CHAPTER XXVII
THE conversation was resumed after they were again alone.
"Grace frets herself continually about Fanny," said Mrs. Markland, as her sister-in-law, after remaining for a short time, arose and left the room.
"She is always troubling herself about something," answered Mr. Markland, impatiently.
"Like many others, she generally looks at the shadowed side. But Fanny is so changed, that not to feel concern on her account would show a strange indifference."
Mr. Markland sighed involuntarily, but made no answer. He, too, felt troubled whenever his thoughts turned to his daughter. Yet had he become so absorbed in the new business that demanded his attention, and in the brilliant results which dazzled him, that to think, to any satisfactory conclusion, on the subject of Fanny's relation to Mr. Lyon, had been impossible; and this was the reason why he rather avoided than sought a conference with his wife. She now pressed the matter on his attention so closely, that he could not waive its consideration.
"Mr. Lyon's purposes are not to be mistaken," said Mrs. Markland.
"In what respect?" was evasively inquired.
"In respect to Fanny."
"I think not," was the brief response.
"Has he written you formally on the subject?"
"No."
"His conduct, then, to speak in the mildest terms, is very singular."
"His relation to Fanny has been an exceedingly embarrassing one," said Mr. Markland. "There has been no opportunity for him to speak out freely."
"That disability no longer exists."
"True, and I shall expect from him an early and significant communication."
"Let us look this matter directly in the face, Edward," said Mrs. Markland, in a sober voice. "Suppose he ask for the hand of our daughter."
"A thing not at all unlikely to happen," answered her husband.
"What then?"
"I fear you are prejudiced against Mr. Lyon," said Markland, a little coldly.
"I love my child!" was the simple, touching answer.
"Well?"
"I am a woman," she further said, "and know the wants of a woman's heart. I am a wife, and have been too tenderly loved and cared for, not to desire a like happy condition for my child." And she leaned against her husband, and gazed into his face with a countenance full of thankful love.
"Mr. Lyon is a man of honour," said Mr. Markland. "Has he a tender, loving heart? Can he appreciate a woman?"
"If Fanny loves him—"
"Oh, Edward! Edward!" returned his wife, interrupting him. "She is only a child, and yet incapable of genuine love. The bewildering passion this man has inspired in her heart is born of impulse, and the fires that feed it are consuming her. As for me—and I speak the words thoughtfully and sadly—I would rather stretch forth my hand to drop flowers on her coffin than deck her for such a bridal."
"Why do you speak so strongly, Agnes? You know nothing against Mr. Lyon. He may be all you could desire in the husband of your child."
"A mother's instincts, believe me, Edward, are rarely at fault here."
Mr. Markland was oppressed by the subject, and could not readily frame an answer that he felt would be satisfactory to his wife. After a pause, he said:
"There will be time enough to form a correct judgment."
"But let us look the matter in the face now, Edward," urged his wife. "Suppose, as I just suggested, he ask for the hand of our daughter,—a thing, as you admit, likely to happen. What answer shall we make? Are you prepared to give a decisive reply?"
"Not on the instant. I should wish time for consideration."
"How long?"
"You press the subject very closely, Agnes."
"I cannot help doing so. It is the one that involves most of good or evil in the time to come. All others are, for the present, dwarfed by it into insignificance. A human soul has been committed to our care, capable of the highest enjoyments or the deepest misery. An error on our part may prove fatal to that soul. Think of this, Edward! What are wealth, honour, eminence, in comparison with the destiny of a single human soul? If you should achieve the brilliant results that now dazzle your eyes, and in pursuit of which you are venturing so much, would there be any thing in all you gained to compensate for the destruction of our daughter's happiness?"
"But why connect things that have no relation, Agnes? What has the enterprise I am now prosecuting to do with this matter of our daughter?"
"Much, every way. Does it not so absorb your mind that you cannot think clearly on any other subject? And does not your business connection with Mr. Lyon bias your feelings unduly in his favour?"
Mr. Markland shook his head.
"But think more earnestly, Edward. Review what this man has done. Was it honourable for him so to abuse our hospitality as to draw our child into a secret correspondence? Surely something must warp your mind in his favour, or you would feel a quick indignation against him. He cannot be a true man, and this conviction every thing in regard to him confirms. Believe me, Edward, it was a dark day in the calendar of our lives when the home circle at Woodbine Lodge opened to receive him."
