Name them.”
“Mr. Lyon still loves you with an undying tenderness.”
Fanny waved her hand quickly, as if rejecting the affirmation, and slightly averted her head, but did not speak.
“His letters ceased because he was in no state to write; not because there was any change in his feelings toward you. After the terrible disaster to the Company, for which he has been too sweepingly blamed, he could not write.”
“Where is he now?” inquired the maiden.
“I am not yet permitted to answer such a question.”
There came a pause.
“What shall I say to him from you?”
“Nothing!” was the firm reply.
“Nothing? Think again, Miss Markland.”
“Yes; say to him, that the mirror which once reflected his image in my heart, is shattered forever.”
“Think of your father,” urged the stranger.
“Go, sir!” And Fanny again waved her hand for him to leave her. “Your words are an offence to me.”
A form intercepted at this moment the light which came through one of the doors opening upon the portico, and Fanny stepped forward a pace or two.
“Ah! Miss Markland, I’ve been looking for you.”
It was Mr. Willet. The stranger moved away as the other approached, yet remained near enough to observe them. Fanny made no response.
“There is a bit of moonlight scenery that is very beautiful,” said Mr. Willet. “Come with me to the other side of the house.”
And he offered his arm, through which Fanny drew hers without hesitation. They stepped from the piazza, and passed in among the fragrant shrubbery, following one of the garden walks, until they were in view of the scene to which Mr. Willet referred. A heavy bank of clouds had fallen in the east, and the moon was just struggling through the upper, broken edges, along which her gleaming silver lay in fringes, broad belts, and fleecy masses, giving to the dark vapours below a deeper blackness. Above all this, the sky was intensely blue, and the stars shone down with a sharp, diamond-like lustre. Beneath the bank of clouds, yet far enough in the foreground of this picture to partly emerge from obscurity, stood, on an eminence, a white marble building, with columns of porticos, like a Grecian temple. Projected against the dark background were its classic outlines, looking more like a vision of the days of Pericles than a modern verity.
“Only once before have I seen it thus,” said Mr. Willet, after his companion had gazed for some time upon the scene without speaking, “and ever since, it has been a picture in my memory.”
“How singularly beautiful!” Fanny spoke with only a moderate degree of enthusiasm, and with something absent in her manner. Mr. Willet turned to look into her face, but it lay too deeply in shadow. For a short time they stood gazing at the clouds, the sky, and the snowy temple. Then Mr. Willet passed on, with the maiden, threading the bordered garden walks, and lingering among the trees, until they came to one of the pleasant summer-houses, all the time seeking to awaken some interest in her mind. She had answered all his remarks so briefly and in so absent a manner, that he was beginning to despair, when she said, almost abruptly—
“Did you see the person who was with me on the portico, when you came out just now?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know him?”
“He’s a stranger to me,” said Mr. Willet; “and I do not even remember his name. Mr. Ellis introduced him.”
“And you invited him to your house?”
“No, Miss Markland. We invited Mr. and Mrs. Ellis, and they brought him as their friend.”
“Ah!” There was something of relief in her tone.
“But what of him?” said Mr. Willet. “Why do you inquire about him so earnestly?”
Fanny made no answer.
“Did he in any way intrude upon you?” Mr. Willet spoke in a quicker voice.
“I have no complaint to make against him,” replied Fanny. “And yet I ought to know who he is, and where he is from.”
“You shall know all you desire,” said her companion. “I will obtain from Mr. Ellis full information in regard to him.”
“You will do me a very great favour.”
The rustling of a branch at this moment caused both of them to turn in the direction from which the sound came. The form of a man was, for an instant, distinctly seen, close to the summer-house. But it vanished, ere more than the dim outline was perceived.
“Who can that be, hovering about in so stealthy a manner?” Mr. Willet spoke with rising indignation, starting to his feet as he uttered the words.
“Probably the very person about whom we were conversing,” said Fanny.
“This is an outrage! Come, Miss Markland, let us return to the house, and I will at once make inquiry of Mr. Ellis about this stranger.”
Fanny again took the proffered arm of Mr. Willet, and the two went silently back, and joined the company from which they had a little while before retired. The latter at once made inquiry of Mr. Ellis respecting the stranger who had been introduced to him. The answers were far from being satisfactory.
“He is a young man whose acquaintance I made about a year ago. He was then a frequent visitor in my family, and we found him an intelligent, agreeable companion. For several months he has been spending his time at the South. A few weeks ago, he returned and renewed his friendly relations. On learning that we were to be among your guests on this occasion, he expressed so earnest a desire to be present, that we took the liberty sometimes assumed among friends, and brought him along. If we have, in the least, trespassed on our privileges as your guests, we do most deeply regret the circumstance.”
And this was all Mr. Willet could learn, at the time, in reference to the stranger, who, on being sought for, was nowhere to be found. He had heard enough of the conversation that passed between Mr. Willet and Fanny, as he listened to them while they sat in the summer-house, to satisfy him that if he remained longer at “Sweetbrier,” he would become an object of the host’s too careful observation.
CHAPTER XL.
A FEW weeks prior to the time at which the incidents of the preceding chapter occurred, a man, with a rough, neglected exterior, and face almost hidden by an immense beard, landed at New Orleans from one of the Gulf steamers, and was driven to the St. Charles Hotel. His manner was restless, yet wary. He gave his name as Falkner, and repaired at once to the room assigned to him.
“Is there a boarder in the house named Leach?” he made inquiry of the servant who came up with his baggage.
“There is,” was replied.
“Will you ascer
tain if he is in, and say that I wish to see him?”
“What name, sir?” inquired the servant.
“No matter. Give the number of my room.”
The servant departed, and in a few minutes conducted a man to the apartment of the stranger.
“Ah! you are here!” exclaimed the former, starting forward, and grasping tightly the hand that was extended to receive him. “When did you arrive?”
“This moment.”
“From—?”
“No matter where from, at present. Enough that I am here.” The servant had retired, and the closed door was locked. “But there is one thing I don’t just like.”
“What is that?”
“You penetrated my disguise too easily.”
“I expected you, and knew, when inquired for, by whom I was wanted.”
“That as far as it goes. But would you have known me if I had passed you in the street?”
The man named Leach took a long, close survey of the other, and then replied—
“I think not, for you are shockingly disfigured. How did you manage to get that deep gash across your forehead?”
“It occurred in an affray with one of the natives; I came near losing my life.”
“A narrow escape, I should say.”
“It was. But I had the satisfaction of shooting the bloody rascal through the heart.” And a grin of savage pleasure showed the man’s white teeth gleaming below the jetty moustache.—”Well, you see I am here,” he added, “boldly venturing on dangerous ground.”
“So I see. And for what? You say that I can serve you again; and I am in New Orleans to do your bidding.”
“You can serve me, David,” was answered, with some force of expression. “In fact, among the large number of men with whom I have had intercourse, you are the only one who has always been true to me, and” (with a strongly-uttered oath) “I will never fail you, in any extremity.”
“I hope never to put your friendship to any perilous test,” replied the other, smiling. “But say on.”
“I can’t give that girl up. Plague on her bewitching face! it has wrought upon me a kind of enchantment. I see it ever before me as a thing of beauty. David! she must be mine at any sacrifice!”
