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.