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!”
Day & Son, lithrs 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:—
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.