“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?”
“Yes, love,” was answered almost without reflection.
Fanny re-folded the letter, with the care of one who was handling something precious.
“Shall I answer it?” she inquired.
“Not now. We must think about that. You are too young to enter into correspondence with a gentleman—especially with one about whom we know so little. Before his brief visit to Woodbine Lodge, we had never so much as heard of Mr. Lyon.”
A slight shade of disappointment crossed the bright young face of Fanny Markland—not unobserved by her mother.
“It would seem rude, were I to take no notice of the letter whatever,” said she, after reflecting a moment.
“Your father can acknowledge the receipt for you, when he writes to Mr. Lyon.”
“But would that do?” asked Fanny, in evident doubt.
“O yes, and is, in my view, the only right course. We know but little, if any thing, about Mr. Lyon. If he should not be a true man, there is no telling how much you might suffer in the estimation of right-minded people, by his representation that you were in correspondence with him. A young girl can never be too guarded, on this point. If Mr. Lyon is a man worthy of your respect, he will be disappointed in you, if he receive an answer to his letter, under your own hand.”
“Why, mother? Does he not say that he knows of nothing that would give him more pleasure than to receive an answer from me?” Fanny spoke with animation.
“True, my child, and that part of his letter I like least of all.”
“Why so?” inquired the daughter.
“Have you not gathered the answer to your own question from what I have already said? A true man, who had a genuine respect for a young lady, would not desire, on so slight an acquaintance, to draw her into a correspondence; therefore the fact that Mr. Lyon half invites you to a correspondence, causes doubts to arise in my mind. His sending you a letter at all, when he is yet to us almost an entire stranger, I cannot but regard as a breach of the hospitalities extended to him.”
“Is not that a harsh judgment?” said Fanny, a warmer hue mantling her face.
“Reflect calmly, my child, and you will not think so.”
“Then I ought not to answer this letter?” said Fanny, after musing for some time.
“Let your father, in one of his letters, acknowledge the receipt for you. If Mr. Lyon be a true man, he will respect you the more.”
Not entirely satisfied, though she gave no intimation of this, Fanny returned to the seclusion of her own room, to muse on so unexpected a circumstance; and as she mused, the beating of her heart grew quicker. Again she read the letter from Mr. Lyon, and again and again conned it over, until every sentence was imprinted on her memory. She did not reject the view taken by her mother; nay, she even tried to make it her own; but, for all this, not the shadow of a doubt touching Mr. Lyon could find a place in her thoughts. Before her mental vision he stood, the very type of noble manhood.
CHAPTER VIII.
WHAT an error had been committed! How painfully was this realized by Mrs. Markland. How often had she looked forward, with a vague feeling of anxiety, to the time, yet far distant—she had believed—when the heart-strings of her daughter would tremble in musical response to the low-breathed voice of love—and now that time had come. Alas! that it had come so soon—ere thought and perception had gained matured strength and wise discrimination. The voice of the charmer was in her ears, and she was leaning to hearken.
Fanny did not join the family at the tea-table on that evening; and on the next morning, when she met her mother, her face was paler than usual, and her eyes drooped under the earnest gaze that sought to read her very thoughts. It was plain, from her appearance, that her sleep had been neither sound nor refreshing.
Mrs. Markland deemed it wisest to make no allusion to what had occurred on the previous evening. Her views in regard to answering Mr. Lyon’s letter had been clearly expressed, and she had no fear that her daughter would act in opposition to them. Most anxiously did she await her husband’s return. Thus far in life they had, in all important events, “seen eye to eye,” and she had ever reposed full confidence in his judgment. If that confidence wavered in any degree now, it had been disturbed through his seeming entire trust in Mr. Lyon.
Aunt Grace had her share of curiosity, and she was dying, as they say, to know what was in Fanny’s letter. The non-appearance of her niece at the tea-table had disappointed her considerably; and it was as much as she could do to keep from going to her room during the evening. Sundry times she tried to discover whether Mrs. Markland had seen the letter or, not, but the efforts were unsuccessful; the mother choosing for the present not to enter into further conversation with her on the subject.
All eye and all ear was Aunt Grace on the next morning, when Fanny made her appearance; but only through the eye was any information gathered, and that of a most unsatisfactory character. The little said by Fanny or her mother, was as a remote as possible from the subject that occupied most nearly their thoughts. Aunt Grace tried in various ways to lead them in the direction she would have them go; but it was all in vain that she asked questions touching the return of her brother, and wondered what could have taken him off to New York in such a hurry; no one made any satisfactory reply. At last, feeling a little chafed, and, at the same time, a little malicious, she said—
“That Mr. Lyon’s at the bottom of this business.”
The sentence told, as she had expected and intended. Fanny glanced quickly toward her, and a crimson spot burned on her cheek. But no word passed her lips. “So much gained,” thought Aunt Grace; and then she said aloud—
“I’ve no faith in the man myself.”
This, she believed, would throw Fanny off of her guard; but she was mistaken. The colour deepened on the young girl’s cheeks, but she made no response.
“If he doesn’t get Edward into trouble before he’s done with him, I’m no prophet,” added Aunt Grace, with a dash of vinegar in her tones.
“Why do you say that?” asked Mrs. Markland, who felt constrained to speak.
“I’ve no opinion of the man, and never had from the beginning, as you are very well aware,” answered the sister-in-law.