tottered, rather than walked, to a garden chair near at hand.
“Well, now, here is pretty business, upon my word!” exclaimed Aunt Grace, warmly. “Sending a letter to our Fanny! Who ever heard of such assurance! Oh! I knew that some trouble would come of his visit here. I felt it the moment I set my eyes on him. Keep the letter from Fanny? Of course you will; and when you have a talk with Edward about it, just let me be there; I want my say.”
“It is too late,” murmured the unhappy mother, in a low, sad voice.
“Too late! How? What do you mean, Agnes?”
“Fanny has the letter already.”
“What!” There was a sharp, thrusting rebuke in the voice of Aunt Grace, that seemed like a sword in the heart of Mrs. Markland.
“She stood by me when I opened her father’s letter, enclosing the one for her. I did not dream from whence it came, and handed it to her without a thought.”
“Agnes! Agnes! What have you done?” exclaimed Aunt Grace, in a troubled voice.
“Nothing for which I need reproach myself,” said Mrs. Markland, now grown calmer. “Had the discretion been left with me, I should not have given Fanny the letter until Edward returned. But it passed to her hands through no will of mine. With the Great Controller of events it must now be left.”
“Oh dear! Don’t talk about the Controller of events in a case of this kind. Wise people control such things through the wisdom given them. I always think of Jupiter and the wagoner, when I hear any one going on this way.”
Aunt Grace was excited. She usually was when she thought earnestly. But her warmth of word and manner rarely disturbed Mrs. Markland, who knew her thoroughly, and valued her for her good qualities and strong attachment to the family. No answer was made, and Aunt Grace added, in a slightly changed voice,—
“I don’t know that you are so much to blame, Agnes, seeing that Fanny saw the letter, and that you were ignorant of its contents. But Edward might have known that something like this would happen. Why didn’t he put the letter into his pocket, and keep it until he came home? He seems to have lost his common sense. And then he must go off into that rigmarole about Mr. Lyon, and try to make him out a saint, as if to encourage you to give his letter to Fanny. I’ve no patience with him! Mr. Lyon, indeed! If he doesn’t have a heart-scald of him before he’s done with him, I’m no prophet. Important business for Mr. Lyon! Why didn’t Mr. Lyon attend to his own business when he was in New York? Oh! I can see through it all, as clear as daylight. He’s got his own ends to gain through Edward, who is blind and weak enough to be led by him.”
“Hasty in judgment as ever,” said Mrs. Markland, with a subdued, resigned manner, as she arose and commenced moving toward the house, her sister-in-law walking by her side,—”and quick to decide upon character. But neither men nor women are to be read at a glance.”
“So much the more reason for holding strangers at arms’ length,” returned Aunt Grace.
But Mrs. Markland felt in no mood for argument on so fruitless a subject. On entering the house, she passed to her own private apartment, there to commune with herself alone.
CHAPTER VII.
ONLY a few minutes had Mrs. Markland been in her room, when the door opened quietly, and Fanny’s light footfall was in her ears. She did not look up; but her heart beat with a quicker motion, and her breath was half-suspended.
“Mother!”
She lifted her bowed head, and met the soft, clear eyes of her daughter looking calmly down into her own.
“Fanny, dear!” she said, in half-surprise, as she placed an arm around her, and drew her closely to her side.
An open letter was in Fanny’s hand, and she held it toward her mother. There was a warmer hue upon her face, as she said,—
“It is from Mr. Lyon.”
“Shall I read it?” inquired Mrs. Markland.
“I have brought it for you to read,” was the daughter’s answer.
The letter was brief:
“To MISS FANNY MARKLAND:
“As I am now writing to your father, I must fulfil a half promise, made during my sojourn at Woodbine Lodge, to write to you also. Pleasant days were those to me, and they will ever make a green spot in my memory. What a little paradise enshrines you! Art, hand in hand with Nature, have made a world of beauty for you to dwell in. Yet, all is but a type of moral beauty—and its true enjoyment is only for those whose souls are attuned to deeper harmonies.
“Since leaving Woodbine Lodge, my thoughts have acquired a double current. They run backward as well as forward. The true hospitality of your manly-hearted father; the kind welcome to a stranger, given so cordially by your gentle, good mother; and your own graceful courtesy, toward one in whom you had no personal interest, charmed—nay, touched me with a sense of gratitude. To forget all this would be to change my nature. Nor can I shut out the image of Aunt Grace, so reserved but lady-like in her deportment; yet close in observation and quick to read character. I fear I did not make a good impression on her—but she may know me better one of these days. Make to her my very sincere regards.
“And now, what more shall I say? A first letter to a young lady is usually a thing of shreds and patches, made up of sentences that might come in almost any other connection; and mine is no exception to the rule. I do not ask an answer; yet I will say, that I know nothing that would give me more pleasure than such a favour from your hand.
“Remember me in all kindness and esteem to your excellent parents.
“Sincerely yours, LEE LYON.”
The deep breath taken by Mrs. Markland was one of relief. And yet, there was something in the letter that left her mind in uncertainty as to the real intentions of Mr. Lyon. Regret that he should have written at all mingled with certain pleasing emotions awakened by the graceful compliments of their late guest.
“It’s a beautiful letter, isn’t it, mother?”
