The Good Time Coming by T.S. Arthur (page 5)

“If you desire it, gentlemen,” replied the young man; “though it is hardly probable that I will find him there at this hour. If you wait a little while longer, he will no doubt be in.”

The door opened, and two more of the parties interested in this bursting bubble arrived.

“Where is Fenwick?” was eagerly asked.

“Not to be found,” answered one, abruptly, and with a broader meaning in his tones than any words had yet expressed.

“He hasn’t disappeared, also!”

Fearful eyes looked into blank faces at this exclamation.

“Gentlemen,” said the clerk, with considerable firmness of manner, “language like this must not be used here. It impeaches the character of a man whose life has thus far been above reproach. Whatever is said here, remember, is said in his ears, and he will soon be among you to make his own response.”

The manner in which this was uttered repressed, for a time, further remarks reflecting on the integrity of the agent. But, after the lapse of nearly an hour, his continued absence was again referred to, and in more decided language than before.

“Will you do us one favour?” said Mr. Markland, on whose mind suspense was sitting like a nightmare. He spoke to the clerk, who, by this time, was himself growing restless.

“Any thing you desire, if it is in my power,” was answered.

“Will you go down to the post-office, and inquire if Mr. Fenwick has received his letters this morning?”

“Certainly, I will.” And the clerk went on the errand without a moment’s delay.

“Mr. Fenwick received his letters over two hours ago,” said the young man, on his return. He looked disappointed and perplexed.

“And you know nothing of him?” was said.

“Nothing, gentlemen, I do assure you. His absence is to me altogether inexplicable.”

“Where’s Fenwick?” was now asked, in an imperative voice, by a new comer.

“Not been seen this morning,” replied Markland.

“Another act in this tragedy! Gone, I suppose, to join his accomplice on the Pacific coast, and share his plunder,” said the man, passionately.

“You are using very strong language, sir!” suggested one.

“Not stronger than the case justifies. For my own assurance, I sent out a secret agent, and I have my first letter from him this morning. He arrived just in time to see our splendid schemes dissolve in smoke. Lyon is a swindler, Fenwick an accomplice, and we a parcel of easy fools. The published intelligence we have to-day is no darker than the truth. The bubble burst by the unexpected seizure of our lands, implements, and improvements, by the–Government. It contained nothing but air! Fenwick and Lyon had just played one of their reserved cards–it had something to do with the flooding of a shaft, which would delay results, and require more capital–when the impatient grantors of the land foreclosed every thing. From the hour this catastrophe became certain, Lyon was no more seen. He was fully prepared for the emergency.”

In confirmation of this, letters giving the minutest particulars were shown, thus corroborating the worst, and extinguishing the feeblest rays of hope.

All was too true. The brilliant bubble had indeed burst, and not the shadow of a substance remained. When satisfied of this beyond all doubt, Markland, on whose mind suffering had produced a temporary stupor, sought his room at the hotel, and remained there for several days, so hopeless, weak, and undecided, that he seemed almost on the verge of mental imbecility. How could he return home and communicate the dreadful intelligence to his family? How could he say to them, that, for his transgressions, they must go forth from their beautiful Eden?

“No–no!” he exclaimed, wringing his hands in anguish. “I can never tell them this! I can never look into their faces! Never! never!”

The moment had come, and the tempter was at his ear. There was, first, the remote suggestion of self-banishment in some distant land, where the rebuking presence of his injured family could never haunt him. But he felt that a life in this world, apart from them, would be worse than death.

“I am mocked! I am cursed!” he exclaimed, bitterly.

The tempter was stealthily doing his work.

“Oh! what a vain struggle is this life! What a fitful fever! Would that it were over, and I at rest!”

The tempter was leading his thoughts at will.

“How can I meet my wronged family? How can I look my friends in the face? I shall be to the world only a thing of pity or reproach. Can I bear this? No–no–I cannot–I cannot!”

Magnified by the tempter, the consequence looked appalling. He felt that he had not strength to meet it–that all of manhood would be crushed out of him.

“What then?” He spoke the words almost aloud, and held his breath, as if for answer.

“A moment, and all will be over!”

It was the voice of the tempter.

Markland buried his face in his hands, and sat for a long time as motionless as if sleep had obscured his senses; and all that time a fearful debate was going on in his mind. At last he rose up, changed in feeling as well as in aspect. His resolution was taken, and a deep, almost leaden, calmness pervaded his spirit. He had resolved on self-destruction!

With a strange coolness, the self-doomed man now proceeded to select the agent of death. He procured a work on poisons, and studied the effects of different substances, choosing, finally, that which did the fatal work most quickly and with the slightest pain. This substance was then procured. But he could not turn forever from those nearest and dearest, without a parting word.

The day had run almost to a close in these fearful struggles and fatal preparations; and the twilight was falling, when, exhausted and in tears, the wretched man folded, with trembling hands, a letter he had penned to his wife. This done, he threw himself, weak as a child, upon the bed, and, ere conscious that sleep was stealing upon him, fell off into slumber.

Sleep! It is the great restorer. For a brief season the order of life is changed, and the involuntary powers of the mind bear rule in place of the voluntary. The actual, with all its pains and pleasures, is for the time annihilated. The pressure of thought and the fever of emotion are both removed, and the over-taxed spirit is at rest. Into his most loving guardianship the great Creator of man, who gave him reason and volition, and the freedom to guide himself, takes his creature, and, while the image of death is upon him, gathers about him the Everlasting Arms. He suspends, for a time, the diseased voluntary life, that he may, through the involuntary, restore a degree of health, and put the creature he has formed for happiness in a new condition of mental and moral freedom.

Blessed sleep! Who has not felt and acknowledged thy sweet influences? Who has not wondered at thy power in the tranquil waking, after a night that closed around the spirit in what seemed the darkness of coming despair?

Markland slept; and in his sleep, guided by angels, there came to him the spirits of his wife and children, clothed in the beauty of innocence. How lovingly they gathered around him! how sweet were their words in his ears! how exquisite the thrill awakened by each tender kiss! Now he was with them in their luxurious home; and now they were wandering, in charmed intercourse, amid its beautiful surroundings. Change after change went on; new scenes and new characters appeared, and yet the life seemed orderly and natural. Suddenly there came a warning of danger. The sky grew fearfully dark; fierce lightning burned through the air, and the giant tempest swept down upon the earth with resistless fury. Next a flood was upon them. And now he was seized with the instinct of self-preservation, and in a moment had deserted his helpless family, and was fleeing, alone to a place of safety. From thence he saw wife and children borne off by the rush of waters, their white, imploring faces turned to him, and their hands stretched out for succour. Then all his love returned; self was forgotten; he would have died to save them. But it was too late! Even while he looked, they were engulfed and lost.

From such a dream Markland was awakened into conscious life. The shadowy twilight had been succeeded by darkness. He started up, confused and affrighted. Some moments passed before his bewildered thoughts were able to comprehend his real position; and when he did so, he fell back, with a groan, horror-stricken, upon the bed. The white faces and imploring hands of his wife and children were still vividly before him.