"I trust to see the day," answered Mr. Markland, "when you will look back to this hour and smile at the vague fears that haunted your imagination."
"Fears? They have already embodied themselves in realities," was the emphatic answer. "The evil is upon us, Edward. We have failed to guard the door of our castle, and the enemy has come in. Ah, my husband! if you could see with my eyes, there would stand before you a frightful apparition."
"And what shape would it assume?" asked Mr. Markland, affecting to treat lightly the fears of his wife.
"That of a beautiful girl, with white, sunken cheeks, and hollow, weeping eyes."
An instant paleness overspread the face of Mr. Markland.
"Look there!" said Mrs. Markland, suddenly, drawing the attention of her husband to a picture on the wall. The eyes of Mr. Markland fell instantly on a portrait of Fanny. It was one of those wonders of art that transform dead colours into seeming life, and, while giving to every lineament a faultless reproduction, heightens the charm of each. How sweetly smiled down upon Mr. Markland the beautiful lips! How tender were the loving eyes, that fixed themselves upon him and held him almost spell-bound!
"Dear child!" he murmured, in a softened voice, and his eyes grew so dim that the picture faded before him.
"As given to us!" said Mrs. Markland, almost solemnly.
A dead silence followed.
"But are we faithful to the trust? Have we guarded this treasure of uncounted value? Alas! alas! Already the warm cheeks are fading; the eyes are blinded with tears. I look anxiously down the vista of years, and shudder. Can the shadowy form I see be that of our child?"
"Oh, Agnes! Agnes!" exclaimed Mr. Markland, lifting his hands, and partly averting his face, as if to avoid the sight of some fearful image.
There was another hushed silence. It was broken by Mrs. Markland, who grasped the hand of her husband, and said, in a low, impressive voice—
"Fanny is yet with us—yet in the sheltered fold of home, though her eyes have wandered beyond its happy boundaries and her ears are hearkening to a voice that is now calling her from the distance. Yet, under our loving guardianship, may we not do much to save her from consequences my fearful heart has prophesied?"
"What can we do?" Mr. Markland spoke with the air of one bewildered.
"Guard her from all further approaches of this man; at least, until we know him better. There is a power of attraction about him that few so young and untaught in the world's strange lessons as our child, can resist."
"He attracts strongly, I know," said Mr. Markland, in an absent way.
"And therefore the greater our child's danger, if he be of evil heart."
"You, wrong him, believe me, Agnes, by even this intimation. I will vouch for him as a man of high and honourable principles." Mr. Markland spoke with some warmth of manner.
"Oh, Edward! Edward!" exclaimed his wife, in a distressed voice. "What has so blinded you to the real quality of this man? 'By their fruit ye shall know them.' And is not the first fruit, we have plucked from this tree, bitter to the taste?"
"You are excited and bewildered in thought, Agnes," said Mr. Markland, in a soothing voice. "Let us waive this subject for the present, until both of us can refer to it with a more even heart-beat."
Mrs. Markland caught her breath, as if the air had suddenly grown stifling.
"Will they ever beat more evenly?" she murmured, in a sad voice.
"Why, Agnes! Into what a strange mood you have fallen! You are not like yourself."
"And I am not, to my own consciousness. For weeks it has seemed to me as if I were in a troubled dream."
"The glad waking will soon come, I trust," said Mr. Markland, with forced cheerfulness of manner.
"I pray that it may be so," was answered, in a solemn voice.
There was silence for some moments, and then the other's full heart overflowed. Mr. Markland soothed her, with tender, hopeful words, calling her fears idle, and seeking, by many forms of speech, to scatter the doubts and fears which, like thick clouds, had encompassed her spirit.
CHAPTER XXVIII
FROM that period, Mr. Markland not only avoided all conference with his wife touching their daughter's relation to Mr. Lyon, but became so deeply absorbed in business matters, that he gave little earnest thought to the subject. As the new interests in which he was involved grew into larger and larger importance, all things else dwindled comparatively.
