CHAPTER 11 The Withered Heart!
Back to The Withered Heart!
When Mr. Hardy awoke the next morning, he discovered that Jane had already left her place by his side. He raised himself on his arm, and looked around the room, listening as he did so; but he neither saw her form, nor heard any movement in the adjoining chamber.
Rising and dressing himself quickly, under an oppressive sense of evil, he went hastily from the bedroom to the parlour, where, to his relief, he found his wife engaged in setting things to rights. She turned her face toward him as he entered, and gave him a quiet glance of almost indifferent recognition.
"Good morning." he said.
"Good morning."
How like the passionless echo of his own voice, did her responsive greeting sound in his ears. John Hardy was not the man to humour or plead! No, no. He was made of different stuff from ordinary men.
"Game to the last!" This was the course, half contemptuous, half angry mental ejaculation of the perfect model of a man! "Game to the last! Well, be it so! There is one woman in the world who will have to bend — or break."
Turning from the room, he went back to his bedroom, to complete his dressing, and did not come down again, until the bell rang for breakfast. He hastened to the dining-room, and found his wife already at the table.
Looking at her now more intently, he noticed an expression never before seen on her countenance; and one, to the interpretation of which, no experience he had yet attained in the observation of mental workings, gave any clue. He did not repeat his good-morning, and she made no remark. Her manner, he noticed, was quiet and very even. There was not the smallest evidence of any smouldering excitement beneath her calm exterior. Her eyes, usually so bright as to constitute a marked feature of her countenance, had partially lost their fire, and the soul did not seem to look out of them upon the world of visible things with any degree of interest. She poured out his coffee, and helped him to one thing after another, with movements more like those of an robot, than of a living being.
"Why don't you eat something, Jane?" asked Mr. Hardy, breaking through the ice of silence and reserve.
"I have no appetite now." She answered in a voice that betrayed not the smallest sign of feeling.
"Are you not well?"
"I feel very well." There was not the slightest change in tone or manner. Mr. Hardy gazed steadily into her face, but she did not give back a single glance. Her eyes were not averted, nor her face turned aside. She seemed to be looking at her husband; but it was plain that his form made no distinct image of itself on the retina.
As Mr. Hardy could see no possible connection between anything that he had done, and the existence of a state of mind necessary to produce the external demeanour manifested by his wife — he felt wholly justified in the conclusion, that only one-half of all her apparent suffering was real, and that this real suffering was but the writhing of pride and disappointed self-will. So there was not found in his heart, the first motion towards a relenting spirit. He pitied her weakness and her suffering; but his mind was clear as to his own duty in the case. For him, to yield was impossible.
He sipped his coffee and tried to eat, but the motionless form of his wife, sitting directly before him, soon had the effect of taking away all appetite. Several times cutting words formed themselves into sentences on his tongue, and were kept back from utterance only through the prudent restraint of sober second thought. At last he arose from the table, and was leaving the room without a word, when his wife called to him by name — "John." The tone was free from impulse, as the gentlest summer-breeze.
Mr. Hardy paused, and turned towards his wife.
"Shall you be home at dinner-time?" There was neither weakness nor passion in her voice.
"Yes, if you will promise me one thing."
"Name it." Still her tones were surprisingly even.
"To meet your husband with a smiling countenance."
"I am not well skilled at pretending, John," was the reply, calmly and coldly made. "If there is darkness in my heart — there cannot be light on my countenance." She had arisen from her place at the table, and now she moved to her husband's side, and passed with him from the room, walking on with a firm step.
"I give you credit for being an arch-pretender!" was his unfeeling answer.
"Time will probably correct your error." Mrs. Hardy said no more than this.
"You are very calm, very cool, very self-possessed!" There was a slight sneer in the voice. No response was made, and there followed a brief silence. Mr. Hardy took up his hat, and moved onwards.
"John."
There was a power in that passionless tone, which instantly arrested his steps. He turned partly around.
"Shall you be home at dinner-time?"
"I think not."
"Say you will — or you will not. Uncertainty disturbs the mind, and suspense is painful."
"I will not!" Mr. Hardy's face flushed to the temples, and his voice had in it a sharp tone of anger. He stood, almost glaring at his wife. But she, evincing no emotion, said, "Very well;" and receding a pace or two, as if pushed back by an invisible hand, turned slowly around, and going with noiseless footsteps up the stairs, vanished like a spirit from his sight.
Not long afterwards, she rang the bell, and said to the servant —
"Mr. Hardy is not coming home to dinner; so you can tell the cook not to make any preparation for him. If anyone calls and asks for me — say that I am not well, and cannot be seen. You may bring me a cup of tea about twelve or one o'clock."
After sitting in a dreamy attitude for a considerable time, she went into her room, laid herself down, and, closing her eyes, hid her face in a pillow. As move less as a sleeper she remained, until disturbed by the knock of the servant, who came with the tea she had directed him to bring. She received through the partly opened door the small tray, on which were tea, toast, and a delicate piece of boiled fowl; and said —
"I will ring for you, when I wish the tray removed."