“Poor, weak, coward heart!” he at last murmured to himself. “An evil spirit was thy counsellor. I knew not that so mean and base a purpose could find admittance there. What! Beggar and disgrace my wife and children, and then, like a, skulking coward, leave them to bear the evil I had not the courage to face! Edward Markland! Can this, indeed, be true of thee?”

And the excited man sprang from the bed. A feeble light came in through the window-panes above the door, and made things dimly visible. He moved about, for a time, with an uncertain air, and then rung for a light. The first object that met his eyes, when the servant brought in a lamp, was a small, unopened package, lying on the table. He knew its contents. What a strong shudder ran through his frame! Seizing it the instant the attendant left the room, he flung it through the open window. Then, sinking on his knees, he thanked God fervently for a timely deliverance.

The fierce struggle with pride was now over. Weak, humbled, and softened in feeling almost to tears, Markland sat alone, through the remainder of that evening, with his thoughts reaching forward into the future, and seeking to discover the paths in which his feet must walk. For himself he cared not now. Ah! if the cherished ones could be saved from the consequences of his folly! If he alone were destined to move in rough and thorny ways! But there was for them no escape. The paths in which he moved they must move. The cup he had made bitter for himself would be bitter for them also.

Wretched man! Into what a great deep of misery had he plunged himself!

CHAPTER XXXIV.

IT was near the close of the fifth day since Mr. Markland left his home to commence a long journey southward; and yet, no word had come back from him. He had promised to write from Baltimore, and from other points on his route, and sufficient time had elapsed for at least two letters to arrive. A servant, who had been sent to the city post-office, had returned without bringing any word from the absent one; and Mrs. Markland, with Fanny by her side, was sitting near a window sad and silent.

Just one year has passed since their introduction to the reader. But what a change one year has wrought! The heart’s bright sunshine rested then on every object. Woodbine Lodge was then a paradise. Now, there is scarcely a ray of this warm sunshine. Yet there had been no bereavement–no affliction; nothing that we refer to a mysterious Providence. No,–but the tempter was admitted. He came with specious words and deceiving pretences. He vailed the present good, and magnified the worth of things possessing no power to satisfy the heart. Too surely has he suceeded in the accomplishment of his evil work.

At the time of the reader’s introduction to Woodbine Lodge, a bright day was going down in beauty; and there was not a pulse in nature that did not beat in unison with the hearts of its happy denizens. A summer day was again drawing to its close, but sobbing itself away in tears. And they were in tears also, whose spirits, but a single year gone by, reflected only the light and beauty of nature.

By the window sat the mother and daughter, with oppressed hearts, looking out upon the leaden sky and the misty gusts that swept across the gloomy landscape. Sad and silent, we have said, they were. Now and then they gazed into each other’s faces, and the lips quivered as if words were on them. But each spirit held back the fear by which it was burdened–and the eyes turned wearily again from the open window.

At last, Fanny’s heavy heart could bear in silence the pressure no longer. Hiding her face in her mother’s lap, she sobbed out violently. Repressing her own struggling emotions, Mrs. Markland spoke soothing, hopeful words; and even while she sought to strengthen her daughter’s heart, her own took courage.

“My dear child,” she said, in a voice made even by depressing its tone, “do you not remember that beautiful thought expressed by Mrs. Willet yesterday? ‘Death,’ said she, ‘signifies life; for in every death there is resurrection into a higher and purer life. This is as true,’ she remarked, ‘of our affections, which are but activities of the life, as of the natural life itself.'”

The sobs of the unhappy girl died away. Her mother continued, in a low, earnest voice, speaking to her own heart as well as to that of her child, for it, too, needed strength and comfort.

“How often have we been told, in our Sabbath instructions, that natural affections cannot be taken to heaven; that they must die, in order that spiritual affections may be born.”

Fanny raised herself up, and said, with slight warmth of manner–

“Is not my love for you a natural affection for my natural mother? And must that die before I can enter heaven?”

“May it not be changed into a love of what is good in your mother, instead of remaining only a love of her person?”

“Dear mother!” almost sobbed again the unhappy child,–clasping eagerly the neck of her parent,–“it is such a love now! Oh! if I were as good, and patient, and self-denying as you are!”

“All our natural affections,” resumed Mrs. Markland, after a few moments were given to self-control, “have simple regard to ourselves; and their indulgence never brings the promised happiness. This is why a wise and good Creator permits our natural desires to be so often thwarted. In this there is mercy, and not unkindness; for the fruition of these desires would often be most exquisite misery.”

“Hark!” exclaimed Fanny, starting up at this moment, and leaning close to the window. The sound that had fallen upon her ear had also reached the ears of the mother.

“Oh! it’s father!” fell almost wildly from the daughter’s lips, and she sprang out into the hall, and forth to meet him in the drenching rain. Mrs. Markland could not rise, but sat, nerveless, until the husband entered the room.

“Oh, Edward! Edward!” she then exclaimed, rising, and staggering forward to meet him. “Thank our kind Father in heaven that you are with us again!” And her head sunk upon his bosom, and she felt his embracing arms drawn tightly around her. How exquisitely happy she was for the moment! But she was aroused by the exclamation of Fanny:–

“Oh, father! How pale you look!”

Mrs. Markland raised herself quickly, and gazed into her husband’s face. What a fearful change was there! He was pale and haggard; and in his bloodshot eyes she read a volume of wretchedness.

“Oh, Edward! what has happened?” she asked, eagerly and tenderly.

“More than I dare tell you!” he replied, in a voice full of despair.

“Perhaps I can divine the worst.”

Markland had turned his face partly away, that he might conceal its expression. But the unexpected tone in which this sentence was uttered caused him to look back quickly. There was no foreboding fear in the countenance of his wife. She had spoken firmly–almost cheerfully.

“The worst? Dear Agnes!” he said, with deep anguish in his voice. “It has not entered into your imagination to conceive the worst!”

“All is lost!” she answered, calmly.

“All,” he replied, “but honour, and a heart yet brave enough and strong enough to battle with the world for the sake of its beloved ones.”

Mrs. Markland hid her face on the breast of her husband, and stood, for some minutes, silent. Fanny approached her father, and laid her head against him.

“All this does not appal me,” said Mrs. Markland, and she looked up and smiled faintly through tears that could not be repressed.

“Oh, Agnes! Agnes! can you bear the thought of being driven out from this Eden?”

“Its beauty has already faded,” was the quiet answer. “If it is ours no longer, we must seek another home. And home, you know, dear Edward, is where the heart is, and the loved ones dwell.”

But not so calmly could Fanny bear this announcement. She had tried hard, for her father’s sake, to repress her feelings; but now they gave way into hysterical weeping. Far beyond his words her thoughts leaped, and already bitter self-reproaches had begun. Had she at once informed him of Mr. Lyon’s return, singular interview, and injunction of secrecy, all these appalling consequences might have been saved. In an instant this flashed upon her mind, and the conviction overwhelmed her.