At the end of six months he was so changed that, even to his own family, he was scarcely like the same individual. All the time he appeared thinking intensely. As to "Woodbine Lodge," its beauties no longer fell into thought or perception. The charming landscape spread itself wooingly before him, but he saw nothing of its varied attractions. Far away, fixing his inward gaze with the fascination of a serpent's eye, was the grand result of his new enterprise, and all else was obscured by the brightness of a vortex toward which he was moving in swiftly-closing circles. Already two-thirds of his handsome fortune was embarked in this new scheme, that was still growing in magnitude, and still, like the horse-leech, crying "Give! give!" All that now remained was "Woodbine Lodge," valued at over twenty-five thousand dollars. This property he determined to leave untouched. But new calls for funds were constantly being made by Mr. Fenwick, backed by the most flattering reports from Mr. Lyon and his associates in Central America, and at last the question of selling or heavily mortgaging the "Lodge" had to be considered. The latter alternative was adopted, and the sum of fifteen thousand dollars raised, and thrown, with a kind of desperation, into the whirlpool which had already swallowed up nearly the whole of his fortune.
With this sum in his hands, Mr. Markland went to New York. He found the Company's agent, Mr. Fenwick, as full of encouraging words and sanguine anticipations as ever.
"The prize is just within our grasp," said he, in answer to some close inquiries of Markland. "There has been a most vigorous prosecution of the works, and a more rapid absorption of capital, in consequence, than was anticipated; but, as you have clearly seen, this is far better than the snail-like progress at which affairs were moving when Mr. Lyon reached the ground. Results which will now crown our efforts in a few months, would scarcely have been reached in as many years."
"How soon may we reasonably hope for returns?" asked Mr. Markland, with more concern in his voice than he meant to express.
"In a few months," was answered.
"In two, three, or four months?"
"It is difficult to fix an exact period," said Mr. Fenwick, evasively. "You know how far the works have progressed, and what they were doing at the latest dates."
"There ought to be handsome returns in less than six months."
"And will be, no doubt," replied the agent.
"There must be," said Mr. Markland, betraying some excitement.
Mr. Fenwick looked at him earnestly, and with a slight manifestation of surprise.
"The assessments have been larger and more frequent than was anticipated. I did not intend embarking more than twenty thousand dollars in the beginning, and already some sixty thousand have been absorbed."
"To return you that sum, twice told, in less than a year, besides giving you a position of power and influence that the richest capitalist in New York might envy."
And, enlarging on this theme, Fenwick, as on former occasions, presented to the imagination of Mr. Markland such a brilliant series of achievements, that the latter was elevated into the old state of confidence, and saw the golden harvest he was to reap already bending to the sickle.
Twice had Markland proposed to visit the scene of the Company's operations, and as often had Mr. Fenwick diverted his thoughts from that direction. He again declared his purpose to go out at an early date.
"We cannot spare you from our councils at home," said Mr. Fenwick, pleasantly, yet with evident earnestness.
"Oh, yes, you can," was promptly answered. "I do not find myself of as much use as I desire to be. The direction at this point is in good enough hands, and can do without my presence. It is at the chief point of operations that I may be of most use, and thither I shall proceed."
"We will talk more about that another time," said Mr. Fenwick. "Now we must discuss the question of ways and means. There will yet be many thousand dollars to provide."
"Beyond my present investment, I can advance nothing," said Mr. Markland, seriously.
"It will not be necessary," replied Mr. Fenwick. "The credit of the Company—that is, of those in this and other cities, including yourself, who belong to the Company, and have the chief management of its affairs—is good for all we shall need."
"I am rather disappointed," said Markland, "at the small advances made, so far, from the other side of the Atlantic. They ought to have been far heavier. We have borne more than our share of the burden."
"So I have written, and expect good remittances by next steamers."
"How much?"
"Forty or fifty thousand dollars at least."
"Suppose the money does not come?"
"I will suppose nothing of the kind. It must and will come."
"You and I have both lived long enough in the world," said Markland, "to know that our wills cannot always produce in others the actions we desire."
"True enough. But there are wills on the other side of the Atlantic as well as here, and wills acting in concert with ours. Have no concern on this head; the English advances will be along in good season. In the mean time, if more money is wanted, our credit is good to almost any amount."
