Over many a mile of hard, frosty road, by snow-clad fields and hills
and woods, by many an ice-bound stream, must we lead the imagination
of our reader on the evening of the same Christmas Day, and peep into
another home, far from that we have just quitted.
Undrawing the warm crimson curtains of a charming little room--half
drawing-room, half library--the light of a lamp falls brightly on the
figure of a lady reading to her husband. It is manuscript, and he puts
the pages by for her as she goes on.
She often pauses, to look up with a delighted smile at his praises, and
he thinks that she never looked so beautiful before! She is very like
Correggio’s Magdalen, and has the same lovely countenance and waving
hair.
Presently she came to the last page, and the praise was repeated.
“I had no idea I could translate so well,” said she, “and am glad you
like it, for that will give me spirits to go on: I may, in time, become
quite useful to you.”
“When are you not everything to me?” was the reply. “But, Marion, you
must not work so hard; I cannot afford to see you look one bit less
bright. Besides, it is a kind of reproach to me your working so much;
indeed you must not!”
“Nonsense!” said Marion, laughing; “you can’t think how happy I am
when helping you, for I am sure you are often very weary! Poor Edward!
what anxiety I have caused you! Now for a volley of protestations!”
said she, laughing again. “But to be serious: I was thinking, to-day,
how much we have to be thankful for; and that with all its anxieties
how happy this year has been--how _infinitely_ happier, working and
striving on together, than droning through an insipid life of ease,
as some do. I don’t know what would become of me if you were ever
to be rich,” she continued; “to be sure, one might always find some
useful employment, some good to be done; but no one knows, except those
who have experienced it, the delight of overcoming difficulties, and
earning home comforts by one’s own exertions.”
“True, dear Marion! I never knew, until I knew you, how little is
necessary for happiness!”
“I knew what life was--I had an anxious one at home, even from a
little child,” said Marion, “and adversity taught me to know what is
best worth knowing; what flowers to gather in this great garden, that
many neglect, or do not perceive. How sweet are the uses of adversity!
I love to linger on those words; and if ever I venture to write an
essay,” said she, smiling, “it shall be on that subject. What does it
not teach us?--the practice of almost every virtue.”
“Nay, not quite so far, enthusiast,” said her husband, smiling;
“remember the effect of almost constant sun on flowers; how splendid
they become--how fully their beauty is developed!”
“Yes; but they cannot bear the storm that _may_, that _must_ come.
The stout old thistle, reared in cold and sleet, is much better
off--much more useful, and protects many a little plant under its
vigorous leaves. Now, only think what adversity really does for us.
To begin with _my_ early life:--my father and mother treated me as
their friend in all their troubles; I was accustomed to watch their
anxious care-worn faces, to try to cheer them, and to rejoice when
they brightened: this bound us together in the closest affection; I
believe no child, no parents, were ever so dear to each other. No
little home was ever so loved as mine; and I was quite broken-hearted
when away from all its cares, even for a short time, although in the
midst of what people called enjoyment. These were very different
feelings from those of children nursed in the lap of affluence, who
are frequently selfish, and often but little attached to those around
them. I knew what it was to be deprived of many comforts, which made
me grateful for those I had, and taught me to feel for the sufferings
of others infinitely worse off than myself. Naturally impetuous, I
grew up patient; for, as you know, my father was a man of eccentric
genius, who failed in all his efforts to place us in the brilliant
position he dreamed of. I felt and shared in his disappointments,
until disappointment itself became powerless! Sympathy with those I
loved roused me to exertion--taught me the value of time--the dignity
of usefulness! But, above all, the frowns of the world, the sweet
uses of adversity, made me feel the dear necessity of clinging to and
loving one another, and of living in that ‘peace which passeth all
understanding!’”
Marion paused, and looked with inexpressible tenderness on her husband.
“I do not believe we should have loved each other half so well if we
had not borne so much anxiety together,” she presently continued,
“although it would be a dangerous experiment for those to try, who
never knew what care was! _We_ very coolly stepped into its troubled
waters. What straits we have been in! There is really some amusement,
though, in looking back to a hundred comical little difficulties,
mingled with graver trials; in peeping into the crowded picture-gallery
of one’s own life--grave and gay! Do you remember when we were so
_very_ poor, and your father’s friends, the Saviles, condescended to
drive over to luncheon with us?”
“Oh, yes,” said Edward, laughing; “when poor old Jock behaved so
inconsiderately!”
“Inconsiderately, indeed,” said Marion, laughing too. “I shall never
forget seeing him swallow the delicacies which I had prepared with so
much care, in the coolest manner possible, looking me hard in the face
all the time. I was in an agony to see the ham sandwiches disappear
one after another down his huge throat (knowing there were no more in
the house, too), while the capricious fine lady who took a fancy to
feed him, drawled out, ‘the d-e-a-r d-o-g! _how_ he li-kes them!’ I
should think he did, indeed, with his appetite! I do believe, though,
Mr. Edward, that, like all men, you rather enjoyed the scene than
otherwise; for you never offered to put the cruel old dog out of the
room.”
“How could I tear him from the flattering attentions of his Patroness?
But let me see; how did you manage it, Marion? I dare say very
ingeniously and gracefully. I remember how proud I felt of you that
day.”
“Oh, I appeared to enter into the amusement and drollery of his
enormous appetite, but suggested, in the most affectionate manner
possible, that he should _bow_ his thanks to the fair lady before
tasting another morsel! Poor Jock, who had not the slightest
acquaintance with any feat or accomplishment of the kind, was all
amazement at my gestures and commands, and only stared hard for more;
whereupon he was gently ‘_fie-fied_,’ and put out of the room for his
obstinacy and ingratitude!”