“My poor child,” said Mr. Markland, sadly, yet with great tenderness,–“would to heaven I could save you from the evil that lies before us! But I am powerless in the hands of a stern necessity.”

“Oh, father!” sobbed the weeping girl, “if I could bear this change alone, I would be happy.”

“Let us all bear it cheerfully together,” said Mrs. Markland, in a quiet voice, and with restored calmness of spirit. “Heaven, as Mrs. Willet says, with so much truth, is not without, but within us. The elements of happiness lie not in external, but in internal things. I do not think, Edward, even with all we had of good in possession, you have been happy for the past year. The unsatisfied spirit turned itself away from all that was beautiful in nature–from all it had sought for as the means of contentment, and sighed for new possessions. And these would also have lost their charms, had you gained them, and your restless heart still sighed after an ideal good. It may be–nay, it must be–in mercy, that our heavenly Father permitted this natural evil to fall upon us. The night that approaches will prove, I doubt not, the winter night in which much bread will grow.”

“Comforter!” He spoke the word with emotion.

“And should I not be?” was the almost cheerful answer. “Those who cannot help should at least speak words of comfort.”

“Words! They are more than words that you have spoken. They have in them a substance and a life. But, Fanny, dear child!” he said, turning to his still grieving daughter–“your tears distress me. They pain more deeply than rebuking sentences. My folly”–

“Father! exclaimed Fanny–“it is I–not you–that must bear reproach. A word might have saved all. Weak, erring child that I was!, Oh! that fatal secret which almost crushed my heart with its burden! Why did I not listen to the voice of conscience and duty?”

“Let the dead past rest,” said Mr. Markland. “Your error was light, in comparison with mine. Had I guarded the approaches to the pleasant land, where innocence and peace had their dwelling-place, the subtle tempter could never have entered. To mourn over the past but weakens the spirit.”

But of all that passed between these principal members of a family upon whom misfortune had come like a flood, we cannot make a record. The father’s return soon became known to the rest, and the children’s gladness fell, like a sunny vail, over the sterner features of the scene.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE disaster was complete. Not a single dollar of all Markland had cast so blindly into the whirling vortex ever came back to him. Fenwick disappeared from New York, leaving behind conclusive evidence of a dark complicity with the specious Englishman, whose integrity had melted away, like snow in the sunshine, beneath the fire of a strong temptation. Honourably connected at home, shrewd, intelligent, and enterprising, he had been chosen as the executive agent of a company prepared to make large investments in a scheme that promised large results. He was deputed to bring the business before a few capitalists on this side of the Atlantic, and with what success has been seen. His recreancy to the trust reposed in him was the ruin of many.

How shall we describe the scenes that followed, too quickly, the announcement by Mr. Markland that Woodbine Lodge was no longer to remain in his possession? No member of the family could meet the stern necessity without pain. The calmest of all the troubled household was Mrs. Markland. Fanny, whom the event had awakened from a partial stupor, gradually declined into her former state. She moved about more like an automaton than a living figure; entering into all the duties and activities appertaining to the approaching change, yet seeming entirely indifferent to all external things. She was living and suffering in the inner world, more than in the outer. With the crushing out of a wild, absorbing love, had died all interest in life. She was in the external world, but, so far as any interest in passing events was concerned, not of it. Sad, young heart. A most cruel experience was thine!

When the disastrous intelligence was made known to Aunt Grace, that rather peculiar and excitable personage did not fail to say that it was nothing more than she had expected; that she had seen the storm coming, long and long ago, and had long and long ago lifted, without avail, a voice of warning. As for Mr. Lyon, he received a double share of execration–ending with the oft-repeated remark, that she had felt his shadow when he first came among them, and that she knew he must be a bad man. The ebullition subsided, in due time, and then the really good-hearted spinster gave her whole thought and active energy to the new work that was before them.

After the fierce conflict endured by Mr. Markland, ending wellnigh fatally, a calmness of spirit succeeded. With him, the worst was over; and now, he bowed himself, almost humbly, amid the ruins of his shattered fortunes, and, with a heavy heart, began to reconstruct a home, into which his beloved ones might find shelter. Any time within the preceding five or six years, an intimation on his part that he wished to enter business again would have opened the most advantageous connections. It was different now. There had been a season of overtrading. Large balances in England and France were draining the Atlantic cities of specie, and short crops made it impossible for western and southern merchants to meet their heavy payments at the east. Money ruled high, in consequence; weak houses were giving way, and a general uneasiness was beginning to prevail. But, even if these causes had not operated against the prospects of Mr. Markland, his changed circumstances would have been a sufficient bar to an advantageous business connection. He was no longer a capitalist; and the fact that he had recklessly invested his money in what was now pronounced one of the wildest schemes, was looked upon as conclusive evidence against his discretion and sound judgment. The trite saying, that the world judges of men by success or failure, was fully illustrated in his case. Once, he was referred to as the shrewdest of business men; now, he was held up to ambitious young tradesmen as a warning wreck, stranded amid the breakers.

How painfully was Mr. Markland reminded, at almost every turn, of the changed relations he bore to the world! He had not doubted his ability to form a good business connection with some house of standing, or with some young capitalist, ready to place money against his experience and trade. But in this he was doomed to disappointment. His friends spoke discouragingly; and everywhere he met but a cold response to his views. Meantime, one creditor of the Company, in New York, who held a matured piece of paper on which Mr. Markland’s name was inscribed, commenced a suit against him. To prevent this creditor getting all that remained of his wasted estate, an assignment for the benefit of all was made, and preparations at once commenced for removing from Woodbine Lodge.

A few days after this arrangement, Mr. Willet, whose family had gathered closer around their neighbours the moment the fact of their misfortune was known, came over to see Mr. Markland and have some talk with him about his future prospects. A brief conversation which had taken place on the day previous opened the way for him to do so without seeming to intrude. The impossibility of getting into business at the present time was admitted, on both sides, fully. Mr. Willet then said–

“If the place of salesman in a large jobbing-house would meet your views, I believe I can manage it for you.”

“I am in no situation,” replied Mr. Markland, “to make my own terms with the world. Standing at the foot of the ladder, I must accept the first means of ascent that offers.”

“You will, then, take the place?”

“Yes, if the offer is made.”

“The salary is not as large as I could wish,” said Mr. Willet.

“How much?”

“Twelve hundred dollars.”

“Get it for me, Mr. Willet, and I will be deeply grateful. That sum will save my children from immediate want.”

“I wish it were more, for your sake,” replied the kind neighbour. “But I trust it will be the beginning of better things. You will, at least, gain a footing on the first round of the ladder.”

“But the advantage is only in prospect,” said Mr. Markland. “The place is not yet mine.”

“You have the refusal,” was the pleased answer. “I had you in my mind when I heard of the vacancy, and mentioned your name. The principal of the firm said, without a word of hesitation, that if you were available, you would just suit him.”