This proposition in regard to credit was no mere temporary expedient, thought of at the time, to meet an unexpected contingency. It had been all clearly arranged in the minds of Fenwick and other ruling spirits in New York, and Markland was not permitted to leave before his name, coupled with that of "some of the best names in the city," was on promissory notes for almost fabulous amounts.
Taking into account the former business experience of Mr. Markland, his present reckless investments and still more reckless signing of obligations for large sums, show how utterly blind his perceptions and unsettled his judgment had become. The waters he had so successfully navigated before were none of them strange waters. He had been over them with chart, compass, and pilot, many times before he adventured for himself. But now, with a richly freighted argosy, he was on an unknown sea. Pleasantly the summer breeze had wafted him onward for a season. Spice-islands were passed, and golden shores revealed themselves invitingly in the distance. The haven was almost gained, when along the far horizon dusky vapours gathered and hid the pleasant land. Darker they grew, and higher they arose, until at length the whole sky was draped, and neither sun nor stars looked down from its leaden depths. Yet with a desperate courage he kept steadily onward, for the record of observations since the voyage began was too imperfect to serve as a guide to return. Behind was certain destruction; while beyond the dark obscurity, the golden land of promise smiled ever in the glittering sunshine.
CHAPTER XXIX
MR. MARKLAND'S determination to visit the scene of the Company's operations was no suddenly-formed impulse; and the manifest desire that he should not do so, exhibited by Mr. Fenwick, in no way lessened his purpose to get upon the ground as early as possible, and see for himself how matters were progressing. His whole fortune was locked up in this new enterprise, and his compeers were strangers, or acquaintances of a recent date. To have acted with so much blindness was unlike Markland; but it was like him to wish to know all about any business in which he was engaged. This knowledge he had failed to obtain in New York. There his imagination was constantly dazzled, and while he remained there, uncounted, treasure seemed just ready to fall at his feet. The lamp of Aladdin was almost within his grasp. But, on leaving Fenwick and his sanguine associates, a large portion of his enthusiasm died out, and his mind reached forth into the obscurity around him and sought for the old landmarks.
On returning home from this visit to New York, Mr. Markland found his mind oppressed with doubts and questions, that could neither be removed nor answered satisfactorily. His entire fortune, acquired through years of patient labour, was beyond his reach, and might never come back into his possession, however desperately he grasped after it. And "Woodbine Lodge,"—its beauty suddenly restored to eyes from which scales had fallen—held now only by an uncertain tenure, a breath might sweep from his hand.
Suddenly, Markland was awakened, as if from a dream, and realized the actual of his position. It was a fearful waking to him, and caused every nerve in his being to thrill with pain. On the brink of a gulf he found himself standing, and as he gazed down into its fearful obscurity, he shuddered and grew sick. And now, having taken the alarm, his thoughts became active in a new direction, and penetrated beneath surfaces which hitherto had blinded his eyes by their golden lustre. Facts and statements which before had appeared favourable and coherent now presented irreconcilable discrepancies, and he wondered at the mental blindness which had prevented his seeing things in their present aspects.
It was not possible for a man of Mr. Markland's peculiar temperament and business experience to sit down idly, and, with folded hands, await the issue of this great venture. Now that his fears were aroused, he could not stop short of a thorough examination of affairs, and that, too, at the chief point of operations, which lay thousands of miles distant.
Letters from Mr. Lyon awaited his return from New York. They said little of matters about which he now most desired specific information, while they seemed to communicate a great many important facts in regard to the splendid enterprise in which they were engaged. Altogether, they left no satisfactory impression on his mind. One of them, bearing a later date than the rest, disturbed him deeply. It was the first, for some months, in which allusion was made to his daughter. The closing paragraph of this letter ran thus:—
"I have not found time, amid this pressure of business, to write a word to your daughter for some weeks. Say to her that I ever bear her in respectful remembrance, and shall refer to the days spent at Woodbine Lodge as among the brightest of my life."
There had been no formal application for the hand of his daughter up to this time; yet had it not crossed the thought of Markland that any other result would follow; for the relation into which Lyon had voluntarily brought himself left no room for honourable retreat. His letters to Fanny more than bound him to a pledge of his hand. They were only such as one bearing the tenderest affection might write.
