Nearly a year had glided away since the wreck of Markland’s fortune, and little or no change in his worldly prospects was visible. He was sitting late, one evening, reading aloud to his wife from a book which the latter had received from Mrs. Willet. The rest of the family had retired. Mrs. Markland was plying her needle busily. Altered circumstances had made hourly industry on her part a necessity; yet had they in no way dimmed the cheerful brightness of her spirits.
“Come, Agnes,” said her husband, closing the book, “it is growing late; and you have worked long enough. I’m afraid your health will suffer.”
“Just a few minutes longer,” replied Mrs. Markland, smiling. “I must finish this apron for Frank. He will want it in the morning.” And her hand moved quicker.
“How true is every word you have been reading!” she added, after a few moments. “Manifold indeed are the ways in which a wise Providence dispenses good to the children of men. Mercy is seen in the cloud as well as in the sunshine. Tears to the spirit are like rain to the earth.”
“The descent looked frightful,” said Markland, after a pause—”but we reached the lower ground uninjured. Invisible hands seemed to bear us up.”
“We have found the land far pleasanter than was imagined; and the sky above of a purer crystal.”
“Yes—yes. It is even so. And if the flowers that spring up at our feet are not so brilliant, they have a sweeter perfume and a diviner beauty.”
“In this land,” said Mrs. Markland, “we see in the visible things that surround us what was rarely seen before— types of the invisible things they represent.”
“Ah, yes, yes! Scales have fallen from my eyes. I have learned a new philosophy. In former times, Mr. Allison’s words seemed full of beautiful truths, yet so veiled, that I could not see their genuine brightness. Now they are like sudden gleams of sunlight on a darkened landscape.”
“Seekers after happiness, like the rest of the world,” said Mrs. Markland, resting her hands upon the table by which she sat, and, gazing earnestly into her husband’s face, “we had lost our way, and were moving with swift feet in the wrong direction. Suddenly, our kind Father threw up before us an impassable mountain. Then we seemed shut out from the land of promise forever, and were in despair. But he took his weeping, murmuring children by the hand, and led them gently into another path!”
“Into a narrower way”—Mr. Markland took up the words of his wife—”and sought by few; yet, it has already brought us into a pleasant region.”
“To speak in less ideal language,” said Mrs. Markland, “we have been taught an all-important lesson. It is this: That there is over each one of us an intimate providential care which ever has regard to our eternal good. And the reason of our many and sad disappointments lies in the fact, that we seek only the gratification of natural life, in which are the very elements of dissatisfaction. All mere natural life is selfish life; and natural ends gained only confirm this selfish life, and produce misery instead of happiness.”
“There is no rest,” said Markland, “to the striving spirit that only seeks for the good of this world. How clearly have I seen this of late, as well in my own case as in that of others! Neither wealth nor honour have in themselves the elements of happiness; and their increase brings but an increase of trouble.”
“If sought from merely selfish ends,” remarked his wife. “Yet their possession may increase our happiness, if we regard them as the means by which we may rise into a higher life.”
There followed a thoughtful pause. Mrs. Markland resumed her work, and her husband leaned his head back and remained for some minutes in a musing attitude.
“Don’t you think,” he said at length, “that Fanny is growing more cheerful?”
“Oh, yes. I can see that her state of mind is undergoing a gradual elevation.”
“Poor child! What a sad experience, for one so young, has been hers! How her whole character has been, to all seeming, transformed. The light-hearted girl suddenly changed to a thoughtful, suffering woman!”
“She may be a happier woman in the end,” said Mrs. Markland.
“Is that possible?”
“Yes. Suffering has given her a higher capacity for enjoyment.”
“And for pain, also,” said Mr. Markland.
“She is wiser for the first experience,” was replied.
“Yes, there is so much in her favour. I wish,” added Mr. Markland, “that she would go a little more into company. It is not good for any one to live so secluded a life. Companionship is necessary to the spirit’s health.”
“She is not without companions, or, at least, a companion.”
“Flora Willet?”
“Yes.”
“Good, as far as it goes. Flora is an excellent girl, and wise beyond her years.”
“Can we ask a better companion for our child than one with pure feelings and true thoughts?”
“No. But I am afraid Flora has not the power to bring her out of herself. She is so sedate.”
“She does not lack cheerfulness of spirit, Edward.”
“Perpetual cheerfulness is too passive.”
“Her laugh, at times, is delicious,” said Mrs. Markland, “going to your heart like a strain of music, warming it like a golden sunbeam. Flora’s character is by no means a passive one, but rather the reverse.”
“She is usually very quiet when I see her,” replied Markland.
“This arises from an instinctive deference to those who are older.”
