“But how does this apply to dreams?” asked Fanny.
“He who sends his angels to watch over and protect us in sleep, may permit them to bring before us, in dreaming images, the embodied form of some predominating quality in those whose association may do us harm. The low, subtle selfishness of the sensual principle will then take its true form of a wily serpent.”
Fanny caught her breath once or twice, as these words fell upon her ears, and then said, in a deprecating voice—
“Oh, mother! Don’t! don’t!” And lifting her head from the bosom of her parent, she turned her face away, and buried it in the pillow. As she did not move for the space of several minutes, Mrs. Markland thought it unwise to intrude other remarks upon her, believing that the distinct image she had already presented would live in her memory and do its work. Soon after, she retired to her own room. Half an hour later, and both were sleeping, in quiet unconsciousness.
CHAPTER XI.
LATE on the following day, Mr. Markland arrived from New York. Eager as all had been for his return, there was something of embarrassment in the meeting. The light-hearted gladness with which every one welcomed him, even after the briefest absence, was not apparent now. In the deep, calm eyes of his wife, as he looked lovingly into them, he saw the shadow of an unquiet spirit. And the tears which no effort of self-control could keep back from Fanny’s cheeks, as she caught his hand eagerly, and hid her face on his breast, answered too surely the question he most desired to ask. It was plain to him that Mr. Lyon’s letter had found its way into her hands.
“I wish it had not been so!” was the involuntary mental ejaculation. A sigh parted his lips—a sigh that only the quick ears of his wife perceived, and only her heart echoed.
During the short time the family were together that evening, Mr. Markland noticed in Fanny something that gave him concern. Her eyes always fell instantly when he looked at her, and she seemed sedulously to avoid his gaze. If he spoke to her, the colour mounted to her face, and she seemed strangely embarrassed. The fact of her having received a letter from Mr. Lyon, the contents of which he knew, as it came open in one received by himself from that gentleman, was not a sufficient explanation of so entire a change in her deportment.
Mr. Markland sought the earliest opportunity to confer with his wife on the subject of Fanny’s altered state of mind, and the causes leading thereto; but the conference did not result in much that was satisfactory to either of them.
“Have you said any thing to her about Mr. Lyon?” asked Mr. Markland.
“Very little,” was answered. “She thought it would only be courteous to reply to his letter; but I told her that, if he were a true man, and had a genuine respect for her, he would not wish to draw her into a correspondence on so slight an acquaintance; and that the only right manner of response was through you.”
“Through me!”
“Yes. Your acknowledgment, in Fanny’s name, when you are writing to Mr. Lyon, will be all that he has a right to expect, and all that our daughter should be permitted to give.”
“But if we restrict her to so cold a response, and that by second-hand, may she not be tempted to write to him without our knowledge?”
“No, Edward. I will trust her for that,” was the unhesitating answer.
“She is very young,” said Mr. Markland, as if speaking to himself.
“Oh, yes!” quickly returned his wife. “Years too young for an experience—or, I might say, a temptation—like this. I cannot but feel that, in writing to our child, Mr. Lyon abused the hospitality we extended to him.”
“Is not that a harsh judgment, Agnes?”
“No, Edward. Fanny is but a child, and Mr. Lyon a man of mature experience. He knew that she was too young to be approached as he approached her.”
“He left it with us, you know, Agnes; and with a manly delicacy that we ought neither to forget nor fail to appreciate.”
The remark silenced, but in no respect changed the views of Mrs. Markland; and the conference on Fanny’s state of mind closed without any satisfactory result.
The appearance of his daughter on the next morning caused Mr. Markland to feel a deeper concern. The colour had faded from her cheeks; her eyes were heavy, as if she had been weeping; and if she did not steadily avoid his gaze, she was, he could see, uneasy under it.
As soon as Mr. Markland had finished his light breakfast he ordered the carriage.
“You are not going to the city?” his wife said, with surprise and disappointment in her voice.
“Yes, Agnes, I must be in town to-day. I expect letters on business that will require immediate attention.”
“Business, Edward! What business?”
The question appeared slightly to annoy Mr. Markland. But with a forced smile, and in his usual pleasant voice, he answered:
“Oh, nothing of very great importance, but still requiring my presence. Business is business, you know, and ought never to be neglected.”
“Will you be home early?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Markland walked out into the ample porch, and let his eyes range slowly over the objects that surrounded his dwelling. His wife stood by his side. The absence of a few days, amid other and less attractive scenes, had prepared his mind for a better appreciation of the higher beauties of “Woodbine Lodge.” Something of the old feeling came over him; and as he stood silently gazing around, he could not but say, within himself, “If I do not find happiness here, I may look for it through the world in vain.”
The carriage was driven round to the door, while he stood there. Fanny came out at the moment, and seeing her father about to step into it, sprang forward, and exclaimed—
“Why, father, you are not going away again?”
“Only to the city, love,” he answered, as he turned to receive her kiss.
“To the city again? Why, you are away nearly all the time. Now I wish you wouldn’t go so often.”
“I will be home early in the afternoon. But come, Fanny, won’t you go with me, to spend the day in town? It will be a pleasant change for you.”
Fanny shook her head, and answered, “No.”
Mr. Markland entered the carriage, waved his hand, and was soon gliding away toward the city. As soon as he was beyond the observation of his family, his whole manner underwent a change. An expression of deep thought settled over his face; and he remained in a state of profound abstraction during his whole ride to the city. On arriving there, he went to the office of an individual well known in the community as possessing ample means, and bearing the reputation of a most liberal, intelligent, and enterprising citizen.
“Good morning, Mr. Brainard,” said Markland, with a blending of respect and familiarity in his voice.
“Ah, Mr. Markland!” returned the other, rising, and shaking the hand of his visitor cordially. “When did you get back from New York?”
“Yesterday afternoon. I called after my arrival, but you had left your office.”
“Well, what news do you bring home? Is every thing to your mind?”
“Entirely so, Mr. Brainard.”
“That’s clever—that’s right. I was sure you would find it so. Lyon is shrewd and sharp-sighted as an eagle. We have not mistaken our man, depend on it.”
“I think not.”
“I know we have not,” was the confident rejoinder.
“Any further word from him, since I left?”
“I had a letter yesterday. He was about leaving for Mexico.”
“Are you speaking of Mr. Lyon, the young Englishman whom I saw in your office frequently, a short time since?” inquired a gentleman who sat reading the morning paper.
“The same,” replied Mr. Brainard.
“Did you say he had gone to Mexico?”
“Yes, or was about leaving for that country. So he informed me in a letter I received from him yesterday.”