“I shall not soon forget your real kindness,” responded Markland, grasping the hand of Mr. Willet. “You have proved, indeed, though an acquaintance of recent date, a true friend. Ah, sir! my heart had begun to despond. So many cold looks, changed tones, and discouraging words! I was not prepared for them. When a man is no longer able to stand alone, how few there are to reach out an arm to give him support!”

“It is the way of the world,” replied Mr. Willet; “and if we give it credit for more virtue than it possesses, a sad disappointment awaits us. But there are higher and better principles of action than such as govern the world. They bring a higher and better reward.”

“May the better reward be yours,” said Mr. Markland, fervently. His heart was touched by this real but unobtrusive kindness.

“When do you purpose leaving here?” next inquired Mr. Willet.

“As early as I can make arrangements for removing my family,” was answered.

“Where do you think of going?”

“Into the city.”

“Would you not prefer remaining in this pleasant neighbourhood? I do not see how my mother and sisters are going to give you all up. Mrs. Markland has already won her way into all their affections, and they have mourned over your misfortunes as deeply, I believe, as if they had been our own. Pardon the freedom of speech which is only a warm heart-utterance, when I say that there is a beauty in the character of Mrs. Markland that has charmed us all; and we cannot think of losing her society. Walker told me to-day that his wife was dissatisfied with a country life, and that he was going to sell his pleasant cottage. I offered him his price, and the title-deeds will be executed to-morrow. Will you do me the favour to become my tenant? The rent is two hundred and fifty dollars.”

Mr. Willet spoke very earnestly. It was some moments before there was any reply. Then Mr. Markland raised his eyes from the floor, and said, in a low voice, that slightly trembled–

“I saw a house advertised for rent in the city, to-day, which I thought would suit us. It was small, and the rent three hundred dollars. On learning the owner’s name, I found that he was an old business friend, with whom I had been quite intimate, and so called upon him. His reception of me was not over cordial. When I mentioned my errand, he hesitated in his replies, and finally hinted something about security for the rent. I left him without a word. To have replied without an exposure of unmanly weakness would have been impossible. Keenly, since my misfortunes, have I felt the change in my relations to the world; but nothing has wounded me so sharply as this! Mr. Willet, your generous interest in my welfare touches my heart! Let me talk with my family on the subject. I doubt not that we will accept your offer thankfully.”

CHAPTER XXXVI.

“OUR Father in heaven never leaves us in a pathless desert,” said Mrs. Markland, light breaking through her tear-filled eye. Her husband had just related the conversation held with Mr. Willet. “When the sun goes down, stars appear.”

“A little while ago, the desert seemed pathless, and no star glittered in the sky,” was answered.

“Yet the path was there, Edward; you had not looked close enough to your feet,” replied his wife.

“It was so narrow that it would have escaped my vision,” he said, faintly sighing.

“If it were not the safest way for you and for all of us, it would not be the only one now permitted our feet to tread.”

“Safest it may be for me; but your feet could walk, securely, a pathway strewn with flowers. Ah me! the thought that my folly–“

“Edward,” Mrs. Markland interrupted him in a quick, earnest voice, “if you love me, spare me in this. When I laid my hand in yours on that happy day, which was but the beginning of happier ones, I began a new life. All thought, all affection, all joy in the present and hope in the future, were thenceforth to be mingled with your thought, affection, joy, and hope. Our lives became one. It was yours to mark out our way through the world; mine to walk by your side. The path, thus far, has been a flowery one, thanks to your love and care! But no life-path winds always amid soft and fragrant meadows. There are desert places on the road, and steep acclivities; and there are dark, devious valleys, as well as sunny hill-tops. Pilgrims on the way to the Promised Land, we must pass through the Valley and the Shadow of Death, and be imprisoned for a time in Doubting Castle, before the Delectable Mountains are gained. Oh, Edward, murmur not, but thank God for the path he has shown us, and for the clear light that falls so warmly upon it. These friends, whom he has given us in this our darkest hour, are the truest friends we have yet known. Is it not a sweet compensation for all we lose, to be near them still, and to have the good a kind Father dispenses come to us through their hands? Dear husband! in this night of worldly life, a star of celestial beauty has already mirrored itself in my heart, and made light one of its hitherto darkened chambers.”

“Sweet philosopher!” murmured her husband, in a softened voice. “A spirit like yours would illuminate a dungeon.”

“If it can make the air bright around my husband, its happiness will be complete,” was softly answered.

“But these reverses are hard to bear,” said Mr. Markland, soberly.

“Harder in anticipation than in reality. They may become to us blessings.”

“Blessings? Oh, Agnes! I am not able to see that. It is no light thing for a man to have the hard accumulations of his best years swept from him in a moment, and to find himself, when just passing the meridian of his life, thrown prostrate to the earth.”

“There may be richer treasures lying just beneath the surface where he has fallen, than in all the land of Ophir toward which he was pressing in eager haste,” said Mrs. Markland.

“It may be so.” Markland spoke doubtingly.

“It must be so!” was emphatically rejoined. “Ah, Edward, have I not often warned you against looking far away into the future, instead of stooping to gather the pearls of happiness that a good Providence has scattered so profusely around us? They are around us still.”

Markland sighed.

“And you may be richer far than imagination has yet pictured. Look not far away into the shadowy uncertainties of coming time for the heart’s fruition. The stones from which its temple of happiness is to be erected, if ever built, lie all along the path your feet are treading. It has been so with you from the beginning–it is so now.”

“If I build not this temple, it will be no fault of yours,” said Markland, whose perceptions were becoming clearer.

“Let us build it together,” answered his wife. “There will be no lack of materials.”

CHAPTER XXXVII.

WHEN the offer of Mr. Walker’s cottage was made known in the family, there was a passive acquiescence in the change on the part of all but Aunt Grace. Her pride was aroused.

“It’s very kind in Mr. Willet,” she said–“very kind, but scarcely delicate under the circumstances.”

“Why not delicate?” inquired Mr. Markland.

“Did they think we were going into that little pigeon-box, just under the shadow of Woodbine Lodge. If we have to come down so low, it will not be in this neighbourhood. There’s too much pride in the Markland blood for that!”

“We have but little to do with pride now,” said Mrs. Markland.

Her husband sighed. The remark of his sister had quickened his blood.

“It is the best we can do!” he remarked, sadly.

“Not by any means,” said Grace. “There are other neighbourhoods than this, and other houses to be obtained. Let us go from here; not remain the observed of all curious observers–objects of remark and pity!”

Her brother arose while she was speaking, and commenced walking the room in a disturbed manner. The words of Grace had aroused his slumbering pride.

“Rather let us do what is best under the circumstances,” said Mrs. Markland, in her quiet way. “People will have their own thoughts, but these should never turn us from a right course.”

“The sight of Woodbine Lodge will rebuke me daily,” said Mr. Markland.

“You cannot be happy in this neighbourhood.” Grace spoke in her emphatic way. “It is impossible!”

“I fear that it is even so,” replied her brother.

