The Good Time Coming

"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."