“One would think you were echoing Miss Miskin, Margaret,—‘You are warm, ma’am.’ But you must hear this much. I insist upon it. If you would have heard me, you would have found that I was not going to say a word about my husband inconsistent with all the love and honour you would have him enjoy. I assure you, you might trust me not to complain of my husband. I have no words in which to say how noble he is. But, oh! it is all true about the wretchedness of married life! I am wretched, Margaret.”
“So I see,” said Margaret, in deep sorrow.
“Life is a blank to me. I have no hope left. I am neither wiser, nor better, nor happier for God having given me all that should make a woman what I meant to be. What can God give me more than I have?”
“I was just thinking so,” replied Margaret, mournfully.
“What follows then?”
“Not that all married people are unhappy because you are.”
“Yes, oh, yes! all who are capable of happiness: all who can love. The truth is, there is no perfect confidence in the world: there is no rest for one’s heart. I believed there was, and I am disappointed: and if you believe there is, you will be disappointed too, I warn you.”
“I shall not neglect your warning; but I do believe there is rest for rational affections—I am confident there is, if the primary condition is fulfilled—if there is repose in God together with human love.”
“You think that trust in God is wanting in me?”
“Do let us speak of something else,” said Margaret. “We are wrong to think and talk of ourselves as we do. There is something sickly about our state while we do so, and we deserve to be suffering as we are. Come! let us be up and doing. Let me read to you; or will you practise with me till Edward comes back?”