CHAPTER 10 The Withered Heart!
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Mr. Hardy awoke early the next morning, and while his wife still slept, meditated the questions of right, duty, prerogative, and the sources of domestic peace. His conclusions were simple confirmations of the night's purposes. All their present trouble arose, in his view, from the fact, that his wife desired to have her own will in all things — a desire so unreasonable and so unrealizable, that the very fact of its existence filled him with astonishment. The stubbornness which she had exhibited, vexed him. The peculiar character of his manliness gave him a feeling of contempt for woman's strength, and he felt agitated that so fragile, mild, and heretofore so gentle and yielding a woman — should be able to hold him in something like defiance.
Very coolly, and after grave deliberation, did Mr. Hardy decide upon his course of action towards his wife, at least for that day. If there was any failure on her part to meet him cheerfully, and to diffuse that sunlight in his home, which he had a right to expect from her presence — he would immediately withdraw himself, and that in a way which she must feel to be a rebuke.
"If she wish to play the game of endurance — she will find her match in me," he said resolutely to himself.
Mrs. Hardy did not awake until after her husband had left the room. Perceiving that it was late, she hurriedly attired herself, so as to be ready to join him at the breakfast-table, when the bell rang. Her mind had become much calmer through the restoring power of sleep, and she had clearer views of her duty, and of the necessity of studying more carefully, the tastes and peculiarities of her husband, so as to adapt herself to them.
"I must be more of a woman — and less of a child," she said — "having stepped forth into the world, I must meet the world with a brave, enduring spirit. My husband cannot mean to do me wrong — he only misunderstands me. I am too sensitive. Hitherto, all my wishes have found so prompt a gratification, that I have learned to expect too much. Why should I not have disappointments to bear, as well as others? There must be something wrong in my manner — or else John would not be so impatient with me."
The breakfast-bell rang while Mrs. Hardy thus talked within herself; and she stepped forth quickly from her room, to join her husband as he descended the stairs.
"Good morning!" she said, with a smile; and bent forward towards him, expecting the usual kiss at meeting. But her husband did not offer the desired salute.
What a chill of disappointment came over her feelings! She drew her hand within his arm, compelling herself to the act, and thus they entered the breakfast-room.
Mr. Hardy looked serious, and showed no inclination to converse. Mrs. Hardy tried to appear at ease, and to seem cheerful. But the aspect of her husband's face troubled her; and she felt the little artificial strength she had summoned up, gradually dying out. Suddenly all self-control departed, and, powerless to restrain them — tears began to flow down her cheeks. There was no sobbing, nor visible agitation of the body; no sign of inward pain, except the silently falling drops of grief. At first, Mr. Hardy did not observe them, so perfectly were all other manifestations repressed; but, looking up in a few moments, and seeing them glittering upon her cheeks and filling her eyes — he let knife and fork drop from his hands, as if in indignant surprise. A little while, he gazed sternly upon his weeping wife; then, without uttering a word, he pushed back his chair, arose, and left the room. He did not go upstairs nor linger in the parlours, but took his hat from the stand in the passage, and immediately went out of the house.
Mrs. Hardy's tears suddenly ceased to flow. She tried to rise and follow her husband, but all strength had forsaken her limbs. She tried to call after him, but her vocal organs were paralyzed. And so she sat motionless for a little while, until the life-blood, which had receded under this new blow, came back again along its usual currents, and the power of acting from the will was restored. Very quietly she arose, and, with slow steps, passed from the breakfast-room, and up into the sitting-room above. She had strength to go no farther. Two hours afterwards, she aroused herself from a state bordering on mental stupor; and by a forced effort, compelled herself to go across to her own room, and there make some changes in her dress, so as to be in a condition to see visitors should they call. Happily, she was spared the pain of meeting anyone during the morning.
As the time for her husband's return approached, Mrs. Hardy felt herself growing weaker and weaker, and less able to keep back the tears that dimmed her vision. At last, the little French clock on the mantel-piece struck the hour of two.
Hurriedly did Mrs. Hardy start from her chair; anxiously she surveyed herself in the mirror; then bathed her eyes with cold water, hoping to remove from it the red traces of weeping. Yet even as she held the wet towel to her face, tears mingled with the water by which she hoped to hide all evidence of their flow.
"Vain! vain!" she murmured; "I am not impassive marble!"
A few moments elapsed, and yet the dreaded sound of her husband's feet along the passage and on the stairs did not smite upon her ears. Gradually suspense changed to a new feeling.