[Illustration: Day & Son, lith^{rs}. to the Queen.]
They both laughed heartily at the remembrance of Jock’s delinquency and
its punishment; and Marion being in a very merry humour, recounted with
much mirth many other similar incidents, which they _could_ laugh
at now. “We never deceived each other but once,” said she; “the time
when you were so ill, you know, from over-work, and I used to steal
slily into the village to give your Latin lessons to those stupid boys
you were ‘preparing!’ I often wonder how I took courage to ask their
mother to let me take your place: yet I am glad I did, for I don’t know
what we should have done without the money; and I studied the lessons
so well myself, that I did no injustice to your pupils. But then
the _dénouement_! I shall never forget your walking into that dingy
library, pale as death, and your extreme surprise on finding me seated
in the great chair, conjugating a tremendous Latin verb, while the
poor little mamma looked on with amazement at my proficiency! _I_ was
startled too, fully believing you to be quietly resting on the sofa,
_while I took my walk_!”
“We both looked very guilty for an instant.”
“Yes, we did indeed; and I thought I never should cease laughing on
our way home, especially as you were half inclined to be angry! But
my mirth soon vanished when I saw how faint you were, and you rested
your head on my shoulder as we sat on the stile. A terrible fear came
over me,” continued Marion, shuddering, and drawing closer to her
husband--“I never felt pain like that before!”
Both were silent for some time; and Edward tenderly stroked the
beautiful head bent down beside him. “Nay, look up, Marion,” he said;
“I am quite well now, love, and you must not be so sad.”
“I am not sad,” said Marion, raising her large eyes, and smiling
gently. “I was thinking how grateful I am that you are better, and
how happy this Christmas would be if you were but reconciled to your
father.”
“Every house has its spectre, Marion, and this haunts ours. I believe
one always feels any kind of estrangement from those near to us most
powerfully on days like these. They seem to have a strange mysterious
power of calling up old recollections and early affections!”
“Only those which ought never to be broken come at this holy time,”
said Marion; “the gentle thoughts it brings with it seem to me like
the soft warning of angel voices,--to be at peace ere it is too late!
I wish you would read them so, and write to your mother again: she
is of a gentler nature; but they must--yes, they both must, long to
see you again!--Oh, if I could but persuade you!” she continued, with
emotion: “we know not what a day may bring forth--even to the youngest
and strongest among us; and Mrs. Hope says they both seem to ‘age’ very
much. How deeply you would grieve through life if----”
“Oh, Marion, say no more!” exclaimed her husband in an agitated voice,
“it is that thought which so constantly haunts me. For myself, I could
forget all; but their unkindness to you--to you, of whom they ought to
have been so proud; I cannot forget that!”
“Do not think of it,” said Marion, in a soothing tone; “we must not
quarrel with people because they are unable to see things in the same
light as ourselves. They knew very little of me, and thought, I dare
say, that I prevented your being much happier with a wealthier bride:
besides, they may love me yet when you have made your peace, as I know
you will,” said she, smiling. “Remember, it is to your parents that you
bend, and I never can feel happy while you are as a stranger to them.
I suppose it would be my turn next,” said she, with her musical laugh,
“if I were to venture to oppose your wishes, or to say a few angry
words.”
“Marion!” said her husband reproachfully.
“Well, what security have I,” was the playful retort, “over one who
could be contented under such circumstances? You owe to them infinitely
more than you do to me--they loved you for years and years before I
did. Oh, Edward! your own heart must tell you more than I could ever
speak.”
“We will not discuss the subject any further, dear Marion,” said he,
and his voice faltered. “Sing to me, will you? The evening never seems
perfect without a song from you.”
Marion sang the following lines in a rich and lovely voice:--
THE SPIRIT’S WHISPERINGS.
I roved one morn in a sunlit grove,
Where the mavis was singing his song of love,
Where the wild bee flew on her wing of light,
Flitting o’er moss-cup and blossom bright!
And Nature was blooming so freshly and fair,
Nought fading or dying was resting there;
Yet the light breeze sang, as it wafted by,
“Alas that the Lily and Rose should die!”
* * * * *
I sat by the side of a maiden bright,
Radiant with Beauty, and Hope’s soft light;
She sang a lay of our own loved isle,
And my heart beat proudly and high the while.
Fondly I gazed on that lofty brow--
“What can be lovelier--brighter now?”
Yet Echo replied to her lute’s soft lay,
“The sweetest and fairest must fade away!”
* * * * *
I wandered forth, ’neath the moon’s pale ray,
Where the dead in their last long slumbers lay;
Softly and coldly her pure beams shone
On the mouldering urn and the old grey stone;
And I sadly sigh’d, “Must the young and brave,
The loved and the honour’d, all share the grave?”
And a voice replied, in a hollow sigh,
“The bravest and fairest, all--all must die!”
* * * * *
I knew it was as the spirit said,--
That all we love on this earth must fade;
That gently they wither, and slowly decay,
Or are snatch’d in a moment--away, away!
And I said, in deep sorrow, “Alas that strife
Should breathe on this short--this uncertain life!
And, alas for those who, when Life hath fled,
Have Peace to ask of the silent Dead!”
Marion’s beautiful voice trembled with emotion, and her eyes were
filled with tears as she approached her husband. He leaned his head
thoughtfully on his hand.
Those Magic Words were thrilling in his heart.