“Then,” said Mrs. Markland, in a firm voice, “we will go hence. I place nothing against the happiness of my husband. If the sight of our old home is to trouble him daily, we will put mountains between, if necessary.”

Markland turned toward his wife. She had never looked more beautiful in his eye.

“Is self-negation to be all on her part?” The thought, flashing through his mind, changed the current of his feelings, and gave him truer perceptions.

“No, Agnes,” he said, “while a faint smile played around his lips, “we will not put mountains between us and this neighbourhood. Pride is a poor counsellor, and they who take heed to her words, sow the seeds of repentance. In reverse of fortune, we stand not alone. Thousands have walked this rugged road before us; and shall we falter, and look weakly back?”

“Not so, Edward!” returned his wife, with enthusiasm; “we will neither falter nor look back. Our good and evil are often made by contrasts. We shall not find the way rugged, unless we compare it too closely with other ways our feet have trodden, and sigh vainly over the past, instead of accepting the good that is awarded us in the present. Let us first make the ‘rough paths of peevish nature even,’ and the way will be smooth to our feet.”

“You will never be happy in this neighbourhood, Edward,” said his sister, sharply; for she saw that the pride her words had awakened was dying out.

“If he is not happy here, change of place will work no difference.” Mrs. Markland spoke earnestly.

“Why not?” was the quick interrogation of Grace.

“Because happiness is rarely, if ever, produced by a change of external relations. We must have within us the elements of happiness; and then the heart’s sunshine will lie across our threshold, whether it be of palace or cottage.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” said Mr. Markland, “and I feel their better meaning. No, Agnes, we will not go out from this pleasant neighbourhood, nor from among those we have proved to be friends. If Woodbine Lodge ever looks upon me rebukingly, I will try to acknowledge the justice of the rebuke. I will accept Mr. Willet’s kind offer to-morrow. But what have you to say, Fanny?” Mr. Markland now turned to his daughter, who had not ventured a word on the subject, though she had listened with apparent interest to the conference. “Shall we take Mr. Walker’s cottage?”

“Your judgment must decide that, father,” was answered.

“But have you no choice in the case, Fanny? We can remove into the city, or go into some other neighbourhood.”

“I will be as happy here as anywhere. Do as seems best, father.”

A silence, made in a measure oppressive by Fanny’s apparent indifference to all change, followed. Before other words were spoke, Aunt Grace withdrew in a manner that showed a mind disturbed. The conference in regard to the cottage was again resumed, and ended in the cheerful conclusion that it would afford them the pleasantest home, in their changed circumstances, of any that it was possible for them to procure.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

PREPARATION was at once made for the proposed removal. Mr. Walker went back to the city, and the new owner of the cottage, Mr. Willet, set carpenters and painters at work to make certain additions which he thought needful to secure the comfort of his tenants, and to put every thing in the most thorough repair. Even against the remonstrance of Mr. Markland, who saw that his generous-minded neighbour was providing for his family a house worth almost double the rent that was to be paid, he carried out all his projected improvements.

“You will embarrass me with a sense of obligation,” said Mr. Markland, in seeking to turn him from a certain purpose regarding the cottage.

“Do not say so,” answered Mr. Willet; “I am only offering inducements for you to remain with us. If obligation should rest anywhere, it will be on our side. I make these improvements because the house is now my own property, and would be defective, to my mind, without them. Pray, don’t let your thoughts dwell on these things.”

Thus he strove to dissipate the feeling of obligation that began to rest on the mind of his unfortunate neighbour, while he carried out his purpose. In due time, under the assignment which had been made, Woodbine Lodge and a large part of the elegant and costly furniture contained in the mansion, were sold, and the ownership passed into other hands. With a meagre remnant of their household goods, the family retired to a humbler house. Some pitied, and stood at a distance; some felt a selfish pleasure in their fall; and some, who had courted them in their days of prosperity, were among the foremost to speak evil against them. But there were a few, and they the choicest spirits of the neighbourhood, who only drew nearer to these their friends in misfortune. Among them was Mr. Allison, one of those wise old men whose minds grow not dim with advancing years. He had passed through many trying vicissitudes, had suffered, and come up from the ordeal purer than when the fire laid hold upon the dross of nature.

A wise monitor had he been in Markland’s brighter days, and now he drew near as a comforter. There is strength in true words kindly spoken. How often was this proved by Mr. and Mrs. Markland, as their venerable friend unlocked for them treasures of wisdom!

The little parlour at “Lawn Cottage,” the name of their new home, soon became the scene of frequent reunions among choice spirits, whose aspirations went higher and deeper than the external and visible. In closing around Mr. Markland, they seemed to shut him out, as it were, from the old world in which he had hoped, and suffered, and struggled so vainly; and to open before his purer vision a world of higher beauty. In this world were riches for the toiler, and honour for the noble–riches and honour far more to be desired than the gems and gold of earth or its empty tributes of praise.

A few months of this new life wrought a wonderful change in Markland. All the better elements of his nature were quickened into activity. Useful daily employment tranquillized his spirits; and not unfrequently he found himself repeating the words of Longfellow–

“Something attempted, something done, Had earned a night’s repose.”

So entirely was every thing of earthly fortune wrecked, and so changed were all his relations to the business world, that hope had yet no power to awaken his mind to ambition. For the present, therefore, he was content to receive the reward of daily toil, and to be thankful that he was yet able to supply the real wants of his family. A cheerful tone of feeling gradually succeeded the state of deep depression from which he had suffered. His spirit, which had walked in darkness, began to perceive that light was breaking in through the hitherto impenetrable gloom, and as it fell upon the path he was treading, a flower was seen here and there, while the roughness his imagination had pictured became not visible.

Nearly a year had glided away since the wreck of Markland’s fortune, and little or no change in his worldly prospects was visible. He was sitting late, one evening, reading aloud to his wife from a book which the latter had received from Mrs. Willet. The rest of the family had retired. Mrs. Markland was plying her needle busily. Altered circumstances had made hourly industry on her part a necessity; yet had they in no way dimmed the cheerful brightness of her spirits.

“Come, Agnes,” said her husband, closing the book, “it is growing late; and you have worked long enough. I’m afraid your health will suffer.”

“Just a few minutes longer,” replied Mrs. Markland, smiling. “I must finish this apron for Frank. He will want it in the morning.” And her hand moved quicker.

“How true is every word you have been reading!” she added, after a few moments. “Manifold indeed are the ways in which a wise Providence dispenses good to the children of men. Mercy is seen in the cloud as well as in the sunshine. Tears to the spirit are like rain to the earth.”

“The descent looked frightful,” said Markland, after a pause–“but we reached the lower ground uninjured. Invisible hands seemed to bear us up.”

“We have found the land far pleasanter than was imagined; and the sky above of a purer crystal.”

“Yes–yes. It is even so. And if the flowers that spring up at our feet are not so brilliant, they have a sweeter perfume and a diviner beauty.”

“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 recompense. 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 ascertain 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!”

