IT was near the close of the fifth day since Mr. Markland left his
home to commence a long journey southward; and yet, no word had come
back from him. He had promised to write from Baltimore, and from
other points on his route, and sufficient time had elapsed for at
least two letters to arrive. A servant, who had been sent to the
city post-office, had returned without bringing any word from the
absent one; and Mrs. Markland, with Fanny by her side, was sitting
near a window sad and silent.
Just one year has passed since their introduction to the reader. But
what a change one year has wrought! The heart's bright sunshine
rested then on every object. Woodbine Lodge was then a paradise.
Now, there is scarcely a ray of this warm sunshine. Yet there had
been no bereavement--no affliction; nothing that we refer to a
mysterious Providence. No,--but the tempter was admitted. He came
with specious words and deceiving pretences. He vailed the present
good, and magnified the worth of things possessing no power to
satisfy the heart. Too surely has he succeeded in the accomplishment
of his evil work.
At the time of the reader's introduction to Woodbine Lodge, a bright
day was going down in beauty; and there was not a pulse in nature
that did not beat in unison with the hearts of its happy denizens. A
summer day was again drawing to its close, but sobbing itself away
in tears. And they were in tears also, whose spirits, but a single
year gone by, reflected only the light and beauty of nature.
By the window sat the mother and daughter, with oppressed hearts,
looking out upon the leaden sky and the misty gusts that swept
across the gloomy landscape. Sad and silent, we have said, they
were. Now and then they gazed into each other's faces, and the lips
quivered as if words were on them. But each spirit held back the
fear by which it was burdened--and the eyes turned wearily again
from the open window.
At last, Fanny's heavy heart could bear in silence the pressure no
longer. Hiding her face in her mother's lap, she sobbed out
violently. Repressing her own struggling emotions, Mrs. Markland
spoke soothing, hopeful words; and even while she sought to
strengthen her daughter's heart, her own took courage.
"My dear child," she said, in a voice made even by depressing its
tone, "do you not remember that beautiful thought expressed by Mrs.
Willet yesterday? 'Death,' said she, 'signifies life; for in every
death there is resurrection into a higher and purer life. This is as
true,' she remarked, 'of our affections, which are but activities of
the life, as of the natural life itself.'"
The sobs of the unhappy girl died away. Her mother continued, in a
low, earnest voice, speaking to her own heart as well as to that of
her child, for it, too, needed strength and comfort.
"How often have we been told, in our Sabbath instructions, that
natural affections cannot be taken to heaven; that they must die, in
order that spiritual affections may be born."
Fanny raised herself up, and said, with slight warmth of manner--
"Is not my love for you a natural affection for my natural mother?
And must that die before I can enter heaven?"
"May it not be changed into a love of what is good in your mother,
instead of remaining only a love of her person?"
"Dear mother!" almost sobbed again the unhappy child,--clasping
eagerly the neck of her parent,--"it is such a love now! Oh! if I
were as good, and patient, and self-denying as you are!"
"All our natural affections," resumed Mrs. Markland, after a few
moments were given to self-control, "have simple regard to
ourselves; and their indulgence never brings the promised happiness.
This is why a wise and good Creator permits our natural desires to
be so often thwarted. In this there is mercy, and not unkindness;
for the fruition of these desires would often be most exquisite
misery."
"Hark!" exclaimed Fanny, starting up at this moment, and leaning
close to the window. The sound that had fallen upon her ear had also
reached the ears of the mother.
"Oh! it's father!" fell almost wildly from the daughter's lips, and
she sprang out into the hall, and forth to meet him in the drenching
rain. Mrs. Markland could not rise, but sat, nerveless, until the
husband entered the room.
"Oh, Edward! Edward!" she then exclaimed, rising, and staggering
forward to meet him. "Thank our kind Father in heaven that you are
with us again!" And her head sunk upon his bosom, and she felt his
embracing arms drawn tightly around her. How exquisitely happy she
was for the moment! But she was aroused by the exclamation of
Fanny:--
"Oh, father! How pale you look!"
