And now his work of creation at Woodbine Lodge was complete. Everywhere the hand of taste was visible— everywhere. You could change nothing without marring the beauty of the whole. During all the years in which Mr. Markland devoted himself to the perfecting of Woodbine Lodge, there was in his mind just so much of dissatisfaction with the present, as made the looked-for period, when all should be finished according to the prescriptions of taste, one in which there would be for him almost a Sabbath-repose.
How was it with Mr. Markland? All that he had prescribed as needful to give perfect happiness was attained. Woodbine Lodge realized his own ideal; and every one who looked upon it, called it an Eden of beauty. His work was ended; and had he found rest and sweet peace? Peace! Gentle spirit! Already she had half-folded her wings; but, startled by some uncertain sound, she was poised again, and seemed about to sweep the yielding air with her snowy pinions.
The enjoyment of all he had provided as a means of enjoyment did not come in the measure anticipated. Soon mere beauty failed to charm the eye, and fragrance to captivate the senses; for mind immortal rests not long in the fruition of any achievement, but quickly gathers up its strength for newer efforts. And so, as we have seen, Edward Markland, amid all the winning blandishments that surrounded him on the day when introduced to the reader, neither saw, felt, nor appreciated what, as looked to from the past’s dim distance, formed the Beulah of his hopes.
CHAPTER II.
A FEW minutes after Mrs. Markland left her husband’s side, she stepped from the house, carrying a small basket in one hand, and leading a child, some six or seven years old, with the other.
“Are you going over to see Mrs. Elder?” asked the child, as they moved down the smoothly-graded walk.
“Yes, dear,” was answered.
“I don’t like to go there,” said the child.
“Why not, Aggy.” The mother’s voice was slightly serious.
“Every thing is so mean and poor.”
“Can Mrs. Elder help that, Aggy?”
“I don’t know.”
“She’s sick, my child, and not able even to sit up. The little girl who stays with her can’t do much. I don’t see how Mrs. Elder can help things looking mean and poor; do you?”
“No, ma’am,” answered Aggy, a little bewildered by what her mother said.
“I think Mrs. Elder would be happier if things were more comfortable around her; don’t you, Aggy?”
“Yes, mother,”
“Let us try, then, you and I, to make her happier.”
“What can I do?” asked little Aggy, lifting a wondering look to her mother’s face.
“Would you like to try, dear?”
“If I knew what to do.”
“There is always a way when the heart is willing. Do you understand that, love?”
Aggy looked up again, and with an inquiring glance, to her mother.
“We will soon be at Mrs. Elder’s. Are you not sorry that she is so sick? It is more than a week since she was able to sit up, and she has suffered a great deal of pain.”
“Yes, I’m very sorry.” And both look and tone confirmed the truth of her words. The child’s heart was touched.
“When we get there, look around you, and see if there is nothing you can do to make her feel better. I’m sure you will find something.”
“What, mother?” Aggy’s interest was all alive now.
“If the room is in disorder, you might, very quietly, put things in their right places. Even that would make her feel better; for nobody can be quite comfortable in the midst of confusion.”
“Oh! I can do all that, mother.” And light beamed in the child’s countenance. “It’s nothing very hard.”
“No; you can do all this with little effort; and yet, trifling as the act may seem, dear, it will do Mrs. Elder good: and you will have the pleasing remembrance of a kind deed. A child’s hand is strong enough to lift a feather from an inflamed wound, even though it lack the surgeon’s skill.” The mother said these last words half herself.
And now they were at the door of Mrs. Elder’s unattractive cottage, and the mother and child passed in. Aggy had not overdrawn the picture when she said that everything was poor and mean; and disorder added to the unattractive appearance of the room in which the sick woman lay.
“I’m sorry to find you no better,” said Mrs. Markland, after making a few inquiries of the sick woman.
“I shall never be any better, I’m afraid,” was the desponding answer.
“Never! Never is a long day, as the proverb says. Did you ever hear of a night that had no morning?” There was a cheerful tone and manner about Mrs Markland that had its effect; but, ere replying, Mrs. Elder’s dim eyes suddenly brightened, as some movement in the room attracted her attention.
“Bless the child! Look at her!” And the sick woman glanced toward Aggy, who, bearing in mind her mother’s words, was already busying herself in the work of bringing order out of disorder.
“Look at the dear creature!” added Mrs. Elder, a glow of pleasure flushing her countenance, a moment before so pale and sad.
Unconscious of observation, Aggy, with almost a woman’s skill, had placed first the few old chairs that were in the room, against the wall, at regular distances from each other. Then she cleared the littered floor of chips, pieces of paper, and various articles that had been left about by the untidy girl who was Mrs. Elder’s only attendant, and next straightened the cloth on the table, and arranged the mantel-piece so that its contents no longer presented an unsightly aspect.
