“No.”
“His conduct, then, to speak in the mildest terms, is very singular.”
“His relation to Fanny has been an exceedingly embarrassing one,” said Mr. Markland. “There has been no opportunity for him to speak out freely.”
“That disability no longer exists.”
“True, and I shall expect from him an early and significant communication.”
“Let us look this matter directly in the face, Edward,” said Mrs. Markland, in a sober voice. “Suppose he ask for the hand of our daughter.”
“A thing not at all unlikely to happen,” answered her husband.
“What then?”
“I fear you are prejudiced against Mr. Lyon,” said Markland, a little coldly.
“I love my child!” was the simple, touching answer.
“Well?”
“I am a woman,” she further said, “and know the wants of a woman’s heart. I am a wife, and have been too tenderly loved and cared for, not to desire a like happy condition for my child.” And she leaned against her husband, and gazed into his face with a countenance full of thankful love.
“Mr. Lyon is a man of honour,” said Mr. Markland. “Has he a tender, loving heart? Can he appreciate a woman?”
“If Fanny loves him—”
“Oh, Edward! Edward!” returned his wife, interrupting him. “She is only a child, and yet incapable of genuine love. The bewildering passion this man has inspired in her heart is born of impulse, and the fires that feed it are consuming her. As for me—and I speak the words thoughtfully and sadly—I would rather stretch forth my hand to drop flowers on her coffin than deck her for such a bridal.”
“Why do you speak so strongly, Agnes? You know nothing against Mr. Lyon. He may be all you could desire in the husband of your child.”
“A mother’s instincts, believe me, Edward, are rarely at fault here.”
Mr. Markland was oppressed by the subject, and could not readily frame an answer that he felt would be satisfactory to his wife. After a pause, he said:
“There will be time enough to form a correct judgment.”
“But let us look the matter in the face now, Edward,” urged his wife. “Suppose, as I just suggested, he ask for the hand of our daughter,—a thing, as you admit, likely to happen. What answer shall we make? Are you prepared to give a decisive reply?”
“Not on the instant. I should wish time for consideration.”
“How long?”
“You press the subject very closely, Agnes.”
“I cannot help doing so. It is the one that involves most of good or evil in the time to come. All others are, for the present, dwarfed by it into insignificance. A human soul has been committed to our care, capable of the highest enjoyments or the deepest misery. An error on our part may prove fatal to that soul. Think of this, Edward! What are wealth, honour, eminence, in comparison with the destiny of a single human soul? If you should achieve the brilliant results that now dazzle your eyes, and in pursuit of which you are venturing so much, would there be any thing in all you gained to compensate for the destruction of our daughter’s happiness?”
“But why connect things that have no relation, Agnes? What has the enterprise I am now prosecuting to do with this matter of our daughter?”
“Much, every way. Does it not so absorb your mind that you cannot think clearly on any other subject? And does not your business connection with Mr. Lyon bias your feelings unduly in his favour?”
Mr. Markland shook his head.
“But think more earnestly, Edward. Review what this man has done. Was it honourable for him so to abuse our hospitality as to draw our child into a secret correspondence? Surely something must warp your mind in his favour, or you would feel a quick indignation against him. He cannot be a true man, and this conviction every thing in regard to him confirms. Believe me, Edward, it was a dark day in the calendar of our lives when the home circle at Woodbine Lodge opened to receive him.”
“I trust to see the day,” answered Mr. Markland, “when you will look back to this hour and smile at the vague fears that haunted your imagination.”
“Fears? They have already embodied themselves in realities,” was the emphatic answer. “The evil is upon us, Edward. We have failed to guard the door of our castle, and the enemy has come in. Ah, my husband! if you could see with my eyes, there would stand before you a frightful apparition.”
“And what shape would it assume?” asked Mr. Markland, affecting to treat lightly the fears of his wife.
“That of a beautiful girl, with white, sunken cheeks, and hollow, weeping eyes.”
An instant paleness overspread the face of Mr. Markland.
“Look there!” said Mrs. Markland, suddenly, drawing the attention of her husband to a picture on the wall. The eyes of Mr. Markland fell instantly on a portrait of Fanny. It was one of those wonders of art that transform dead colours into seeming life, and, while giving to every lineament a faultless reproduction, heightens the charm of each. How sweetly smiled down upon Mr. Markland the beautiful lips! How tender were the loving eyes, that fixed themselves upon him and held him almost spell-bound!
“Dear child!” he murmured, in a softened voice, and his eyes grew so dim that the picture faded before
