PAGE 3
Bear And Forbear
by
“Didn’t your coffee suit you?”
“It was very good; only a little too sweet.”
“Then why didn’t you say so?” she returned, in a tone that showed her to be hurt at this reaction upon what she had said on the previous evening. “Give me your cup, and let me pour you out some more.”
“No, I thank you, Margaret, I don’t care about any more.”
“Yes, you do. Come, give me your cup. I shall be hurt if you don’t. I’m sure there is no necessity for drinking the coffee, if not to your taste. I don’t know what’s come over you, James.”
“And I’m sure I don’t know what’s come over you,” Canning thought, but did not say. He handed up his cup, as his wife desired. After filling it with coffee, she handed it back, and then reached him the sugar and cream.
“Sweeten it to your own taste,” she said, a little fretfully; “I’m sure I tried to make it right.”
Canning did as he was desired, and then drank the coffee, but it was with the utmost difficulty that he could do so.
This was the first little cloud that darkened the sky of their wedded life; And it did not fairly pass away for nearly a week. Nor then did the days seem as bright as before. The cause was slight–very slight–but how small a thing will sometimes make the heart unhappy. How trifling are the occurrences upon which we often lay, as upon a foundation, a superstructure of misery! Had the earnestly urged precept of Aunt Hannah been regarded,–had the lesson–“Bear and Forbear,” been well learned and understood by Margaret, this cloud had never dimmed the sun of their early love. A pleasant word, in answer to her husband’s momentary impatience, would have made him sensible that he had not spoken with propriety, and caused him to be more careful in future. As it was, both were more circumspect, but it was from pride instead of love,–and more to protect self than from a tender regard for each other.
Only a month or two passed before there was another slight collision. It made them both more unhappy than they were before. But the breach was quickly healed. Still scars remained, and there were times when the blood flowed into these cicatrices so feverishly as to cause pain. Alas! wounds of the spirit do not close any more perfectly than do wounds of the body–the scars remain forever.
And thus the weeks and months went by. Neither of the married partners had learned the true secret of happiness in their holy relation,–neither of them felt the absolute necessity of bearing and forbearing. Little inequalities of character, instead of being smoothed off by gentle contact, were suffered to strike against each other, and produce, sometimes, deep and painful wounds–healing, too often, imperfectly; and too often remaining as festering sores.
And yet Canning and his wife loved each other tenderly, and felt, most of their time, that they were very happy. There were little things in each that each wished the other would correct, but neither felt the necessity of self-correction.
The birth of a child drew them together at a time when there was some danger of a serious rupture. Dear little Lilian, or “Lilly,” as she was called, was a chord of love to bind them in a closer union.
“I love you more than ever, Maggy,” Canning could not help saying to his wife, as he kissed first her lips and then the soft cheek of his child, a month after the babe was born.
“And I am sure I love you better than I did, if that were possible,” returned Margaret, looking into her husband’s face with a glance of deep affection.
As the babe grew older the parent’s love for it continued to increase, and, with this increase, their happiness. The chord which had several times jarred harshly between them, slept in profound peace.
But, after this sweet calm, the surface of their feelings became again ruffled. One little incongruity of character after another showed itself in both, and there was no genuine spirit of forbearance in either of them to meet and neutralize any sudden effervescence of the mind. Lilly was not a year old, before they had a serious misunderstanding that made them both unhappy for weeks. It had its origin in a mere trifle, as such things usually have. They had been taking tea and spending an evening with a friend, a widow lady, for whom Mrs. Canning had a particular friendship. As there was no gentleman present during the evening, the time passed rather heavily to Canning, who could not get interested in the conversation of the two ladies. Toward nine o’clock he began to feel restless and impatient, and to wonder if his wife would not soon be thinking about going home. But the time passed wearily until ten o’clock, and still the conversation between the two ladies was continued with undiminished interest, and, to all appearance, was likely to continue until midnight.