“Never mind; I will hear your trouble and my own too,” he answered, cheerily; and in this way he always comforted her. But to Magdalene her own self ever remained a mystery; the forces of her own nature were too strong for her, and yet she was not a weak woman. She had expected that in her case love and happiness would have worked a miracle, as though miracles were ever effected by mere human agencies,—that she would rise like a Phœnix from the ashes of her past, reborn, rejuvenated, with an inexhaustible fund of moral strength.
Now she had Herbert, all would go smoothly; she would no longer mourn for her little ones. Since her husband was there to comfort her, with his constant presence to sustain her, all must be well; never again would she be nervous, irritable, or sarcastic. Poor Magdalene! she was creating heaven for herself upon earth; she was borrowing angels’ plumes before the time; she had forgotten the conditions of humanity, “the body of the flesh,” which weighed down greater souls than hers.
There are Gethsemanes of the spirit to the weary ones of earth, hours of conflict that must be lived through and endured. Nature that groaneth and travaileth cannot find its abiding place of rest here. To the end of time it seems to be written in enduring characters that no human lot shall be free from suffering: 265 sooner or later, more or less,—that is all! Magdalene had still to learn this lesson painfully: that she was slow in learning it, proved the strength and obduracy of her will. True, she was rarely sarcastic,—never in her husband’s presence, for a word or a look from him checked her, and she grew humble and meek at once. It was her unruly nerves that baffled her; she was shocked to find that irritable words still rose to her lips; that the spirit of restlessness was not quelled forever; that thunder still affrighted her; and that now and then her mind seemed clouded with fancied gloom.
She once spoke of this to Miss Middleton, with tears in her eyes.
“It is so strange,” she said. “Herbert is different, but I am still so unchanged.”
“The conditions of your health are unchanged, you mean,” answered Elizabeth, with that quiet sympathy that always rested people. “This is the mistake that folk make: they do not distinguish between an unhealthy mind and a diseased soul: the one is due to physical disorganization, the other to moral causes. In your case, dear Mrs. Cheyne, one may safely lay the blame on the first cause.”
“Oh, do you think so?” she asked, earnestly. “I dare not cheat my conscience in that way: it is my bad temper, my undisciplined nature, that ought to bear the blame.”
“No; believe me,” answered Elizabeth, for they had grown great friends of late, “I have watched you narrowly, and I know how you try to conquer this irritability; there is no black spot of anger in your heart, whatever words come to your lips. You are like a fretful child sometimes, I grant you that, who is ailing and unconscious of its ailment. When you would be calm, you are strangely disturbed; you speak sharply, hoping to relieve something that oppresses you.”
“Oh, yes!” sighed Magdalene; “and yet Herbert never speaks crossly to me.”
“He never will, for he knows what you suffer. Well, dear friend, what of this? This is a cross that you must carry perhaps all your life. You are not the only one who has to bear the torment of disordered nerves: it must be borne with resignation, as we bear other troubles. Once you felt you could not love God; you ceased to pray to Him; now you love Him a little. Go on loving; thank him for your husband’s patience, and pray that you may have patience with yourself. One is weary of always living with one’s self, I know that well,” finished Elizabeth, with a charming smile.