Mrs. Markland raised herself quickly, and gazed into her husband's
face. What a fearful change was there! He was pale and haggard; and
in his bloodshot eyes she read a volume of wretchedness.
"Oh, Edward! what has happened?" she asked, eagerly and tenderly.
"More than I dare tell you!" he replied, in a voice full of despair.
"Perhaps I can divine the worst."
Markland had turned his face partly away, that he might conceal its
expression. But the unexpected tone in which this sentence was
uttered caused him to look back quickly. There was no foreboding
fear in the countenance of his wife. She had spoken firmly--almost
cheerfully.
"The worst? Dear Agnes!" he said, with deep anguish in his voice.
"It has not entered into your imagination to conceive the worst!"
"All is lost!" she answered, calmly.
"All," he replied, "but honour, and a heart yet brave enough and
strong enough to battle with the world for the sake of its beloved
ones."
Mrs. Markland hid her face on the breast of her husband, and stood,
for some minutes, silent. Fanny approached her father, and laid her
head against him.
"All this does not appal me," said Mrs. Markland, and she looked up
and smiled faintly through tears that could not be repressed.
"Oh, Agnes! Agnes! can you bear the thought of being driven out from
this Eden?"
"Its beauty has already faded," was the quiet answer. "If it is ours
no longer, we must seek another home. And home, you know, dear
Edward, is where the heart is, and the loved ones dwell."
But not so calmly could Fanny bear this announcement. She had tried
hard, for her father's sake, to repress her feelings; but now they
gave way into hysterical weeping. Far beyond his words her thoughts
leaped, and already bitter self-reproaches had begun. Had she at
once informed him of Mr. Lyon's return, singular interview, and
injunction of secrecy, all these appalling consequences might have
been saved. In an instant this flashed upon her mind, and the
conviction overwhelmed her.
"My poor child," said Mr. Markland, sadly, yet with great
tenderness,--"would to heaven I could save you from the evil that
lies before us! But I am powerless in the hands of a stern
necessity."
"Oh, father!" sobbed the weeping girl, "if I could bear this change
alone, I would be happy."
"Let us all bear it cheerfully together," said Mrs. Markland, in a
quiet voice, and with restored calmness of spirit. "Heaven, as Mrs.
Willet says, with so much truth, is not without, but within us. The
elements of happiness lie not in external, but in internal things. I
do not think, Edward, even with all we had of good in possession,
you have been happy for the past year. The unsatisfied spirit turned
itself away from all that was beautiful in nature--from all it had
sought for as the means of contentment, and sighed for new
possessions. And these would also have lost their charms, had you
gained them, and your restless heart still sighed after an ideal
good. It may be--nay, it must be--in mercy, that our heavenly Father
permitted this natural evil to fall upon us. The night that
approaches will prove, I doubt not, the winter night in which much
bread will grow."
"Comforter!" He spoke the word with emotion.
"And should I not be?" was the almost cheerful answer. "Those who
cannot help should at least speak words of comfort."
"Words! They are more than words that you have spoken. They have in
them a substance and a life. But, Fanny, dear child!" he said,
turning to his still grieving daughter--"your tears distress me.
They pain more deeply than rebuking sentences. My folly"--
"Father!" exclaimed Fanny--"it is I--not you--that must bear
reproach. A word might have saved all. Weak, erring child that I
was! Oh! that fatal secret which almost crushed my heart with its
burden! Why did I not listen to the voice of conscience and duty?"
"Let the dead past rest," said Mr. Markland. "Your error was light,
in comparison with mine. Had I guarded the approaches to the
pleasant land, where innocence and peace had their dwelling-place,
the subtle tempter could never have entered. To mourn over the past
but weakens the spirit."
But of all that passed between these principal members of a family
upon whom misfortune had come like a flood, we cannot make a record.
The father's return soon became known to the rest, and the
children's gladness fell, like a sunny vail, over the sterner
features of the scene.