CHAPTER 12 The Withered Heart!
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From this time forth, daily and weekly, did Mr. Hardy look for some change in his wife's frigid exterior; but he looked in vain. She was calm, cold, dreamy, passionless — at least to him. Ever prompt in all her household duties, she left no room whatever for blame; and when his fretted self-will overleaped itself into impatience, and when in his blindness he thrust sharply at her feelings, the point of his weapon seemed instantly to lose its edge, for it made no perceptible wound. When her parents or friends came to see them, she put on a different and warmer exterior, though not the bright one of old; and when she went abroad into company, she appeared to take a quiet interest in people and things, though not so much so as in by-gone times. But, upon her husband, she never smiled, at home or abroad. To him, she was always the same, at all times, under all circumstances, and in all places.
And so the honeymoon, and many other moons, passed. The new life, to which both had looked as full of the heart's deepest joy — as warm with golden sunshine, and rich in all delights — gave no more beauty nor fragrance, than an arctic winter!
Around the word "home" had clustered, in Mr. Hardy's mind, a world of felicities. It had involved his highest earthly ideal. Wife, children, home! How often had these words found an utterance in his heart, and an echo on his lips. Possessing these, he felt that he could defy the world. But the home which had been gained by Mr. Hardy, under the too eager impulses of a strong self-will, failed even from the beginning to realize the high ideal he had so fondly cherished. The sun he had commanded to shine, and to fill every chamber of his dwelling with light and warmth — failed to do his bidding; and the hand he had swept almost imperiously across the heavens, only disturbed the atmosphere, and made the clouds thicker and darker, instead of removing them. He had caged a beautiful singing bird, but its song ceased from the moment the gilded doors of its prison were closed.
Under the effort to be cheerful, and to make her husband's home all that he could desire, Mrs. Hardy, during the early periods of their new life, still maintained a calm and quiet exterior, and ministered in all ways possible to his comfort. But how poor a substitute was duty for love! So there was no heart in it all.
It was soon whispered about, that the young wife was not happy. Everybody was surprised, and inquiries as to the cause passed from lip to lip. All kinds of suggestions were made; and this approximation to the truth was reached — that "She did not want to begin housekeeping!" Of course, the general sentiment was against her. She was called selfish, indolent, unreasonable — not worthy of so good a partner. Wives blamed, and ambitious maidens envied her; while her husband received a world of sympathy.
As for Mr. Hardy — the man whose resolute purposes had, hitherto, overridden all that came between himself and a cherished end — he found, in the growing impassiveness of his wife, whom even sharp words could not spur into reaction — a new barrier, the strongest and strangest which had yet up reared itself in his path. He could meet and overcome circumstances, bending them to his will; but, when he came to the heart of a woman, and sought almost impiously to regulate its beat, and govern its impulses, he found the task altogether the most difficult he had ever assumed.
But still he saw no cause to change his estimate of his wife's character. To him, the belief that she was but struggling on for the victory, was as fixed as an axiom; and, while he believed this, to yield and conciliate was impossible. "Break — or bend," was still his stern motto in the case. But how to break, had become the puzzling question. All at once the writhing heart had ceased to struggle in his grasp. Again and again the iron fingers contracted suddenly, or in a steadily accumulating pressure, until all the man's vigorous strength, increased by angry passion, was applied even to the point of exhaustion. And yet, not the feeblest quiver of pain was observable.
"Is the woman alive or dead!" he would sometimes exclaim after one of these cruel efforts to find the region of vitality.
A few months more, and Mrs. Hardy's states of feeling became singularly variable. She would pass hours, and sometimes almost days, weeping and grieving like a disappointed child — answering no inquiries, and taking no food. Then she would fall into the saddest abstraction, which nothing could overcome. Afterwards would come a quiet devotion to the duties of her household. Through all these varying aspects of mind, Mr. Hardy was unchanged in his interpretation of their meaning; the pride of manhood, as he called it, was too strong to permit of any yielding, or humouring on his part.
"The bird is caged!" — this was one of his mentally spoken figures of speech, "and all beating against the bars is vain. The bruised wings must fold themselves in weakness — or acquiescence. There is no other hope."
Mr. Hardy, as we have before remarked, had the organ of language pretty largely developed. His thoughts were active, and his tongue always stood ready to give utterance to them. It was almost impossible for him to think intently without talking. Had he been more meditative, and, consequently, more silent, opportunity for a healthier change in his wife's feelings might have been given. But he was constantly thinking bitter things against her — and as constantly saying them. He believed that, as continual dropping wears away a stone — a continual utterance of his views in regard to her conduct, would, in the end, satisfy her that she was understood, and that her effort to break him down was hopeless. From milder forms of speech, his ingenuity led him on to the framing of bolder thrusts, and more cruel accusations.
"I thought," he said, one day, "that I was taking a dove to my bosom; but — "
He looked steadily at his wife, expecting some flash of interest to pass over her face. But she seemed as one who had not heard him speak.
"I was in error."
He uttered these words slowly, still looking at her with a severe countenance. She gave back neither answer nor sign.
"A viper to sting me, is a poor substitute!"
It was a very cruel speech. Yet, for all that was visible, it did not seem to penetrate the consciousness of her to whom it was addressed; and her husband, after he had given forth the unmanly sentence, felt some relief in the impression that she had not really comprehended his words. But he was in error, here, as in most things which related to his wife. She had heard, and the sentence was already ineffaceably written down in her memory, among the many cruel speeches uttered by him since their marriage.
