“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.”