“Who? Markland’s pretty daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Better start some other game,” was bluntly answered. “Your former attempt to run this down came near ruining every thing.”

“No danger of that now. The ingots are all safe;” and the man gave a shrug.

“Lyon–“

“My name is Falkner. Don’t forget it, if you please!” The speaker contracted his brows.

“Falkner, then. What I want to say is this: Let well enough alone. If the ingots are safe, permit them to remain so. Don’t be foolhardy enough to put any one on the scent of them.”

“Don’t be troubled about that. I have sacrificed too much in gaining the wealth desired ever to hold it with a careless or relaxing grasp. And yet its mere possession brings not the repose of mind, the sense of independence, that were so pleasingly foreshadowed. Something is yet lacking to make the fruition complete. I want a companion; and there is only one, in the wide world, who can be to me what I desire.”

“Fanny Markland?”

“Yes.”

“You wish to make her your wife?”

“She is too pure to be happy in any other relation. Yes; I wish to gain her for my bride.”

“A thing more difficult than you imagine.”

“The task may be difficult; but, I will not believe, impossible.”

“And it is in this matter you desire my service?”

“Yes.”

“I am ready. Point the way, and I will go. Digest the plan, and I am the one to carry it out.”

“You must go North.”

“Very well.”

“Do you know how her father is situated at present?”

“He is a poor clerk in a jobbing-house.”

“Indeed! They stripped him of every thing?”

“Yes. Woodbine Lodge vanished from beneath his feet as if it had been an enchanted island.”

“Poor man! I am sorry for him. I never contemplated so sweeping a disaster in his case. But no one can tell, when the ball leaves his hand, what sort of a strike will be made. How does he bear it, I wonder?”

“Don’t know. It must have been a terrible fall for him.”

“And Fanny? Have you learned nothing in regard to her?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you keep up a correspondence with the family whose acquaintance you made in–?”

“The family of Mr. Ellis? No; not any regular correspondence. We passed a letter or two, when I made a few inquiries about the Marklands, and particularly mentioned Fanny; but heard no further from them.”

“There are no landmarks, then?” said Lyon.

“None.”

“You must start immediately for the North. I will remain here until word comes from you. Ascertain, first, if you can, if there is any one connected with the Company who is yet on the alert in regard to myself; and write to me all the facts you learn on this head immediately. If it is not safe to remain in the United States, I will return to the city of Mexico, and we can correspond from there. Lose no time in gaining access to Miss Markland, and learn her state of mind in regard to me. She cannot fail to have taken her father’s misfortunes deeply to heart; and your strongest appeal to her may be on his behalf. It is in my power to restore him to his former position, and, for the sake of his daughter, if needful, that will be done.”

“I comprehend you; and trust me to accomplish all you desire, if in human power. Yet I cannot help expressing surprise at the singular fascination this girl has wrought upon you. I saw her two or three times, but perceived nothing very remarkable about her. She is pretty enough; yet, in any company of twenty women, you may pick out three far handsomer. What is the peculiar charm she carries about her?”

“It is nameless, but all-potent, and can only be explained psychologically, I suppose. No matter, however. The girl is necessary to my happiness, and I must secure her.”

“By fair means, or foul?” His companion spoke inquiringly.

“I never hesitate about the means to be employed when I attempt the accomplishment of an object,” was replied. “If she cannot be prevailed upon to come to me willingly, stratagem–even force–must be used. I know that she loves me; for a woman who once loves, loves always. Circumstances may have cooled, even hardened, the surface of her feelings, but her heart beneath is warm toward me still. There may be many reasons why she would not voluntarily leave her home for the one I promised her, however magnificent; but, if removed without her own consent, after the change, she may find in my love the highest felicity her heart could desire.”

“My faith is not strong,” said Leach, “and never has been, in the stability of love. But you have always manifested a weakness in this direction; and, I suppose, it runs in the blood. Probably, if you carry the girl off, (not so easy a thing, by-the-way, nor a safe operation to attempt,) you can make all smooth with her by doing something handsome for her father.”

“No doubt of it. I could restore Woodbine Lodge to his possession, and settle two or three thousand a year on him beside.”

“Such arguments might work wonders,” said the accomplice.

A plan of operations was settled during the day, and early on the next morning the friend of Mr. Lyon started northward.

CHAPTER XLI.

THE first letter received by Mr. Lyon, gave only a vague account of affairs.

“I arrived yesterday,” wrote Leach, “and entered upon my work immediately. The acquaintance with Mr. Ellis has been renewed. Last evening I spent with the family, and learned that the Marklands were living in a pleasant little cottage within sight of Woodbine Lodge; but could glean few particulars in regard to them. Fanny has entirely secluded herself. No one seemed to know any thing of her state of mind, though something about a disappointment in love was distantly intimated.”

The next letter produced considerable excitement in the mind of Mr. Lyon. His friend wrote:

“There is a person named Willet living in the neighbourhood, who is very intimate in Markland’s family. It is said by some that he more than fancies the daughter. As he is rich, and of good reputation and appearance, he may be a dangerous rival.”

About a week later, Leach wrote:

“This Willet, of whom I spoke, is the owner of an elegant seat not far from Markland’s. He resides with his mother and sisters, who are especial favourites among all the neighbours. Next week they give a large party. In all probability Miss Markland will be there; and I must contrive to be there also. Mr. Ellis and his family have recently made their acquaintance, and have received invitations. Your humble servant will be on the ground, if asking to go under the shadow of their wings will gain the favour. He is not over modest, you know. If Fanny Markland should be there, depend upon it, the golden opportunity will not pass unimproved. She shall hear from you.”

Another week of suspense.

“Don’t like the aspect of affairs,” wrote the friend. “I was at Mr. Willet’s, and saw Miss Markland. The whole family were particularly gracious to her. It was her first appearance in any company since her father’s failure. She looked pensive, but charming. In truth, my friend, she is a girl worth the winning, and no mistake. I think her lovely. Well, I tried all the evening to get an introduction to her, but failed, being a stranger. Fortunately, at a late hour, I saw her leave one of the elegant parlours alone, and go out upon the portico. This was the opportunity, and I seized it. Boldly ad- dressing her, I mentioned, after a little play of words, your name. Said I had a message from you, and, as guardedly as possible, declared your undying love. But I could not just make her out. She showed great self-possession under the circumstances, and a disposition to throw me off. I don’t think her heart beats very warmly toward you. This was the state of affairs when Mr. Willet made his appearance, and I drew myself away. He said a few words to her, when she placed her arm within his, and they walked into the garden alone. I followed at a distance. After admiring a bit of moon-light fancy-work, they strayed into a summer-house, and I got close enough to hear what they were talking about; I found that she was making particular inquiries as to my identity, and that he was unable to give her the information she desired. I did not feel much encouraged by the tone in which she alluded to me. Unfortunately, I rustled a branch in my eagerness to catch every word, and so discovered myself. Beating a hasty retreat, I went back to the house, took my hat, and quietly retired, walking most of the way to the city, a distance of several miles. I have not called upon the family of Mr. Ellis, and am still in doubt whether it will be wise to do so.”

