THE visit to New York, and interview with Mr. Fenwick, fully assured
Mr. Markland, and he entered into a formal agreement to invest the
sum of forty thousand dollars in the proposed scheme: ten thousand
dollars to be paid down at once, and the balance at short dates. He
remained away two days, and then returned to make immediate
arrangements for producing the money. The ten thousand dollars were
raised by the sale of State six per cent. stocks, a transaction that
at once reduced his annual income about six hundred dollars. The sum
was transmitted to New York.
"Have you reconsidered that matter?" inquired Markland, a few days
after his return, on meeting with Mr. Brainard.
"No, but I hope you have," was answered in a serious tone.
"I have been to New York since I saw you."
"Ah! and seen Mr. Fenwick again?"
"Yes."
"Did you mention the report of Lyon's return?"
"I did."
"How did it strike him?"
"As preposterous, of course."
"He did not credit the story?"
"Not he."
"Well, I hope, for your sake, that all will come out right."
"Never fear."
"By-the-way," said Mr. Brainard, "what do you really know about
Fenwick? You appear to have the highest confidence in his judgment.
Does this come from a personal knowledge of the man, or are you
governed in your estimate by common report?"
"He is a man of the first standing in New York. No name, in money
circles, bears a higher reputation."
Brainard slightly shrugged his shoulders.
"The common estimate of a man, in any community, is apt to be very
near the truth," said Mr. Markland.
"Generally speaking, this is so," was replied. "But every now and
then the public mind is startled by exceptions to the rule--and
these exceptions have been rather frequent; of late years. As for
Fenwick, he stands fair enough, in a general way. If he were to send
me an order for five thousand dollars' worth of goods, I would sell
him, were I a merchant, without hesitation. But to embark with him
in a scheme of so much magnitude is another thing altogether, and I
wonder at myself, now, that I was induced to consider the matter at
all. Since my withdrawal, and cooler thought on the subject, I
congratulate myself, daily, on the escape I have made."
"Escape! From what!" Mr. Markland looked surprised.
"From loss; it may be, ruin."
"You would hardly call the loss of twenty thousand dollars, ruin."
"Do you expect to get off with an investment of only twenty thousand
dollars?" asked Mr. Brainard.
"No; for I have agreed to put in forty thousand."
Brainard shook his head ominously, and looked very grave.
"I knew of no other man in the city with whom I cared to be
associated; and so, after you declined, took the whole amount that
wats to be raised here, myself."
"A hasty and unwise act, believe me, Mr. Markland," said the other.
"How soon do you expect returns from this investment?"
"Not for a year, at least."
"Say not for two years."
"Well--admit it. What then?"
"Your annual income is at once diminished in the sum of about
twenty-five hundred dollars, the interest on these forty thousand
dollars. So, at the end of two years, you are the loser of five
thousand dollars by your operation."
"It would be, if the new business paid nothing. But, when it begins
to pay, it will be at the rate of one or two hundred per cent. on
the amounts paid in."
"May be so."
"Oh! I am sure of it."
"The whole scheme has a fair front, I will admit," answered
Brainard. "But I have seen so many days that rose in sunshine go
down in storm, that I have ceased to be over confident. If forty
thousand were the whole of your investment, you might, for so large
a promised return, be justified in taking the risk."
"Mr. Fenwick thinks nothing further will be required," said
Markland.
"But don't you remember the letter, in which he stated, distinctly,
that several assessments would, in all probability, be made, pro
rata, on each partner?"
"Yes; and I called Mr. Fenwick's attention to that statement; for I
did not care to go beyond forty thousand."
"What answer did he make?"
"Later intelligence had exhibited affairs in such a state of
progress, that it was now certain no further advance of capital
would be required."
"I hope not, for your sake," returned Brainard.
"I am sure not," said Markland, confidently, A third party here
interrupted the conversation, and the two men separated.
As might be supposed, this interview did not leave the most
agreeable impression on the feelings of Markland. The fact that in
selling stocks and other property to the amount of forty thousand
dollars, and locking up that large sum in an unproductive
investment, he would diminish his yearly income over twenty-five
hundred dollars, did not present the most agreeable view of the
case. He had not thought of this, distinctly, before. A little
sobered in mind, he returned homeward during the afternoon. Ten
thousand dollars had gone forward to New York; and in the course of
next week he must produce a sum of equal magnitude. To do this,
would require the sale of a piece of real estate that had, in five
years, been doubled in value, and which promised to be worth still
more. He felt a particular reluctance to selling this property; and
the necessity for doing so worried his mind considerably. "Better
let well enough alone." "A bird in the hand is worth two in the
bush." One after another, these trite little sayings would come up
in his thoughts, unbidden, as if to add to his mental disquietude.
In spite of his efforts to thrust them aside, and to get back his
strong confidence in the new business, Mr. Markland's feelings
steadily declined towards a state of unpleasant doubt. Reason as he
would on the subject, he could not overcome the depression from
which he suffered.