In about twenty minutes, the bell was rung, and the tray passed to the servant. There was scarcely a visible diminution in the quantity of food it had at first contained.
When Mr. Hardy came home a little before nightfall, he found his wife sitting in the parlour. She had dressed herself with exquisite taste, and, though pale, and with an expression of sadness on her young face, looked as beautiful in his eyes as she had ever appeared. All day long, he had been writing bitter things against her, and meditating new schemes of torture for breaking down her indomitable will, which seemed to grow stronger under every measure of opposition; and he had returned to the scene of contest with renewed strength. The sight of her changed, wan face, and slender form — an image of frailty, not endurance, rebuked his harsh purpose, and softened him towards her. As she rose to meet him, and made a feeble effort to smile, he said, kindly —
"I hope you feel better this evening, dear."
"My head does not ache so intensely," she replied.
"Has it ached all day?"
"Yes. It began soon after I arose this morning, and the pain has pierced my temples as if an arrow were imbedded in it."
"It does not ache so much now?" said Mr. Hardy, in a kind, inquiring voice.
"No, the pain is gradually subsiding."
"I am sorry you have been ill all day."
It was on his lips to remark farther, that, had he known she was ill, he would not have remained away until evening. But he withheld this little concession, lest she might regard it as indicative of a yielding temper, and find in it a warrant for longer resistance.
Mrs. Hardy did not make any response; and her husband was not in a state of mind that encouraged pleasant conversation. Almost of necessity, therefore, reserve, silence, and a cold demeanour supervened.
There was one thing about his wife which more than annoyed Mr. Hardy. It troubled him. This was her passionless exterior; the same impenetrableness that he failed to break through in the morning, although he had thrust against it sharply. At the tea-table he often and intently looked into her calm face, and absent dreamy eyes, seeking to penetrate their mystery; but the riddle remained unread. Strongly as he resisted it, the conviction that a change, beyond the control of her will, had taken place in the character of her feelings, steadily forced itself upon him. She seemed a creature void of emotion; a mere breathing, moving effigy of the lovely being he had, a little while before, clasped to his bosom with exquisite joy.
Ah, if John Hardy's perceptions had been somewhat clearer — if he had possessed the faculty of thinking outside of himself — if he could have comprehended what really existed in the mind of his wife — all might not have been lost. Loving consideration, manifested in true loving acts — words and tones, with a heart of manly tenderness in them — these would, in time, have melted away the icy coldness which nothing else could remove.
But alas for John Hardy — and his beautiful, true-hearted, but wronged and suffering wife! The defect in his character was radical. To have done this, he must have ceased to be the John Hardy — whose name he was so fond of repeating with pride and pleasure.
After tea — the meal had been taken in silence — they went to the sitting-room, walking side by side, but not arm in arm, each feeling repelled, rather than attracted.
"I have an engagement this evening," said Mr. Hardy.
"Have you?"
This was all the response made by his wife. She evinced neither surprise nor regret.
"Yes, and I may not be home till late." Mr. Hardy fully expected that this would touch the right chord. But he was mistaken. His wife remained impassive. There was no warmer flush on her cheeks; no lighting up of her calm eyes; no single word of remonstrance or acquiescence. He stood, for a little while, half irresolute, puzzled, and disappointed.
"As you are not well — you had better not sit up for me. I may be out till twelve o'clock."
Mrs. Hardy looked at him steadily, but without the slightest change of countenance.
"Did you hear what I said?" Mr. Hardy was disturbed, and he showed the weakness.
"Certainly. Why not?" How icy were both tone and manner.
"Goodbye!" The young husband turned away abruptly.
It was, as he had intimated, nearly twelve o'clock when he returned. The last hour, for the sake of keeping his word, had been spent in a wearisome walk up and down many streets. He did not come in, as might be supposed, in the best possible humor with either himself or his wife. Not a little to his surprise, he found her almost in the very place where he had left her sitting nearly five hours before. She was engaged on a fine piece of needlework.
"Why, Jane!" he said fretfully; "I supposed you were asleep hours ago!"
"You were mistaken. I have not felt sleepy."
"Come," said Mr. Hardy; "it is nearly twelve o'clock."
"I will follow you presently."
"Come now."
"I have waited your time, John — and now you will have to wait mine."
There was no quicker movement of the voice — no sign of feeling — no averting of the countenance.
Mr. Hardy turned away quickly, and went to the bedroom. It was nearly a whole hour before Mrs. Hardy followed him. She found her husband asleep, and was careful not to awaken him. Silently she moved about the room, and silently laid herself upon the bed. Wearied nature soon brought to her sad spirit a sweet oblivion, locking up all her senses until the advent of another day.
Back to The Withered Heart!