Mr. and Mrs. Enfield were both puzzled to understand the true workings of their daughter's mind. To them, she had all at once become reserved and incommunicative. Deceived, in a measure, by Mr. Hardy's kind speeches, and by his uniformly gentle, yielding, and affectionate manner towards Jane whenever they saw them together — the father and mother received an impression that their daughter was most to blame for the state of affairs unhappily existing. A single intimation of this at once changed her whole demeanour towards them. To her, this was the going out of the last earth-light shining upon her dark, rough, thorny path. That they should so misunderstand her — it was the portion in her cup, bitterest of all! From that time, she was as incomprehensible to them as to others, and met any questions or remonstrance's they felt called upon to make, with the same coldness that marked her conduct towards her husband.
A woman of ordinary character, and less delicacy of feeling, would, in a short time, have accommodated herself to Mr. Hardy's peculiarities, and have found ample compensation in the position acquired by the marriage. Or, a woman of more shrewdness and worldliness, would have taken advantage of his weak points, to bend him wholly to her will; for such men can always be governed, if their wives know the art. But Mrs. Hardy was too true a woman, to find any compensation of this sort. She loved unselfishly, and her heart asked as genuine a love in return. Failing to receive this, the light of her life grew dim, and the shadows of death fell coldly upon her heart.
Ah! if that foolish young husband could have known the value of the jewel he was grinding to powder under his feet — could have seen deep enough into the heart of his wife to understand its pure, loving qualities — could have forgotten himself long enough to gain some true perception of her real character — what a life-joy might have been his! But he was unworthy to possess the treasure he had coveted — and now that it was in his hand, its lustre had grown dim. Ah! how many thousands and thousands of pure, true, loving-hearted women are wedded by just such men as John Hardy, who vainly imagine that to win — is to enjoy. They mate too high, and in mating they wed misery instead of happiness.
It is not always physical suffering — the sickness of the frail body alone — which whitens so many cheeks, and throws a veil of sadness over so many homes. No, no. The "poor health" of wives has often a deeper source than friends and neighbours imagine. There is a sickness of the soul, which saps the life-fountains more surely than any bodily I ailment. The heart needs sustenance as well as the brain. Its nourishment is love; and, deprived of this, will not its pulses grow daily feebler and feebler? Alas! this attempted mating of grosser with finer natures — what cruel wrongs are born in the unnatural union!
There was one quality about Mr. Hardy, which, under most conditions of life, may almost be classed with the virtues — we mean, firmness. Phrenologists would, doubtless, have found the organ representing it of unusual size. This quality gave great persistence to his character, and was one of the secrets of his steadily advancing position among his fellow-men. He rarely abandoned a purpose, though it was his custom to gain his ends rather by smiling policy, than frowning force — combativeness, in the technical sense, not being largely developed. There was something, too, of wiliness about him, which enabled him to gain his ends without exciting opposition, and to lead men, while off their guard, to work towards the accomplishment of his favourite schemes. Thus, he was a tyrant, without boldness; seeking to rule, yet coveting the good opinions of the very men he would bend to his will. But tyrants of his class usually lay aside, at home, some of the exterior veils which hide their real character from the eyes of men. Having secured their wives — they set themselves at once to the work of ruling them.
Pride — or what they regard as manliness — will not permit them to pursue the same course at home, that is pursued by them in the world. No smooth policy, no smiling duplicity, no seeming acquiescence, where the real purpose remains strong as ever — marks their conduct in the family-circle. There, the uttered word becomes the changeless law. The quality of persistence, to which we have referred, strengthened as it was, in Mr. Hardy's case, by his deficient perceptions — made the case of his unhappy young wife, a hopeless one. He was not able, from the peculiar nature of his mental organization, to see any cause for her singular state of mind, but thwarted self-will. It was him, who, having been permitted, in the home of her girlhood, to do pretty much as she pleased, and to rule her parents through appeals to their partial love — she was now seeking to attain the same control over her husband; and that, having failed in this from the start, she was using a woman's powerful weapon against him. The very thought filled his mind with anger towards the gentle one he was wronging so deeply; and he resolved that, come what would, he must be conqueror in the struggle — even if the contest went on to the day of death!
Thus he closed his mind to the possibility of ever comprehending her true feelings; and regarded every wail of anguish which went up from her bleeding heart, as the iron grasp in which he held it, grew daily tighter and tighter, as only the mad cry of a yet untamed spirit, in which the hope to rule was still a struggling passion! If she bore up calmly, yet sadly, seeking to perform every external duty faithfully in the sight of Heaven, he nourished anger against her, because she was not smiling and cheerful. If she sank down, as was not infrequently the case, into impassive, dark, and gloomy states of mind, refusing even a word in answer to anything he might say — remaining thus, sometimes, for weeks together — he saw only a changing phase of her consummate art. It was fine acting!
Under such a discipline, it is no cause of wonder, that, in many respects, the character of Mrs. Hardy underwent a change; and that, even to her parents, she seemed at times to deport herself in a strange, if not unreasonable manner. As for her own conscious experiences, they were, as may be supposed, often of the darkest character. There were periods when reason tottered — when thought was a blank — when all around her was a bewildering maze, and she groped about like a blind man who has lost his way.
How often, oh, how often! in these hours of midnight-gloom, when it seemed as if the very sun that lit up the Heaven of nature were fading, did she enter into her closet and shut the door, and pray unto Him who sees in secret, beseeching Him for light to see by — for strength to walk the rugged path she was treading — for a willing heart to do her duty.
Sometimes she came from her closet, with a clearer mind and a stronger heart; and at other times with so crushed and hopeless a feeling, that her very life seemed perishing.
And so the days went on, the distance between herself, her husband, and happiness, growing ever wider and wider; the future growing darker and darker, and mocking hope flitting far in the distance, as a dusky image, in the form of death.
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