"He is late today," she said to herself, as she glanced towards the clock, and saw that, since the stroke of two, the minute-hand had moved forward, until it pointed to the second figure on the dial.
A sudden fear that Mr. Hardy did not mean to come home before night-fall, chilled her heart. Could it be possible that, nursing his anger against her, he could act with such deliberate cruelty?
Five, ten, fifteen minutes more went by. The servant knocked lightly at the door. Mrs. Hardy answered in a tone of forced composure.
"Please, ma'am," inquired the man, "is Mr. Hardy coming home to dinner?"
"Yes," she answered.
"It is nearly half-past two," said the man.
"Something has detained him. Do not serve dinner until he comes."
At three o'clock, there was another rap at the door of her room.
"Shall I bring up the dinner, ma'am? I don't think Mr. Hardy is coming."
"You can clear the table; I do not wish for anything," replied Mrs. Hardy.
"Shall I bring you a cup of tea?"
"You may, if you please."
"And a piece of toast?"
"Yes."
These were brought, but not tasted. Mrs. Hardy consented to receive them, merely to gratify the servant, and to save appearances.
During the afternoon, her mother came in. Jane met her with a more composed aspect than she had thought it possible to assume, though all traces of pain could not be hidden.
"Why did you not come down last night?" inquired Mrs. Enfield. "Your father was very much disappointed."
"Mr. Hardy returned just enough fatigued with care and business to wish for a quiet evening at home," replied the daughter; "and I could not find it in my heart to urge him to go out with me."
"Ah, I see how it is; John is going to be one of your home-loving men," said Mrs. Enfield. "And I am glad of it. How much better than if he saw no attraction at home. In this, my child, you have great cause for thankfulness. I know many wives who would give worlds, did they possess them, if so they could endow their husbands with home-loving qualities. This, depend upon it, Jane, is one of the prime virtues."
Mrs. Hardy sighed faintly, but made no answer.
"It is well," she thought within herself, "that my mother sees no deeper. May she remain ignorant, as now, of the fearful ordeal through which I am passing."
"I am going to spend the afternoon with you, and your father will be here to tea. If you cannot go to see him, he is coming to see you."
"Oh, I am glad he is coming!" exclaimed Mrs. Hardy, light breaking over her face. "I was so unhappy last evening about disappointing him, that I cried myself to sleep."
"That was foolish, my love; and hardly fair to your husband, particularly as he preferred staying at home for the enjoyment of your company. Be very guarded on this point, Jane. Young husbands never like to see clouds on their wives' faces. They look for sunshine — not shadows and raindrops. You have known but little of disappointment in your short life; and therefore it is hard to bear."
"I never felt myself so weak as I now am. Life is all a new experience to me. But I shall grow wiser and stronger by and by. It was wrong in me to feel disappointed last night, when Mr. Hardy said he did not wish to go out, desiring rather to enjoy the rest and quiet of his own home, after a wearying day's labor. It did seem to me that he was selfish in refusing to go; and I am afraid I was not as amiable, in consequence, as I should have been."
"That was wrong, very wrong, my child!" said Mrs. Enfield.
"Perhaps it was — and I have been sufficiently punished. But I will henceforth study self-denial, and a cheerful acquiescence in all my husband's wishes."
"There ought to be no self-denial, Jane," replied Mrs. Enfield. "That word is cold and hard. Ought not your husband's wishes to be your pleasure?"
"Oh yes."
"Then seek to make them such. If he, in the beginning of your wedded life, manifests what seems to you an undue regard for himself, and a forgetfulness of those loving attentions once so abundantly bestowed — do not let this bring clouds over the clear horizon of your spirit, to darken the sun of love. Still keep your sky clear, that the sun may shine. Love creates love. Seek his pleasure in all things; yield to his wishes in every particular; and soon from the surface of his life, will be reflected back upon you, affection's warmest beams. Thus you will bind him to you with a cord not to be broken, and all your after life will overflow with blessings."
While Mrs. Enfield spoke, her daughter laid her face, as much for concealment as in weakness, upon her mother's bosom. Recovering in a little while the self-control she was losing, she lifted her head, and replied —
"I am neither very wise, nor very strong, mother. Some things look dark to me, and some things I have not yet gained strength to bear. But wisdom and strength will both come, I trust, in their own good time. I pray for them daily."
"Every new sphere of life brings a new experience," said Mrs. Enfield, "and, in most cases, new trials. The change from maidenhood to wifehood rarely, if ever, takes place without some jarring in the life-machinery. But, if love is in the heart, all the new movements will soon acquire the most perfect accord. Brides' tears water the garden of love."
