“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.”
The two men had moved on, and were now at some distance from the point where the sight of the fountain and summer-house brought a vivid recollection to the mind of Mr. Allison of his interview with Fanny.
“Our ways part here,” said the old man.
“Will you not keep on to the house? Your visits always give pleasure,” said Mr. Markland.
“No—not at this time. I have some matters at home requiring present attention.”
They stood and looked into each other’s faces for a few moments, as if both had something yet in their minds unsaid, but not yet in a shape for utterance—then separated with a simple “Good-by.”
CHAPTER XIII.
THIS new testimony in regard to the presence of Mr. Lyon in the neighbourhood, at a time when he was believed to be hundreds of miles away, and still receding as rapidly as swift car and steamer could bear him, might well disturb, profoundly, the spirit of Mr. Markland. What could it mean? How vainly he asked himself this question. He was walking onward, with his eyes upon the ground, when approaching feet made him aware of the proximity of some one. Looking up, he saw a man coming down the road from his house, and only a few rods distant from him.
“Mr. Lyon, now!” he exclaimed, in a low, agitated voice. “What does this mean?” he added, as his mind grew bewildered, and his footsteps were stayed.
Another moment, and he saw that he had erred in regard to the man’s identity. It wars not Mr. Lyon, but a stranger. Advancing again, they met, and the stranger, pausing, said:
“Mr. Markland, I believe?”
“That is my name, sir,” was answered.
“And my name is Willet.”
“Ah, yes!” said Mr. Markland extending his hand. “I learned, to-day, in the city, that you had purchased Ashton’s fine place. I am happy, sir, to make your acquaintance, and if there is any thing in which I can serve you, do not hesitate to command me.”
“Many thanks for your kind offer,” returned Mr. Willet. “A stranger who comes to reside in the country has need of friendly consideration; and I stand just in that relation to my new neighbours. To certain extent I am ignorant of the ways and means appertaining to the locality; and can only get enlightened through an intercourse with the older residents. But I have no right to be obtrusive, or to expect too much concession to a mere stranger. Until I am better known, I will only ask the sojourner’s kindness—not the confidence one friend gives to another.”
There was a charm about the stranger’s manner, and a peculiar music in his voice, that won their way into the heart of Mr. Markland.
“Believe me, sir,” he replied, “that my tender of friendly offices is no unmeaning courtesy. I comprehend, entirely, your position; for I once held just your relation to the people around me. And now, if there are any questions to which an immediate answer is desired, ask them freely. Will you not return with me to my house?”
“Thank you! Not now. I came over to ask if you knew a man named Burk, who lives in the neighbourhood.”
“Yes; very well,” answered Mr. Markland.
“Is he a man to be depended upon?”
“He’s clever, and a good man about a place; but, I am sorry to say, not always to be depended upon.”
“What is the trouble with him?” asked Mr. Willet.
“The trouble with most men who occasionally drink to excess.”
“Oh! That’s it. You’ve said enough, sir; he won’t suit me. I shall have to be in the city for a time, almost every day, and would not, by any means, feel safe or comfortable in knowing that such a person was in charge of things. Besides, my mother, who is getting in years, has a particular dread of an intoxicated man, and I would on no account expose her to the danger of being troubled from this cause. My sisters, who have lived all their lives in cities, will be timid in the country, and I therefore particularly desire the right kind of a man on the premises—one who may be looked to as a protector in my absence. You understand, now, what kind of a person I want?”
“Clearly.”
“This Burk would not suit.”
“I’m afraid not. But for the failing I have mentioned, you could hardly find a more capable, useful, or pleasant man in the neighbourhood; but this mars all.”
“It mars all for me, and for reasons I have just mentioned,” said Mr. Willet; “so we will have to pass him by. Is there any other available man about here, who would make a trusty overseer?”
“I do not think of one, but will make it my business to inquire,” returned Mr. Markland. “How soon will you move out?”
“In about a week. On Monday we shall send a few loads of furniture.”
“Cannot you hire Mr. Ashton’s gardener? He is trusty in every respect.”
“Some one has been ahead of me,” replied Mr. Willet. “He is already engaged, and will leave to-morrow.”