This communication almost maddened Lyon. There was evidently a rival in the field, and one who had over him an immense advantage. Impatiently he waited for the next letter. Three days elapsed before it came. Tearing open the envelope, he read–

“I don’t think there is much chance for you. This Willet has been a particular friend of the family since their misfortunes. He bought the cottage in which they live, and offered it to them at a moderate rent, when almost every one else turned from them coldly. The two families have ever since maintained a close intimacy; and it is pretty generally thought that a closer relation will, ere long, exist between them. I called upon the Ellis’s yesterday. Their reception was far from cordial. I tried to be self-possessed, and as chatty as usual; but it was uphill work, you may depend on it. Once I ventured an illusion to the party at Willets; but it was received with an embarrassed silence. I left early and without the usual invitation to repeat my visits. To-day I met Mr. Ellis in the street, and received from him the cut direct! So, you see, affairs are not progressing very favourably; and the worst is, I am in total ignorance of the real effect of my interview with Miss Markland upon her own mind. She may yet retain the communication I made as her own secret, or have revealed it to her father. His reception of the matter, if aware of what occurred, is a problem unsolved. I can, therefore, only say, keep as cool as possible, and wait as patiently as possible a few days longer, when you shall know the best or the worst.”

A mad imprecation fell from the lips of Mr. Lyon, as he threw this letter from him. He was baffled completely. Two more days of wearying suspense went heavily by, and then another letter came to the impatient waiter.

“This place,” so Leach wrote, “will soon be too hot to hold me, I’m afraid. If not mistaken in the signs, there’s something brewing. Twice, to-day, I’ve been inquired for at the hotel. To-morrow morning early I shall prudently change my quarters, and drop down to Washington in the early cars. A little change in the external man can be effected there. On the day after, I will return, and, under cover of my disguised exterior, renew operations. But I can’t flatter you with any hope of success. It’s pretty generally believed that Willet is going to marry Fanny Markland; and the match is too good a one for a poor girl to decline. He is rich, educated, honourable; and, people say, kind and good. And, to speak out my thoughts on the subject, I think she’d be a fool to decline the arrangement, even against your magnificent proposals. Still, I’m heart and hand with you, and ready to venture even upon the old boy’s dominions to serve a long-tried friend. There is one significant fact which I heard to-day that makes strong against you. It is said that Mr. Willet is about making a change in his business, and that Markland is to be associated with him in some new arrangements. That looks as if matters were settled between the two families. In my next letter I hope to communicate something more satisfactory.”

On the day after receiving this communication, Lyon, while walking the floor in one of the parlours, saw a man pass in from the street, and go hurriedly along the hall. The form struck him as strangely like that of his friend from whom he was hourly in expectation of another letter. Stepping quickly to the door of the room, he caught a glimpse of the man ascending the staircase. To follow was a natural impulse. Doubt was only of brief continuance.

“David!” he exclaimed, on reaching his own apartment. “In the name of heaven! what does this mean?”

“That you are in danger,” was replied, in a tone that made the villain’s heart leap.

“What?” The two men retired within the apartment.

“I fear they are on our track,” said Leach.

“Who?”

“The law’s fierce bloodhounds!”

“No! impossible!” The face of Lyon grew white as ashes, and his limbs shook with a sudden, irrepressible tremor.

“Speak out plainly,” he added. “What evidence is there of danger?”

“In my last letter, you will remember, I expressed some fear on this head, and mentioned my purpose to go to Washington and assume a disguise.”

“I do, and have felt troubled about it.”

“Well, I was off by the early train on the next morning. As good or bad luck would have it, the very man who sat next me in the cars was an individual I had met in the family of Mr. Ellis. He knew me, but played shy for some time. I pretended not to recognise him at first, but turning to him suddenly, after we had been under way for ten minutes or so, I said, as if I had but just become aware of his identity, ‘Why, how are you? I did not know that I had an acquaintance by my side.’ He returned my warm greeting rather distantly; but there was too much at stake to mind this, and I determined to thaw him out, which I accomplished in due time. I found him a free sort of a man to talk, after he got going, and so I made myself quite familiar, and encouraged him to be outspoken. I knew he had heard something about my adventure at Mr. Willet’s, and determined to get from him the stories that were afloat on that subject. All came in good time. But the exaggeration was tremendous. Fanny had concealed nothing from her father, and he nothing from Mr. Willet. I was known as your agent and accomplice, and there was a plan concocting to get possession of my person, and, through me, of yours. ‘Take a friend’s advice,’ said the man to me, as we stepped from the cars at Washington, ‘and give–a wide berth in future.’ I did take his advice, kept straight on, and am here.”

“Confusion!” The pallid face of Lyon had flushed again, and was now dark with congestion.

“When will the next boat leave for Vera Cruz?” inquired Leach.

“Day after to-morrow,” was answered.

“We are in peril here every hour.”

“But cannot leave earlier. I hope your fears have magnified the danger.”

“If there be danger at all, it cannot be magnified. Let them once get you in their hands, and they will demand a fearful retribution.”

“I am well aware of that, and do not mean to be left in their power.”

“The telegraph has, no doubt, already put the authorities here on the alert. My very arrival may have been noted. It will not do for us to be seen together.”

“Ha! I did not think of that!” Lyon was more deeply disturbed. “You had better go from here at once. Where is your baggage?”

“I ordered it to be sent up.”

“Let me see after that. At once pass over to the Levee; go on board the first boat that is leaving, whether bound up the river or for Galveston. Only get off from the city, and then make your way to Mexico. You will find me there.”

Fear had now seized upon both of the men, and each saw consternation in the other’s face.

“I am off at the word,” said Leach, as he grasped the hand of his companion.

“Be discreet, self-possessed, and wary.” Lyon spoke in a warning voice.

“I will. And you take good heed to the same advice.”

The men were yet standing face to face, each grasping the other’s hand, when both partly turned their heads to listen. There was a sound of feet at the upper end of the passage, just at the landing, and it came rapidly nearer. A breathless pause marked the deep interest of the listeners. A few moments of suspense, in which Lyon and his companion grew deadly pale, and then the noisy footsteps were silenced at their very door. A smothered sound of voices was followed by a trial of the lock, and then by a decided rapping. But no answer was made to the summons.

Noiselessly, Mr. Lyon drew from a deep side-pocket a loaded revolver; but the hand of his companion was laid quickly upon his arm, and his lips, in dumb show, gave the word–

“Madness!”

Lyon shook him off, and deliberately pointed his weapon toward the door.

“Hallo, there! Are you asleep?”

This loud call came after repeated knocking and rattling. But there was no response, nor the slightest indication of life within the chamber.

“They are here, I am certain.” These words were distinctly heard by the anxious inmates.

“Then we must break in the door,” was resolutely answered.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, put up that pistol!” hoarsely whispered Leach. “Such resistance will be fatal evidence against us. Better open the door and put a bold face upon it.”

