The Good Time Coming | Page 7

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. And yet, for all, she could not
keep back the overflowing tears, but hid her face, to conceal them, on
her husband's bosom.
Her true feelings Mr. Markland did not read: and often, as he mused on
what appeared singular in her manner that evening, he was puzzled to
comprehend its meaning. Nor had his vision ever penetrated deep
enough to see all that was in her heart.

CHAPTER IV.

THE memory of what passed between Mr. and Mrs. Markland

remained distinct enough in both their minds, on the next morning, to
produce thoughtfulness and reserve. The night to each had been restless
and wakeful; and in the snatches of sleep which came at weary
intervals were dreams that brought no tranquillizing influence.
The mother's daily duty, entered into from love to her children, soon
lifted her mind into a sunnier region, and calmed her pulse to an even
stroke. But the spirit of Markland