"It may be so, mother. But do they not, sometimes, give fresh life to weeds as well as flowers?"
"There should be no weeds in love's garden," was the smiling response.
"Then it must not be planted in a human heart." Mrs. Hardy spoke in sober earnest.
"You may be right, my child," remarked Mrs. Enfield in a graver voice. "Weeds will spring up in the human soul, as well as goodly plants. Be it our task to uproot the one — and cultivate the other. And now, dear, let us change the subject. How is my young housekeeper getting on in her new establishment? Everything looks well, as far as I have seen. You are doing wonders."
"Don't praise too early, my good mamma. Everything is new, and in order. Wait a few months, and then see how my housekeeping will speak for itself. I have some doubt in regard to the heartiness of the commendation you will then give."
A lighter and more cheerful tone of feeling now prevailed; and the afternoon passed so pleasantly to Mrs. Hardy, that she almost wondered at it, considering the unhappy state of affairs between her husband and herself.
At the usual hour, Mr. Hardy returned home, and met his wife and mother-in-law in such a kind, frank, and gladsome way, that Mrs. Hardy felt her heart grow warmer in the sunshine of his presence. Mr. Enfield came in soon afterwards; and Mr. Hardy, grasping his hand with impressive cordiality, said in a familiar off-hand way —
"You didn't succeed in your design last evening."
"What design?" was naturally inquired.
"That of making our home-light dim — in order that yours might burn the brighter! Were you very much disappointed at not seeing us?"
"Yes, why didn't you come over?"
"Home was too pleasant, and its magnetism too strong. Now, do you wish to know what I thought of your invitation to spend the evening?"
"What did you think of it?"
"That you were a very selfish man."
"How so?"
"To covet my property!"
"Your property?"
"My enjoyment, then! For nearly twenty years, the presence of your daughter has daily been like a broad beam of sunshine in your dwelling. She has set there, and risen in the fair horizon of my home. And scarcely has the light begun to shine, before you seek to remove it, that it may fall upon you again."
"And do you greatly wonder, that in darkness I pine for the vanished light, or covet a few fleeting rays?" said Mr. Enfield, smiling, yet serious.
"Perhaps I ought not to wonder. Nor should you be astonished if I feel too happy in these golden beams to wish them withdrawn for an instant."
"We did not ask you to let us remove the light from your candlestick; we only desired you to come to us in the light, and let us share for a brief season the mutual blessing. But like most young husbands, I see you are selfish, and too happy in your wedded life, to be able to sympathize with the father and mother. I would not complain of this. Jane is the apple of our eyes. Make her happy — and we shall be happy. If you will not come to us — we will come to you. All the green things in our hearts would blanch to a sickly hue, if the radiant light of her presence were wholly removed."
"If her life is not crowned with happiness," said Mr. Hardy emphatically, "the fault shall not be mine." And he glanced with a tender expression towards his young wife, who caught the look and treasured it like a precious thing in her heart.
Very kind, gentle, and considerate towards his wife, was Mr. Hardy during the whole evening; and to the parents, he was unusually attentive. Not a shadow flitted over his open, manly countenance; not a tone escaped him that left upon anyone a depressing influence. His wife looked at him at times in wonder, as sober memory recalled the incidents of the day. She had not inquired the reason of his failure to return at dinner-time, and he had made no allusion to the fact. Every time she thought of this, her spirits sank, and her heart trembled. But with all the force of will that she could command, did she push aside unpleasant recollections of the past, and seek to rest in the more congenial present.
As Mr. and Mrs. Enfield walked home that night, the former said —
"Things look brighter and more hopeful. There is something exceedingly agreeable about Mr. Hardy. I particularly like his kind, considerate manner towards Jane. He seemed very desirous to make her feel happy. And yet, from some cause or other, she was not altogether at ease."
"I am afraid," remarked Mrs. Enfield, "that she expects too much from her husband."
"An error into which most young wives fall. But time will correct this. I cannot say that Mr. Hardy is my choice for our daughter's husband. I think he lacks refinement of feeling, and delicacy of perception. Still, he is a man of strong common sense, and sterling manly qualities."
"And, above all, a home-loving man."
"One of the chief essentials of domestic happiness. Jane might have done a great deal worse."
"Very true," answered Mrs. Enfield. "We have cause for thankfulness that she has done so well. I talked to her very seriously about her state of mind this afternoon. She has been making herself unhappy, I find, because Mr. Hardy preferred staying at home to coming down to our house last evening."
