shall ever find, though we roam the world over; and it may be, that the narrow path to heaven lies just across our own fields. It is in the actual and the present that we are to seek a true development of our spiritual life. ‘Work while it is to-day,’ is the Divine injunction.”
“But if we can find no work, Agnes?”
“If the heart be willing and the hands ready,” was the earnestly spoken answer, “work enough will be found to do.”
“I have a willing heart, Agnes,—I have ready hands—but the heart is wearied of its own fruitless desires, and the hands hang down in idleness. What shall I do? The work in which I have found so much delight for years, is completed; and now the restless mind springs away from this lovely Eden, and pines for new fields in which to display its powers. Here I fondly hoped to spend the remainder of my life—contented—happy. The idea was a dreamy illusion. Daily is this seen in clear light. I reprove myself; I chide the folly, as I call it; but, all in vain. Beauty for me, has faded from the landscape, and the air is no longer balmy with odours. The birds sing for my ears no more; I hear not, as of old, the wind spirits whispering to each other in the tree tops. Dear Agnes!—wife of my heart—what does it mean?”
An answer was on the lip of Mrs. Markland, but words so unlooked for, swelled, suddenly, the wave of emotion in her heart, and she could not speak. A few moments her hand trembled on the arm of her husband. Then it was softly removed, and without a word, she passed into the house, and going to her own room, shut the door, and sat down in the darkness to commune with her spirit. And first, there came a gush of tears. These were for herself. A shadow had suddenly fallen upon the lovely home where she had hoped to spend all the days of her life—a shadow from a storm-boding cloud. Even from the beginning of their wedded life, she had marked in her husband a defect of character, which, gaining strength, had led to his giving up business, and their retirement to the country. That defect was the common one, appertaining to all, a looking away from the present into the future for the means of enjoyment. In all the years of his earnest devotion to business, Mr. Markland had kept his eye steadily fixed upon the object now so completely attained; and much of present enjoyment had been lost in the eager looking forward for this coveted time. And now, that more than all his fondest anticipations were realized, only for a brief period did he hold to his lips the cup full of anticipated delight. Already his hand felt the impulse that moved him to pour its crystal waters upon the ground.
Mrs. Markland’s clear appreciation of her husband’s character was but a prophecy of the future. She saw that Woodbine Lodge—now grown into her affections, and where she hoped to live and die—even if it did not pass from their possession—bartered for some glittering toy—could not remain their permanent home. For this flowed her first tears; and these, as we have said, were for herself. But her mind soon regained its serenity; and from herself, her thoughts turned to her husband. She was unselfish enough not only to be able to realize something of his state of mind, but to sympathize with him, and pity his inability to find contentment in the actual. This state of mind she regarded as a disease, and love prompted all self-denial for his sake.
“I can be happy any, where, if only my husband and children are left. My husband, so generous, so noble- minded—my children, so innocent, so loving.”
Instantly the fountain of tears were closed. These unselfish words, spoken in her own heart, checked the briny current. Not for an instant did Mrs. Markland seek to deceive herself or hearken to the suggestion that it was but a passing state in the partner of her life. She knew too well the origin of his disquietude to hope for its removal. In a little while, she descended and joined her family in the sitting-room, where the soft astral diffused its pleasant light, and greeted her sober-minded husband with loving smiles and cheerful words. And he was deceived. Not for an instant imagined he, after looking upon her face, that she had passed through a painful, though brief conflict, and was now possessed of a brave heart for any change that might come. But he had not thought of leaving Woodbine Lodge. Far distant was this from his imagination. True—but Agnes looked with a quick intuition from cause to effect. The elements of happiness no longer existed here for her husband; or, if they did exist, he had not the skill to find them, and the end would be a searching elsewhere for the desired possession.
“You did not answer my question, Agnes,” said Mr. Markland, after the children had retired for the evening, and they were again alone.
“What question?” inquired Mrs. Markland; and, as she lifted her eyes, he saw that they were dim with tears.
“What troubles you, dear?” he asked, tenderly.
Mrs. Markland forced a smile, as she replied, “Why should I be troubled? Have I not every good gift the heart can desire?”
“And yet, Agnes, your eyes are full of tears.”
“Are they?” A light shone through their watery vail. “Only an April shadow, Edward, that is quickly lost in April sunshine. But your question is not so easily answered.”
“I ought to be perfectly happy here; nothing seems wanting. Yet my spirit is like a aged bird that flutters against its prison-bars.”
“Oh, no, Edward; not so bad as that,” replied Mrs. Markland. “You speak in hyperbole. This lovely place, which everywhere shows the impress of your hand, is not a prison. Call it rather, a paradise.”
“A paradise I sought to make it. But I am content no longer to be an idle lingerer among its pleasant groves; for I have ceased to feel the inspiration of its loveliness.”
Mrs. Markland made no answer. After a silence of some minutes, her husband said, with a slight hesitation in his voice, as if uncertain as to the effect of his words—
“I have for some time felt a strong desire to visit Europe.”
The colour receded from Mrs. Markland’s face; and there was a look in her eyes that her husband did not quite understand, as they rested steadily in his.
“I have the means and the leisure,” he added, “and the tour would not only be one of pleasure, but profit.”
“True,” said his wife, and, then her, face was bent down so low that he could not see, its expression for the shadows by which it was partially concealed.
“We would both enjoy the trip exceedingly.”
“Both! You did not think of taking me?”
“Why, Aggy, dear!—as if I could dream for a moment of any pleasure in which you had not a share!”
So earnestly and tenderly was this said, that Mrs. Markland felt a thrill of joy tremble over her heart-strings.
