_ NO sooner was Lyon completely in the power of the men he had wronged
to an extent that left no room for mercy, than he made offers of
compromise. A public trial involved not only public disgrace, but he
had too good reasons to fear conviction and penal retribution. This
was the greatest evil he had to dread, and so he made up his mind to
part with at least a portion of his ill-gotten gains. Interview
after interview was held with the parties representing the Company
for which he had been agent, and a final arrangement made for the
restitution of about two hundred thousand dollars--his release not
to take place until the money, or its value, was in the hands of his
creditors. Nearly three months passed in efforts to consummate this
matter, and at last the sum of one hundred and eighty thousand
dollars was obtained, and the miserable, disgraced man set free. He
went forth into the world again with the bitterness of a
life-disappointment at his heart, and a feeling of almost murderous
hate against the men whose confidence he had betrayed, and who
obtained from him only a partial recompense.
Of the sum restored, there fell to Mr. Markland's share about
twenty-five thousand dollars. Its possession quickened in his heart
the old ambitious spirit, and he began to revolve in his thoughts
the ways and means of recovering, by aid of this remnant of his
fortune, the wealth which a scheming villain had wrested from his
grasp. Mr. Willet, whose marriage with his daughter was on the eve
of taking place, had made to him certain proposals in regard to
business, that promised a sure but not particularly brilliant
return. All the required capital was to be furnished. He had not yet
accepted this offer, but was about doing so, when expectation ended
in certainty, and his proportion of the money recovered from Lyon
was paid into his hands.
A rapid change of feelings and plans was the consequence. On the day
that cheeks covering the whole sum awarded to Mr. Markland were
received from New York, he returned early in the afternoon from the
city, his mind buoyant with hope in the future. As the cars swept
around a particular curve on approaching the station at which he was
to alight, "Woodbine Lodge" came in full view, and, with a sudden
impulse he exclaimed "It shall be mine again!"
"The man is not all crushed out of me yet!" There was a proud
swelling of the heart as Markland said this. He had stepped from the
cars at the station, and with a firmer step than usual, and a form
more erect, was walking homeward. Lawn Cottage was soon in view,
nestling peacefully amid embowering trees. How many times during the
past year had a thankful spirit given utterance to words of
thankfulness, as, at day's decline, his homeward steps brought in
view this pleasant hiding-place from the world! It was different
now: the spot wore a changed aspect, and, comparatively, looked
small and mean, for his ideas had suddenly been elevated toward
"Woodbine Lodge," and a strong desire for its re-possession had
seized upon him.
But if, to his disturbed vision, beauty had partially faded from the
external of his home, no shadow dimmed the brightness within. The
happy voices of children fell in music on his ears, and small arms
clasping his neck sent electric thrills of gladness to his heart.
And how full of serene joy was the face of his wife, the angel of
his home as she greeted his return, and welcomed him with words that
never disturbed, but always tranquillized!
"There is a better time coming, Agnes," he said in an exultant
voice, when they were alone that evening. He had informed her of the
settlement of his affairs in New York, and reception of the sum
which had been awarded to him in the division of property recovered
from Mr. Lyon.
"A better time, Edward?" said Mrs. Markland. She seemed slightly
startled at his words, and looked half timidly into his face.
"Yes, a better time, love. I have too long been powerless in the
hands of a stern necessity, which has almost crushed the life out of
me; but morning begins to break, the night is passing, and my way in
the world grows clear again."
"_In_ the world, or _through_ the world?" asked Mrs. Markland, in a
voice and with an expression of countenance that left her meaning in
no doubt.
He looked at her for several moments, his face changing until the
light fading left it almost shadowed.
"Edward," said Mrs. Markland, leaning toward him, and speaking
earnestly, but, lovingly, "you look for a better time. How better?
Are we not happy here? Nay, did we ever know more of true happiness
than since we gathered closer together in this pleasant home? Have
we not found a better time in a true appreciation of the ends of
life? Have we not learned to live, in some feeble degree, that inner
and higher life, from the development of which alone comes the
soul's tranquillity? Ah, Edward, do not let go of these truths that
we have learned. Do not let your eyes become so dazzled by the
splendour of the sun of this world as to lose the power to see into
the inner world of your spirit, and behold the brighter sun that can
make all glorious there."
Markland bent his head, and for a little while a feeling of sadness
oppressed him. The hope of worldly elevation, which had sprung up
with so sudden and brilliant a flame, faded slowly away, and in its
partial death the pains of dissolution were felt. The outer,
visible, tangible world had strong attractions for his natural mind;
and its wealth, distinctions, luxuries, and honours, looked
fascinating in the light of his natural affections; yet glimpses had
already been given to him of another world of higher and diviner
beauty. He had listened, entranced, to its melodies, that came as
from afar off; its fragrant airs had awakened his delighted sense;
he had seen, as in a vision, the beauty of its inhabitants, and now
the words of his wife restored all to his remembrance.
"The good time for which all are looking, and toiling, and waiting
so impatiently," said Mrs. Markland, after a pause, "will never come
to any unless in a change of affection."
"The life must be changed."
"Yes, or, in better words, the love. If that be fixed on mere
outward and natural things, life will be only a restless seeking
after the unattainable--for the natural affections only grow by what
they feed upon--desire ever increasing, until the still panting,
unsatisfied heart has made for itself a hell of misery."
"Thanks, angel of my life!" returned Markland, as soon as he had, in
a measure, recovered himself. "Even the painful lessons I have been
taught would fade from my memory, but for thee!" _