“Perhaps you had better do so. I saw a strange man between this and the main road, and he seemed as if he desired to avoid observation.”
Fanny started, and looked up, with an expression of fear, into her father’s face. The origin of that look Mr. Markland did not rightly conjecture. She arose at once, and said—
“Let us go home.”
But few words passed between father and daughter on the way, and their brief intercourse was marked by a singular embarrassment on both sides.
How little suspicion of the real truth was in the mind of Mr. Markland! Nothing was farther from his thoughts than the idea that Fanny had just received a letter from Mr. Lyon, and that the man he had seen was the messenger by whom the missive had been conveyed to the summer-house. A minute earlier, and that letter would have come into his hands. How instantly would a knowledge of its contents have affected all the purposes that were now leading him on with almost the blindness of infatuation. The man he was trusting so implicitly would have instantly stood revealed as a scheming, unprincipled adventurer. In such estimation, at least, he must have been held by Mr. Markland, and his future actions would have been governed by that estimate.
The answer to Fanny’s earnest, almost peremptory demand, to be released from the injunction not to tell her parents of Mr. Lyon’s return, was in her possession, and the instant she could get away to her own room, she tore the letter open. The reader already knows its contents. The effect upon her was paralyzing. He had said that she was in freedom to speak, but the consequences portrayed were too fearful to contemplate. In freedom? No! Instead of loosing the cords with which he had bound her spirit, he had only drawn them more tightly. She was in freedom to speak, but the very first word she uttered would sound the knell of her young heart’s fondest hopes. How, then, could she speak that word? Lyon had not miscalculated the effect of his letter on the inexperienced, fond young girl, around whose innocent heart he had woven a spell of enchantment. Most adroitly had he seemed to leave her free to act from her own desires, while he had made that action next to impossible.
How rapidly, sometimes, does the young mind gain premature strength when subjected to strong trial. Little beyond an artless child was Fanny Markland when she first met the fascinating young stranger; and now she was fast growing into a deep-feeling, strong-thinking woman. Hitherto she had leaned with tender confidence on her parents, and walked the paths lovingly where they led the way. Now she was moving, with unaided footsteps, along a new and rugged road, that led she knew not whither; for clouds and darkness were in the forward distance. At every step, she found a new strength and a new power of endurance growing up in her young spirit. Thought, too, was becoming clearer and stronger. The mature woman had suddenly taken the place of the shrinking girl.
CHAPTER XX.
HALF the night, following the receipt of Mr. Lyon’s letter, was spent in writing an answer. Imploringly she besought him to release her, truly, from the obligation to secrecy with which he had bound her. Most touchingly did she picture her state of mind, and the change wrought by it upon her mother. “I cannot bear this much longer,” she said. “I am too weak for the burden you have laid upon me. It must be taken away soon, or I will sink under the weight. Oh, sir! if, as you say, you love me, prove that love by restoring me to my parents. Now, though present with them in body, I am removed from them in spirit. My mother’s voice has a strange sound in my ears; and when she gazes sadly into my face I can hardly believe that it is my mother who is looking upon me. If she touches me, I start as if guilty of a crime. Oh, sir! to die would be easy for me now. What a sweet relief utter forgetfulness would be.”
When Fanny awoke on the next morning, she found her mother standing beside her bed, and gazing down upon her face with a tender, anxious look. Sleep had cleared the daughter’s thoughts and tranquilized her feelings. As her mother bent over and kissed her, she threw her arms around her neck and clung to her tightly.
“My dear child!” said Mrs. Markland, in a loving voice.
“Dear, dear mother!” was answered, with a gush of feeling.
“Something is troubling you, Fanny. You are greatly changed. Will you not open your heart to me?”
“Oh, mother!” She sobbed out the words.
“Am I not your truest friend?” said Mrs. Markland, speaking calmly, but very tenderly.
Fanny did not reply.
“Have I ever proved myself unworthy of your confidence?” She spoke as if from wounded feeling.
“Oh, no, no, dearest mother!” exclaimed Fanny. “How can you ask me such a question?”
“You have withdrawn your confidence,” was almost coldly said.
“Oh, mother!” And Fanny drew her arms more tightly about her mother’s neck, kissing her cheek passionately as she did so.
A little while Mrs. Markland waited, until her daughter’s mind grew calmer; then she said—
“You are concealing from me something that troubles you. Whatever doubles you is of sufficient importance to be intrusted to your mother. I am older, have had more experience than you, and am your best friend. Not to confide in me is unjust to yourself, for, in my counsels, more than in those of your own heart, is there safety.”
Mrs. Markland paused, and waited for some time, but there was no response from Fanny. She then said—
“You have received a letter from Mr. Lyon.”
Fanny started as if a sudden blow had aroused her.
“And concealed the fact from your mother.”
No answer; only bitter weeping.
“May I see that letter?” asked the mother, after a short pause. For nearly a minute she waited for a reply. But there was not a word from Fanny, who now lay as still as death. Slowly Mrs. Markland disengaged her arm from her daughter’s neck, and raised herself erect. For the space of two or three minutes she sat on the bedside. All this time there was not the slightest movement on the part of Fanny. Then she arose and moved slowly across the room. Her hand was on the door, and the sound of the latch broke the silence of the room. At this instant the unhappy girl started up, and cried, in tones of anguish—
“Oh, my mother! my mother! come back!”
Mrs. Markland returned slowly, and with the air of one who hesitated. Fanny leaned forward against her, and wept freely.
“It is not yet too late, my child, to get back the peace of mind which this concealment has destroyed. Mr. Lyon has written to you?”
“Yes, mother.”
“May I see his letter?”
There was no answer.
“Still not willing to trust your best friend,” said Mrs. Markland.
“Can I trust you?” said Fanny, raising herself up suddenly, and gazing steadily into her mother’s face. Mrs. Markland was startled as well by the words of her daughter as by the strange expression of her countenance.
“Trust me? What do you mean by such words?” she answered.
“If I tell you a secret, will you, at least for a little while, keep it in your own heart.”
“Keep it from whom?”
“From father.”
“You frighten me, my child! What have you to do with a secret that must be kept from your father!”
“I did not desire its custody.”
“If it concerns your own or your father’s welfare, so much the more is it imperative on you to speak to him freely. No true friend could lay upon you such an obligation, and the quicker you throw it off the better. What is the nature of this secret?”
“I cannot speak unless you promise me.”
“Promise what?”
“To conceal from father what I tell you.”
“I can make no such promise, Fanny.”
“Then I am bound hand and foot,” said the poor girl, in a distressed voice.
A long silence followed. Then the mother used argument and persuasion to induce Fanny to unbosom herself. But the effort was fruitless.