“Our estimate of character should have a sounder basis than mere opinion, or, to speak more accurately—prejudice,” said Mrs. Markland.
“I don’t know what eyes were given us for, if we are not to see with them,” returned Aunt Grace, dogmatically. “But no wonder so many stumble and fall, when so few use their eyes. There isn’t that man living who does not bear, stamped upon his face, the symbols of his character. And plainly enough are these to be seen in the countenance of Mr. Lyon.”
“And how do you read them, Aunt Grace?” inquired Fanny, with a manner so passionless, that even the sharp-sighted aunt was deceived in regard to the amount of feeling that lay hidden in her heart.
“How do I read them? I’ll tell you. I read them as the index to a whole volume of scheming selfishness. The man is unsound at the core.” Aunt Grace was tempted by the unruffled exterior of her niece to speak thus strongly. Her words went deeper than she had expected. Fanny’s face crimsoned instantly to the very temples, and an indignant light flashed in her soft blue eyes.
“Objects often take their colour from the medium through which we see them,” she said quickly, and in a voice considerably disturbed, looking, as she spoke, steadily and meaningly at her aunt.
“And so you think the hue is in the medium, and not in the object?” said Aunt Grace, her tone a little modified.
“In the present instance, I certainly do,” answered Fanny, with some ardour.
“Ah, child! child!” returned her aunt, “this may be quite as true in your case as in mine. Neither of us may see the object in its true colour. You will, at least, admit this to be possible.”
“Oh, yes.”
“And suppose you see it in a false colour?”
“Well?” Fanny seemed a little bewildered.
“Well? And what then?” Aunt Grace gazed steadily upon the countenance of Fanny, until her eyes drooped to the floor. “To whom is it of most consequence to see aright?”
Sharp-seeing, but not wise Aunt Grace! In the blindness of thy anxiety for Fanny, thou art increasing her peril. What need for thee to assume for the maiden, far too young yet to have the deeper chords of womanhood awakened in her heart to love’s music, that the evil or good in the stranger’s character might be any thing to her?
“You talk very strangely, Grace,” said Mrs. Markland, with just enough of rebuke in her voice to make her sister-in-law conscious that she was going too far. “Perhaps we had better change the subject,” she added, after the pause of a few moments.
“As you like,” coldly returned Aunt Grace, who soon after left the room, feeling by no means well satisfied with herself or anybody else. Not a word had been said to her touching the contents of Fanny’s letter, and in that fact was indicated a want of confidence that considerably annoyed her. She had not, certainly, gone just the right way about inviting confidence; but this defect in her own conduct was not seen very clearly.
A constrained reserve marked the intercourse of mother, daughter, and aunt during the day; and when night came, and the evening circle was formed as usual, how dimly burned the hearth-fire, and how sombre were the shadows cast by its flickering blaze! Early they separated, each with a strange pressure on the feelings, and a deep disquietude of heart.
Most of the succeeding day Fanny kept apart from the family; spending a greater portion of the time alone in her room. Once or twice it crossed the mother’s thought, that Fanny might be tempted to answer the letter of Mr. Lyon, notwithstanding her promise not to do so for the present. But she repelled the thought instantly, as unjust to her beautiful, loving, obedient child. Still, Fanny’s seclusion of herself weighed on her mind, and led her several times to go into her room. Nothing, either in her manner or employment, gave the least confirmation to the vague fear which had haunted her.
The sun was nearly two hours above the horizon, when Fanny left the house, and bent her steps towards a pleasant grove of trees that stood some distance away. In the midst of the grove, which was not far from the entrance-gate to her father’s beautiful grounds, was a summer-house, in Oriental style, close beside an ornamental fountain. This was the favourite resort of the maiden, and thither she now retired, feeling certain of complete seclusion, to lose herself in the bewildering mazes of love’s young dream. Before the eyes of her mind, one form stood visible, and that a form of manly grace and beauty,—the very embodiment of all human excellence. The disparaging words of her aunt had, like friction upon a polished surface, only made brighter to her vision the form which the other had sought to blacken. What a new existence seemed opening before her, with new and higher capacities for enjoyment! The half-closed bud had suddenly unfolded itself in the summer air, and every blushing petal thrilled with a more exquisite sense of life.
Every aspect of nature—and all her aspects were beautiful there—had a new charm for the eyes of Fanny Markland. The silvery waters cast upward by the fountain fell back in rainbow showers, ruffling the tiny lake beneath, and filling the air with a low, dreamy murmur. Never had that lovely creation of art, blending with nature, looked so like an ideal thing as now—a very growth of fairy-land. The play of the waters in the air was as the glad motions of a living form.
Around this fountain was a rosary of white and red roses, encircled again by arbor-vitae; and there were statues of choice workmanship, the ideals of modern art, lifting their pure white forms here and there in chastened loveliness. All this was shut in from observation by a stately grove of elms. And here it was that the maiden had come to hide herself from observation, and dream her waking dream of love. What a world of enchantment was dimly opening before her, as her eye ran down the Eden-vistas of the future! Along those aisles of life she saw herself moving, beside a stately one, who leaned toward her, while she clung to him as a vine to its firm support. Even while in the mazes of this delicious dream, a heavy footfall startled her, and she sprang to her feet with a suddenly-stilled pulsation. In the next instant a manly form filled the door of the summer-house, and a manly voice exclaimed:
“Miss Markland! Fanny! do I find you here?”
The colour left the maiden’s cheeks for an instant. Then they flushed to deep crimson. But her lips were sealed. Surprise took away, for a time, the power of speech.
“I turned aside,” said the intruder, “as I came up the avenue, to have a look at this charming spot, so well remembered; but dreamed not of finding you here.”
He had already approached Fanny, and was holding one of her hands tightly in his, while he gazed upon her face with a look of glowing admiration.
“Oh, Mr. Lyon! How you have startled me!” said Fanny, as soon as she could command her voice.
“And how you tremble! There, sit down again, Miss Markland, and calm yourself. Had I known you were here, I should not have approached so abruptly. But how have you been since my brief absence? And how is your good father and mother?”
“Father is in New York,” replied Fanny.
“In New York! I feared as much.” And a slight shade crossed the face of Mr. Lyon, who spoke as if off of his guard. “When did he go?”
“Yesterday.”
“Ah! Did he receive a letter from me?”
“Yes, sir.” Fanny’s eyes drooped under the earnest gaze that was fixed upon her.
“I hoped to have reached here as soon as my letter. This is a little unfortunate.” The aspect of Mr. Lyon became grave.
“When will your father return?” he inquired.
“I do not know.”
Again Mr. Lyon looked serious and thoughtful. For some moments he remained abstracted; and Fanny experienced a slight feeling of timidity, as she looked upon his shadowed face. Arousing himself, he said:
“This being the case, I shall at once return South.”
“Not until to-morrow,” said Fanny.