"I am almost sorry that I was tempted to embark in this business,"
he at length said to himself, the admission being extorted by the
pressure on his feelings. "If I could, with honour and safety,
withdraw, I believe I would be tempted to do so. But that is really
not to be thought of now. My hands have grasped the plough, and
there must be no wavering or looking back. This is all an unworthy
weakness."
Mr. Markland had gained the entrance to Woodbine Lodge, but he was
in no state of mind to join his family. So he alighted and sent his
carriage forward, intending to linger on his way to the house, in
order to regain his lost equilibrium. He had been walking alone for
only a few minutes, with his eyes upon the ground, when a crackling
noise among the underwood caused him to look up, and turn himself in
the direction from which the sound came. In doing so, he caught
sight of the figure of a man retiring through the trees, and
evidently, from his movements, anxious to avoid observation. Mr.
Markland stood still and gazed after him until his figure passed
from sight. The impression this incident made upon him was
unpleasant. The person of the stranger was so much hidden by trees,
that he could make out no resemblance whatever.
It was near that part of Mr. Markland's grounds known as the
Fountain Grove, where this occurred, and the man, to all appearance,
had been there. The impulse for him to turn aside was, therefore,
but natural, and he did so. Passing through a style, and ascending
by a few steps to the level of the ornamental grounds surrounding
the grove and fountain, the first object that he saw was his
daughter Fanny, moving hastily in the direction of the summer-house
which has been described. She was only a short distance in advance.
Mr. Markland quickened his steps, as a vague feeling of uneasiness
came over him. The coincidence of the stranger and his daughter's
presence produced a most unpleasant impression.
"Fanny!" he called.
That his daughter heard him, he knew by the start she gave. But
instead of looking around, she sprang forward, and hastily entered
the summer-house. For a moment or two she was hidden from his view,
and in that short period she had snatched a letter from the table,
and concealed it in her bosom. Not sufficiently schooled in the art
of self-control was Fanny to meet her father with a calm face. Her
cheeks were flushed, and her chest rose and fell in hurried
respiration, as Mr. Markland entered the summer-house, where she had
seated herself.
"You are frightened, my child," said he, fixing his eyes with a look
of inquiry on her face. "Didn't you see me, as I turned in from the
carriage-way?" he added.
"No, sir," was falteringly answered. "I did not know that you had
returned from the city until I heard your voice. It came so
unexpectedly that I was startled."
Fanny, as she said this, did not meet her father's gaze, but let her
eyes rest upon the ground.
"Are you going to remain here?" asked Mr. Markland.
"I came to spend a little while alone in this sweet place, but I
will go back to the house if you wish it," she replied.
"Perhaps you had better do so. I saw a strange man between this and
the main road, and he seemed as if he desired to avoid observation."
Fanny started, and looked up, with an expression of fear, into her
father's face. The origin of that look Mr. Markland did not rightly
conjecture. She arose at once, and said--
"Let us go home."
But few words passed between father and daughter on the way, and
their brief intercourse was marked by a singular embarrassment on
both sides.
How little suspicion of the real truth was in the mind of Mr.
Markland! Nothing was farther from his thoughts than the idea that
Fanny had just received a letter from Mr. Lyon, and that the man he
had seen was the messenger by whom the missive had been conveyed to
the summer-house. A minute earlier, and that letter would have come
into his hands. How instantly would a knowledge of its contents have
affected all the purposes that were now leading him on with almost
the blindness of infatuation. The man he was trusting so implicitly
would have instantly stood revealed as a scheming, unprincipled
adventurer. In such estimation, at least, he must have been held by
Mr. Markland, and his future actions would have been governed by
that estimate.
The answer to Fanny's earnest, almost peremptory demand, to be
released from the injunction not to tell her parents of Mr. Lyon's
return, was in her possession, and the instant she could get away to
her own room, she tore the letter open. The reader already knows its
contents. The effect upon her was paralyzing. He had said that she
was in freedom to speak, but the consequences portrayed were too
fearful to contemplate. In freedom? No! Instead of loosing the cords
with which he had bound her spirit, he had only drawn them more
tightly. She was in freedom to speak, but the very first word she
uttered would sound the knell of her young heart's fondest hopes.
How, then, could she speak that word? Lyon had not miscalculated the
effect of his letter on the inexperienced, fond young girl, around
whose innocent heart he had woven a spell of enchantment. Most
adroitly had he seemed to leave her free to act from her own
desires, while he had made that action next to impossible.
How rapidly, sometimes, does the young mind gain premature strength
when subjected to strong trial. Little beyond an artless child was
Fanny Markland when she first met the fascinating young stranger;
and now she was fast growing into a deep-feeling, strong-thinking
woman. Hitherto she had leaned with tender confidence on her
parents, and walked the paths lovingly where they led the way. Now
she was moving, with unaided footsteps, along a new and rugged road,
that led she knew not whither; for clouds and darkness were in the
forward distance. At every step, she found a new strength and a new
power of endurance growing up in her young spirit. Thought, too, was
becoming clearer and stronger. The mature woman had suddenly taken
the place of the shrinking girl.