Markland sighed.
“And you may be richer far than imagination has yet pictured. Look not far away into the shadowy uncertainties of coming time for the heart’s fruition. The stones from which its temple of happiness is to be erected, if ever built, lie all along the path your feet are treading. It has been so with you from the beginning—it is so now.”
“If I build not this temple, it will be no fault of yours,” said Markland, whose perceptions were becoming clearer.
“Let us build it together,” answered his wife. “There will be no lack of materials.”
CHAPTER XXXVII.
WHEN the offer of Mr. Walker’s cottage was made known in the family, there was a passive acquiescence in the change on the part of all but Aunt Grace. Her pride was aroused.
“It’s very kind in Mr. Willet,” she said—”very kind, but scarcely delicate under the circumstances.”
“Why not delicate?” inquired Mr. Markland.
“Did they think we were going into that little pigeon-box, just under the shadow of Woodbine Lodge. If we have to come down so low, it will not be in this neighbourhood. There’s too much pride in the Markland blood for that!”
“We have but little to do with pride now,” said Mrs. Markland.
Her husband sighed. The remark of his sister had quickened his blood.
“It is the best we can do!” he remarked, sadly.
“Not by any means,” said Grace. “There are other neighbourhoods than this, and other houses to be obtained. Let us go from here; not remain the observed of all curious observers—objects of remark and pity!”
Her brother arose while she was speaking, and commenced walking the room in a disturbed manner. The words of Grace had aroused his slumbering pride.
“Rather let us do what is best under the circumstances,” said Mrs. Markland, in her quiet way. “People will have their own thoughts, but these should never turn us from a right course.”
“The sight of Woodbine Lodge will rebuke me daily,” said Mr. Markland.
“You cannot be happy in this neighbourhood.” Grace spoke in her emphatic way. “It is impossible!”
“I fear that it is even so,” replied her brother.
“Then,” said Mrs. Markland, in a firm voice, “we will go hence. I place nothing against the happiness of my husband. If the sight of our old home is to trouble him daily, we will put mountains between, if necessary.”
Markland turned toward his wife. She had never looked more beautiful in his eye.
“Is self-negation to be all on her part?” The thought, flashing through his mind, changed the current of his feelings, and gave him truer perceptions.
“No, Agnes,” he said, while a faint smile played around his lips, “we will not put mountains between us and this neighbourhood. Pride is a poor counsellor, and they who take heed to her words, sow the seeds of repentance. In reverse of fortune, we stand not alone. Thousands have walked this rugged road before us; and shall we falter, and look weakly back?”
“Not so, Edward!” returned his wife, with enthusiasm; “we will neither falter nor look back. Our good and evil are often made by contrasts. We shall not find the way rugged, unless we compare it too closely with other ways our feet have trodden, and sigh vainly over the past, instead of accepting the good that is awarded us in the present. Let us first make the ‘rough paths of peevish nature even,’ and the way will be smooth to our feet.”
“You will never be happy in this neighbourhood, Edward,” said his sister, sharply; for she saw that the pride her words had awakened was dying out.
“If he is not happy here, change of place will work no difference.” Mrs. Markland spoke earnestly.
“Why not?” was the quick interrogation of Grace.
“Because happiness is rarely, if ever, produced by a change of external relations. We must have within us the elements of happiness; and then the heart’s sunshine will lie across our threshold, whether it be of palace or cottage.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” said Mr. Markland, “and I feel their better meaning. No, Agnes, we will not go out from this pleasant neighbourhood, nor from among those we have proved to be friends. If Woodbine Lodge ever looks upon me rebukingly, I will try to acknowledge the justice of the rebuke. I will accept Mr. Willet’s kind offer to-morrow. But what have you to say, Fanny?” Mr. Markland now turned to his daughter, who had not ventured a word on the subject, though she had listened with apparent interest to the conference. “Shall we take Mr. Walker’s cottage?”
“Your judgment must decide that, father,” was answered.
“But have you no choice in the case, Fanny? We can remove into the city, or go into some other neighbourhood.”
“I will be as happy here as anywhere. Do as seems best, father.”
A silence, made in a measure oppressive by Fanny’s apparent indifference to all change, followed. Before other words were spoke, Aunt Grace withdrew in a manner that showed a mind disturbed. The conference in regard to the cottage was again resumed, and ended in the cheerful conclusion that it would afford them the pleasantest home, in their changed circumstances, of any that it was possible for them to procure.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
PREPARATION was at once made for the proposed removal. Mr. Walker went back to the city, and the new owner of the cottage, Mr. Willet, set carpenters and painters at work to make certain additions which he thought needful to secure the comfort of his tenants, and to put every thing in the most thorough repair. Even against the remonstrance of Mr. Markland, who saw that his generous-minded neighbour was providing for his family a house worth almost double the rent that was to be paid, he carried out all his projected improvements.
“You will embarrass me with a sense of obligation,” said Mr. Markland, in seeking to turn him from a certain purpose regarding the cottage.
“Do not say so,” answered Mr. Willet; “I am only offering inducements for you to remain with us. If obligation should rest anywhere, it will be on our side. I make these improvements because the house is now my own property, and would be defective, to my mind, without them. Pray, don’t let your thoughts dwell on these things.”
Thus he strove to dissipate the feeling of obligation that began to rest on the mind of his unfortunate neighbour, while he carried out his purpose. In due time, under the assignment which had been made, Woodbine Lodge and a large part of the elegant and costly furniture contained in the mansion, were sold, and the ownership passed into other hands. With a meagre remnant of their household goods, the family retired to a humbler house. Some pitied, and stood at a distance; some felt a selfish pleasure in their fall; and some, who had courted them in their days of prosperity, were among the foremost to speak evil against them. But there were a few, and they the choicest spirits of the neighbourhood, who only drew nearer to these their friends in misfortune. Among them was Mr. Allison, one of those wise old men whose minds grow not dim with advancing years. He had passed through many trying vicissitudes, had suffered, and come up from the ordeal purer than when the fire laid hold upon the dross of nature.
A wise monitor had he been in Markland’s brighter days, and now he drew near as a comforter. There is strength in true words kindly spoken. How often was this proved by Mr. and Mrs. Markland, as their venerable friend unlocked for them treasures of wisdom!
The little parlour at “Lawn Cottage,” the name of their new home, soon became the scene of frequent reunions among choice spirits, whose aspirations went higher and deeper than the external and visible. In closing around Mr. Markland, they seemed to shut him out, as it were, from the old world in which he had hoped, and suffered, and struggled so vainly; and to open before his purer vision a world of higher beauty. In this world were riches for the toiler, and honour for the noble—riches and honour far more to be desired than the gems and gold of earth or its empty tributes of praise.