From such a dream Markland was awakened into conscious life. The shadowy twilight had been succeeded by darkness. He started up, confused and affrighted. Some moments passed before his bewildered thoughts were able to comprehend his real position; and when he did so, he fell back, with a groan, horror-stricken, upon the bed. The white faces and imploring hands of his wife and children were still vividly before him.
“Poor, weak, coward heart!” he at last murmured to himself. “An evil spirit was thy counsellor. I knew not that so mean and base a purpose could find admittance there. What! Beggar and disgrace my wife and children, and then, like a skulking coward, leave them to bear the evil I had not the courage to face! Edward Markland! Can this, indeed, be true of thee?”
And the excited man sprang from the bed. A feeble light came in through the window-panes above the door, and made things dimly visible. He moved about, for a time, with an uncertain air, and then rung for a light. The first object that met his eyes, when the servant brought in a lamp, was a small, unopened package, lying on the table. He knew its contents. What a strong shudder ran through his frame! Seizing it the instant the attendant left the room, he flung it through the open window. Then, sinking on his knees, he thanked God fervently for a timely deliverance.
The fierce struggle with pride was now over. Weak, humbled, and softened in feeling almost to tears, Markland sat alone, through the remainder of that evening, with his thoughts reaching forward into the future, and seeking to discover the paths in which his feet must walk. For himself he cared not now. Ah! if the cherished ones could be saved from the consequences of his folly! If he alone were destined to move in rough and thorny ways! But there was for them no escape. The paths in which he moved they must move. The cup he had made bitter for himself would be bitter for them also.
Wretched man! Into what a great deep of misery had he plunged himself!
CHAPTER XXXIV.
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!”