happiness or misery, is left to our own decision.”
“How the thought, as thus presented,” said Mr. Markland, very soberly—almost sadly, “thrills me to the very centre of my being! Ah! my excellent friend, what vast interests does this living involve!”
“Vast to each one of us.”
“I do not wonder,” added Mr. Markland, “that the old hermits and anchorites, oppressed, so to speak, by the greatness of immortal interests over those involved in natural life, separated themselves from the world, that, freed from its allurements, they might lead the life of heaven.”
“Their mistake,” said Mr. Allison, “was quite as fatal as the mistake of the worldling. Both missed the road to heaven.”
“Both?” Mr. Markland looked surprised.
“Yes; for the road to heaven lies through the very centre of the world, and those who seek bypaths will find their termination at an immense distance from the point they had hoped to gain. It is by neighbourly love that we attain to a higher and diviner love. Can this love be born in us, if, instead of living in and for the world’s good, we separate ourselves from our kind, and pass the years in fruitless meditation or selfish idleness? No. The active bad man is often more useful to the world than the naturally good or harmless man who is a mere drone. Only the brave soldier receives the laurels of his country’s gratitude; the skulking coward is execrated by all.”
The only response on the part of Markland was a deep sigh. He saw the truth that would make him free, but did not feel within himself a power sufficient to break the cords that bound him. The two men walked on in silence, until they came near a lovely retreat, half obscured by encircling trees, the scene of Fanny’s recent and impassioned interview with Mr. Lyon. The thoughts of Mr. Allison at once reverted to his own meeting with Fanny in the same place, and the disturbed condition of mind in which he found her. The image of Mr. Lyon also presented itself. As the two men paused, at a point where the fountain and some of the fine statues were visible, Mr. Allison said, with an abruptness that gave the pulse of his companion a sudden acceleration—
“Did your English friend, Mr. Lyon, really go South, before you left New York?”
“He did. But why do you make the inquiry?” Mr. Markland turned, and fixed his eyes intently upon the old man’s face.
“I was sure that I met him a day or two ago. But I was mistaken, as a man cannot be in two places at once.”
“Where did you see the person you took for Mr. Lyon?”
“Not far distant from here?”
“Where?”
“A little way from the railroad station. He was coming in this direction, and, without questioning the man’s identity, I naturally supposed that he was on his way to your house.”
“Singular! Very singular!” Mr. Markland spoke to himself.
“I met Fanny a little while afterward,” continued Mr. Allison, “and I learned from her that Mr. Lyon had actually left the city. No doubt I was mistaken; but the person I saw was remarkably like your friend from England.”
“Where did you meet Fanny?” abruptly asked Mr. Markland.
“In the little summer-house, yonder. I stepped aside, as I often do, to enjoy the quiet beauty of the place for a few moments, and found your daughter there alone. She answered, as you have done, my inquiry about Mr. Lyon, that he left for the South a few days before.”
“He did. And yet, singularly enough, you are not the only one who has mentioned to me that a person resembling Mr. Lyon was seen after he had left for the South—seen, too, almost on the very day that letters from him arrived by mail. The coincidence is at least remarkable.”
“Remarkable enough,” answered the old man, “to lead you, at least, to a close scrutiny into the matter.”
“I believe it only to be a coincidence,” said Mr. Markland, more confidently.
“If the fact of his being here, at the time referred to, would change in any respect your relation to him, then let me advise the most rigid investigation. I cannot get rid of the impression that he really was here—and, let me speak a plainer word—nor that he met your daughter in the summer-house.”
Markland started as if an adder had stung him, uttering the word—
“Impossible!”
“Understand me,” calmly remarked the old man, “I do not say that it was so. I have no proof to offer. But the impression has haunted me ever since, and I cannot drive it away.”
“It is only an impression, then?”
“Nothing more.”
“But what, was there in my daughter’s conduct that led you to so strange an impression?”
“Her manner was confused; a thing that has never happened at any previous meeting with her. But, then, I came upon her suddenly, as she sat in the summer-house, and gave her, in all probability, a nervous start.”
“Most likely that is the true interpretation. And I can account for her rather disturbed state of mind on other grounds than a meeting with Mr. Lyon.”
“That is good evidence on the other side,” returned Mr. Allison, “and I hope you will pardon the freedom I have taken in speaking out what was in my thoughts. In no other way could I express so strongly the high regard I have for both yourself and family, and the interest I feel in your most excellent daughter. The singular likeness to Mr. Lyon in the person I met, and the disturbed state in which Fanny appeared to be, are facts that have kept almost constant possession of my mind, and haunted me ever since. To mention these things to you is but a common duty.”
“And you have my thanks,” said Mr. Markland, “my earnest thanks.”