"He might have gratified her; I don't like to see young husbands putting on the selfish quite so soon. It comes early enough after the honeymoon, in all cases."
"I think there is some excuse for him, considering his peculiar character and feelings. He had set his heart upon a home, you know; and gained it through slight opposition. Company intruded upon his first domestic evening, and we asked him to spend with us the hours of the second. We were, perhaps, a little thoughtless; and should not wonder at his resistance. He wanted to enjoy the quiet of his own dwelling."
"You are no doubt right," said Mr. Enfield. "I only desire their happiness. God grant them blessings in full measure."
The face of Mr. Hardy as he parted with Mr. and Mrs. Enfield at the door was full of smiles, and his voice as kind as summer. His wife stood by his side, and, as he turned from the door, after bidding them good night, she put her hand within his arm, and drew close to him. They walked along the passage, and ascended the stairs to the sitting-room, in silence. As they came into the stronger light, Mrs. Hardy looked up into his face, with a loving word just ready to leap from her tongue. She forced back all remembrance of the day's sad trials; and cared now only for the affectionate smiles of her husband, in the warmth of which she had passed the evening. A single glance caused her to recede a pace, and sent the bounding life-blood back upon her heart. His eyes were stern and cold; his brow disfigured by a frown; his lips just parting with an angry curl.
"Did you think I could forget?" He spoke harshly. "John Hardy never forgets!"
The stricken young wife staggered backward to a chair, and sank down upon it, as weak as a little child.
"John Hardy never forgets!" He repeated the words in a slower and more emphatic voice. "Such things are not to be forgotten. It is no light thing to darken with clouds and vapours, the clear sky of a man's home — to rob him of the highest earthly good — to assail him with rebuking words. And then, forsooth, to expect oblivion on his part! There may be men who will tamely bear all this; but John Hardy is not one of them. He can be as gentle as an infant, if met by loving acquiescence; but is hard as the nether millstone under opposition; and, as I have said before, the sooner you comprehend this — the better it will be for both of us!"
For a little while, surprise, grief, terror, alike tended to render Jane Hardy utterly speechless; her husband stood erect, gazing down upon her crouching form. Then repressing, with some effort, his inclination to give utterance to yet more cutting words, he turned away; and seating himself by a centre-table, on which the gas-light was falling, took up a book, and attempted to get absorbed in its contents. He read on for a page or two, with only a dim comprehension of the subject, his thoughts really upon his wife, expectation looking each moment for some sign of feeling from her. But she remained silent and motionless. Five or ten minutes afterwards, he looked up again, to see if he could detect what he could regard as some sign of conscious endurance — some giving way of the statue-like position. But the repose of that slender form was complete — almost deathlike.
He now arose, and with a firm step went from the sitting-room to the bed-room. Here he remained for nearly ten minutes, momently in expectation of seeing his wife enter, or hearing her footsteps. But he waited in vain. He was perplexed and troubled. Did he repent and reproach himself for his harsh, cruel conduct towards his young wife — as he sat looking with troubled feelings, in that long silence, upon her pale, suffering countenance? Did the scales fall from his eyes? Was he able to see the truth even at a distance? No! no! John Hardy was a man always right! He took time to consider — and his conclusions were generally life-long convictions. He reasoned out his propositions — and the result was a law. After this, he must remain unchangeable. No, he did not repent — for he saw no cause for repentance. What had he done? Could anyone, even his unhappy wife, point to a single act that was wrong in itself? He had only reacted upon her unreasonable action. He had simply stood still, refusing to be swept aside by the waves of a woman's impulses, as a thing of no consideration. If she were hurt in the collision — he was in no respect to blame.
"No, no — John Hardy is not responsible!" thus he talked with himself. "John Hardy is a man, and knows a man's rights and duties. He will never give up the one — nor shrink from the other. John Hardy is neither unjust — nor unreasonable. On this issue, he will defy the world."
And fortifying himself in this self-satisfied notion, he resolved to let his wife wear herself out by her own "whims," as long as she might please. If she chose to be moody — he would not trouble himself at her silence. She could not fail to be unhappy, while the conversation was unrenewed; but the fault was her's — not his! He had spoken last; and he would patiently await her answer.
To the sitting-room he again directed his steps, and there he acted out the determination he had thus formed. But his silence was as unsuccessful as had been his harsh words. Midnight came, and not a syllable had fallen from the lips of either. It was more than time to seek their nightly repose. To light the candle, and place it in his wife's hand, was the only signal whereby he deigned to intimate his will.
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