Many weeks had elapsed since Fanny received a letter, and she was beginning to droop under the long suspense. None came for her now, and here was the cold, brief reference to one whose heart was throbbing toward him, full of love.
Markland was stung by this evasive reference to his daughter, for its meaning he clearly understood. Not that he had set his heart on an alliance of Fanny with this man, but, having come to look upon such an event as almost certain, and regarding all obstacles in the way as lying on his side of the question, pride was severely shocked by so unexpected a show of indifference. And its exhibition was the more annoying, manifested, as it was, just at the moment when he had become most painfully aware that all his worldly possessions were beyond his control, and might pass from his reach forever.
"Can there be such baseness in the man?" he exclaimed, mentally, with bitterness, as the thought flitted through his mind that Lyon had deliberately inveigled him, and, having been an instrument of his ruin, now turned from him with cold indifference.
"Impossible!" he replied, aloud, to the frightful conjecture. "I will not cherish the thought for a single moment."
But a suggestion like this, once made to a man in his circumstances, is not to be cast out of the mind by a simple act of rejection. It becomes a living thing, and manifests its perpetual presence. Turn his thought from it as he would, back to that point it came, and the oftener this occurred, the more corroborating suggestions arrayed themselves by its side.
Mr. Markland was alone in the library, with Mr. Lyon's hastily read letters before him, and yet pondering, with an unquiet spirit, the varied relations in which he had become placed, when the door was quietly pushed open, and he heard light footsteps crossing the room. Turning, he met the anxious face of his daughter, who, no longer able to bear the suspense that was torturing her, had overcome all shrinking maiden delicacy, and now came to ask if, enclosed in either of his letters, was one for her. She advanced close to where he was sitting, and, as he looked at her with a close observation, he saw that her countenance was almost colourless, her lips rigid, and her heart beating with an oppressed motion, as if half the blood in her body had flowed back upon it.
"Fanny, dear!" said Mr. Markland, grasping her hand tightly. As he did so, she leaned heavily against him, while her eyes ran eagerly over the table.
Two or three times she tried to speak, but was unable to articulate.
"What can I say to you, love?" Her father spoke in a low, sad, tender voice, that to her was prophetic of the worst.
"Is there a letter for me?" she asked, in a husky whisper.
"No, dear."
He felt her whole frame quiver as if shocked.
"You have heard from Mr. Lyon?" She asked this after the lapse of a few moments, raising herself up as she spoke, and assuming a calmness of exterior that was little in accord with the tumult within.
"Yes. I have three letters of different dates."
"And none for me?"
"None."
"Has he not mentioned my name?"
A moment Mr. Markland hesitated, and then answered—
"Yes."
He saw a slight, quick flush mantle her face, that grew instantly pale again.
"Will you read to me what he says?"
"If you wish me to do so." Mr. Markland said this almost mechanically.
"Read it." And as her father took from the table a letter, Fanny grasped his arm tightly, and then stood with the immovable rigidity of a statue. She had already prophesied the worst. The cold, and, to her, cruel words, were like chilling ice-drops on her heart. She listened to the end, and then, with a low cry, fell against her father, happily unconscious of further suffering. To her these brief sentences told the story of unrequited love. How tenderly, how ardently he had written a few months gone by! and now, after a long silence, he makes to her a mere incidental allusion, and asks a "respectful remembrance!" She had heard the knell of all her dearest hopes. Her love had become almost her life, and to trample thus upon it was like extinguishing her life.
"Fanny! Love! Dear Fanny!" But the distressed father called to her in vain, and in vain lifted her nerveless body erect. The oppressed heart was stilled.
A cry of alarm quickly summoned the family, and for a short time a scene of wild terror ensued; for, in the white face of the fainting girl, all saw the image of death. A servant was hurriedly despatched for their physician, and the body removed to one of the chambers.
But motion soon came back, feebly, to the heart; the lungs drew in the vital air, and the circle of life was restored. When the physician arrived, nature had done all for her that could be done. The sickness of her spirit was beyond the reach of any remedy he might prescribe.