“Too late!” was just whispered back, when the door flew open with a crash, and the body of the man who had thrown himself against it with a force greatly beyond the resistance, fell inward upon the floor. At the same instant, Lyon exclaimed, in a quick, savage voice–

“Back, instantly, or you are dead men!”

There was such a will in the words he uttered, that, for a moment, the men, four in number, fell back from the open door, and in that instant Lyon sprung past them, and, ere they could recover themselves, was beyond their reach. His friend made an attempt to follow, but was seized and made prisoner. The time spent in securing him was so much of a diversion in favour of Lyon, who succeeded in getting into the street, ere the alarm extended to the lower part of the house, and passing beyond immediate observation. But escape from the city was impossible. The whole police force was on the alert in half an hour, and in less than an hour he was captured, disguised as a sailor, on board of a vessel ready cleared and making ready to drop down the river. He yielded quietly, and, after being taken before the authorities in the case, was committed for hearing in default of bail. The arrest was on a requisition from the governor of New York.

CHAPTER XLII.

FANNY had not hesitated a moment on the question of communicating to her father the singular occurrence at Mr. Willet’s; and Mr. Markland was prompt not only in writing to two or three of the principal sufferers by Lyon in New York, but in drawing the attention of the police to the stranger who had so boldly made propositions to his daughter. Two men were engaged to watch all his movements, and on no pretence whatever to lose sight of him. The New York members of the Company responded instantly to Markland’s suggestion, and one of them came on to confer and act in concert with him. A letter delivered at the post office to the stranger, it was ascertained, came by way of New Orleans. A requisition from the governor of New York to deliver up, as a fugitive from justice, the person of Lee Lyon, was next obtained. All things were thus brought into readiness for action, the purpose being to keep two police officers ever on the track of his accomplice, let him go where he would. Inquiries were purposely made for this man at the hotel, in order to excite a suspicion of something wrong, and hasten his flight from the city; and when he fled at last, the officers, unknown to him, were in the cars. The telegraph gave intelligence to the police at New Orleans, and all was in readiness there for the arrival of the party. How promptly action followed has been seen. On the day after Lyon’s arrest, he was on his way northward, in custody of two officers, who were already well enough acquainted with his character to be ever on the alert. Several attempts at escape were made, but they succeeded in delivering him safely in New York, where he was committed to prison.

On the day, and almost at the very hour, when the iron doors closed drearily on the criminal, Fanny Markland was alone with Mr. Willet. At the earnest desire of Flora, she had gone over to spend the afternoon at Sweetbriar. The brother came out from the city at dinner-time, and did not return again–the attractions of his fair guest being more than he could resist. There had been music and conversation during the afternoon, and all had been done by the family to render the visit of Fanny as agreeable as possible; but she did not seem in as good spirits as usual–her eyes were dreamy, and her voice had in it a shade of sadness.

Toward evening, she walked out with Flora and her brother. The conversation turned on the beautiful in nature, and Mr. Willet talked in his earnest way–every sentence full of poetry to the ears of at least one absorbed listener. In a pause of the conversation, Flora left them and went back to the house. For a little while the silence continued, and then Mr. Willet said, in a tone so changed that its echo in the maiden’s heart made every pulse beat quicker,–

“Fanny, there is one question that I have long desired to ask.”

She lifted her eyes to his face timidly, and looked steadily at him for a few moments; then, as they fell to the ground, she replied–

“You can ask no question that it will not give me pleasure to answer.”

“But this, I fear, will give you pain,” said he.

“Pain, you have taught me, is often a salutary discipline.”

“True, and may it be so in the present instance. It is not unknown to me that Mr. Lyon once held a place in your regard–I will go farther, and say in your affections.”

Fanny started, and moved a step from him; but he continued–

“The question I wish to ask is, does there yet remain in your heart a single point that gives back a reflection of his image? In plainer words, is he any thing to you?”

“No, nothing!” was the emphatic, almost indignant, answer.

“It is said,” resumed Mr. Willet, “that you once loved him.”

“He came to me,” replied Fanny, “a young, artless, trusting girl, as an angel of light. Nay, I was only a child, whose ears were unused to warmer words than fell from the loving lips of parents. Suddenly, he opened before me a world of enchantment. My whole being was on fire with a delicious passion. I believed him true and good, and loved him, because, in my eyes, he was the embodiment of all human perfections. But time proved that I had only loved an enchanting ideal, and my heart rejected him with intense loathing.”

“Enough,” said Willet; “I feel that it must be so.”

The two remained silent for the space of nearly a minute; Mr. Willet then resumed–

“Forgive me if my question has seemed indelicate, and be assured that I asked it from no idle curiosity. Let me go a little farther; and, my dear young lady, retain your calmness of spirit. Look into your heart, but keep every pulsation under control. Since our first meeting, I have felt a deep interest in you. What you have suffered has pained me seriously; but the pain has given way to pleasure, for out of the fire you have come up pure and strong, Fanny! I have but one word more–there is a sacred place in my heart, and your image has long been the inhabitant. Here is my hand–will you lay your own within it, that I may grasp it as mine for life?”

Willet extended his hand as he spoke. There was only a moment’s hesitation on the part of Fanny, who stood with her head bent so far down that the expression of her face could not be seen. Raising her eyes in which joy shone through blinding tears, she extended her hand, which was seized, grasped tightly for an instant, and then covered with kisses.

CHAPTER XLIII.

NO sooner was Lyon completely in the power of the men he had wronged to an extent that left no room for mercy, than he made offers of compromise. A public trial involved not only public disgrace, but he had too good reasons to fear conviction and penal retribution. This was the greatest evil he had to dread, and so he made up his mind to part with at least a portion of his ill-gotten gains. Interview after interview was held with the parties representing the Company for which he had been agent, and a final arrangement made for the restitution of about two hundred thousand dollars–his release not to take place until the money, or its value, was in the hands of his creditors. Nearly three months passed in efforts to consummate this matter, and at last the sum of one hundred and eighty thousand dollars was obtained, and the miserable, disgraced man set free. He went forth into the world again with the bitterness of a life-disappointment at his heart, and a feeling of almost murderous hate against the men whose confidence he had betrayed, and who obtained from him only a partial recompense.

Of the sum restored, there fell to Mr. Markland’s share about twenty-five thousand dollars. Its possession quickened in his heart the old ambitious spirit, and he began to revolve in his thoughts the ways and means of recovering, by aid of this remnant of his fortune, the wealth which a scheming villain had wrested from his grasp. Mr. Willet, whose marriage with his daughter was on the eve of taking place, had made to him certain proposals in regard to business, that promised a sure but not particularly brilliant return. All the required capital was to be furnished. He had not yet accepted this offer, but was about doing so, when expectation ended in certainty, and his proportion of the money recovered from Lyon was paid into his hands.

A rapid change of feelings and plans was the consequence. On the day that cheeks covering the whole sum awarded to Mr. Markland were