CHAPTER 13 The Withered Heart!
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The birth of a daughter, brought to Mrs. Hardy the dawn of a new day. But this day set before long, in darkness. Night followed quickly upon the morning. Mr. Hardy had his own views about children, and little Helen was scarcely a week old, before he commenced laying down the formula of her home-education. Every word, every sentence, every proposition — sent a chill to the young mother's heart!
A year's close observation of her husband, under circumstances largely advantageous for a correct knowledge of his character, satisfied her as to one thing, that he had no tender feelings of his own — and no perceptions of the sources of mental suffering in others. That her child would inherit from her a high degree of sensitiveness to external impressions, tending, most probably, to a morbid development under wrong treatment, she felt certain; and the yearning love, born with it in the mother's heart, took up at once its burden of sorrow for her child — thus even while she clasped it in an ecstasy of maternal joy to her bosom, she prayed that it might not long be permitted to remain away from its better home among the angels.
The fears of Mrs. Hardy were not idle; and well she knew it. Not a month went by, before her husband commenced a meddlesome interference with her motherly duties; objecting to this — proposing that — reading constant homilies on the ignorance displayed by most women in regard to physiological laws — and boldly declaring that his children should not be subjected to the murderous treatment by which thousands of little innocents were yearly swept into the grave. As before the birth of the babe, so after it, Mr. Hardy did not find in his wife any disposition to yield a ready acquiescence to his will. She entered into no contention with him, answered none of his propositions, combated none of his theories — but went on quietly to do for her babe, what love, duty, and the best information she could obtain, prompted her to do. If what he proposed — which was too rarely the case — agreed with her own views of right — the thing was done; if it did not agree there with — it was not done: and Mr. Hardy talked and scolded in vain. It was the same in regard to her mother, who, under Mr. Hardy's plausible representations, sometimes came over to his side. If Jane saw with them, well — if not, she never followed their suggestions or commands.
Very mildly, though often firmly, did Mr. Hardy talk to his wife, when Mrs. Enfield was present, about her way of taking care of the little Helen. But when they were alone, he was far from being as gentle in manner, or as choice in his selection of words.
"Will you listen to reason, Jane?" How very imperative the tone in which he would thus address her, on finding that she would neither discuss a question concerning the mode of dressing, feeding, or managing the babe, nor in any way modify her own nursery-discipline. Or he would say, in his impatience —
"I believe you would destroy the child's health rather than yield, in the slightest degree, to my wishes." Or — "I will have none of this nonsense! The child is mine as well as yours; and my word, concerning its welfare, must have weight!"
But all this availed little. Mrs. Hardy believed that she understood the babe's true character and needs, much better than the father, and in nothing did she yield. His unkind words she bore with patience, though often they fell heavily upon her heart.
Up to its third month, the child had been very healthy, not once requiring the attendance of a physician. On the subject of medicine, Mr. and Mrs. Hardy did not agree. In Mr. Enfield's family, the homoeopathic treatment had been adopted, and their daughter had been used to it from childhood up to womanhood. Mr. Hardy, on the contrary, scouted at the new treatment as based on a network of absurdities, and altogether at war with his favourite common-sense.
In the choice of her own physician, Mrs. Hardy firmly adhered to the medical faith in which she had been educated, and in the truth of which she had the strongest assurance. Mr. Hardy tried to reason with her on the subject; but she offered no arguments in return, simply adhering to her purpose. But, when it came to the question of a physician for the sick babe, the father was determined to have his own will, and an allopathist was called. Mrs. Hardy made no opposition beyond a simple pleading remonstrance. For herself, she would have asked nothing; yet, for her babe, she would have humbled herself at his feet, could that have availed anything. But she had learned to believe her husband's oft-repeated words, "John Hardy never changes!" And so she was passive.
The physician, a kind, gentlemanly, sympathizing man, came at the summons, and found the babe ill, and in immediate need of attention. He had never seen Mrs. Hardy before, and was struck with her manner and appearance, but particularly with the singular way in which she received him. When he laid his hand upon the child, he could see that the mother shrank from him with a kind of dread, and that she was altogether ill at ease. Anxious to comprehend the meaning of this, he first sought by kind inquiries, and expressions of tender interest in the babe, to gain her confidence and he was in a measure successful. Then, after carefully noting all the symptoms, he spoke encouragingly, and predicted a speedy return to health.
"You will not give her very strong medicine, Doctor?" said Mrs. Hardy, with much anxiety in her tone.
"No, madam," he answered promptly; "infants cannot bear strong medicines."
"Don't trouble yourself about that matter, child," remarked Mr. Hardy, affecting a lightness of manner which he did not feel. "The doctor understands the case and its requirements, and will, with due caution, do everything that is needed."
The doctor now wrote a prescription which Mrs. Hardy read over eagerly, as soon as it was completed. She understood enough of it to be aware that it was nauseous, and would have to be given every hour.
"You had better send for the medicine at once," said the doctor, speaking to Mr. Hardy. "The sooner we make an attack upon this disease, the sooner we may hope to dislodge the enemy."
"It shall be procured immediately," answered Mr. Hardy; "I will myself call at the druggist's, and see that it is here in less than twenty minutes."
At this moment, Mrs. Hardy's mind seemed to take a new interest in the case. She asked the doctor very particularly as to the character of the disease, and what parts of the body were most affected by it. The questions were answered with all the minuteness she seemed to desire.
As soon as the physician had left, Mr. Hardy's manner changed towards his wife, as it usually did after the departure of any visitor.
"I will send home the medicine immediately," said he, preparing to leave, "and be sure to give it according to directions."
Mrs. Hardy did not reply. Indeed she rarely made answer to any imperative requirement made by her husband.
Mr. Hardy stood looking at her for a few moments, fretted, as he usually was, at the seeming indifference of her manner, and tempted to utter some rebuke. He repressed the words that were on his tongue, however, and withdrew in silence.
The moment he left the room, a new purpose seemed to awaken in the mind of his wife. An intelligent change passed over her countenance; her whole form arose from its shrinking attitude, and she leaned her head, listening to the sound of his footsteps. When she heard the street-door close, she called the nurse, resigned the babe to her, went from the nursery to the bedroom, and commenced a hurried preparation to go out.
By the time she was ready, a lad from the apothecary's came with the medicine. As soon as the preparation reached her hands, she thrust it into a drawer, with an expression of disgust on her countenance.
Going back to the nursery, she said to the attendant who had little Helen in charge, "Take good care of my precious one. I am going out; but I shall be back in less than half an hour."
The nurse could not help remarking an unusual glow on Mrs. Hardy's face, and an unusual brightness in her eyes.
From her own home, to the dwelling of the physician who had visited her father's family from earliest days which memory could recall, the young mother went with almost the fleetness of wind. Concealing all but the fact of her babe's illness, she gave the doctor so clear a statement of the case, that he could prescribe almost as intelligently as if the patient were before him.
On giving her the required medicine, he said —
"Perhaps I had better call in, during the day, and see if the remedy takes the requisite effect."
"No, Doctor," was answered" "I have reasons for not wishing you to call. After dinner I will come round again, and let you know what change has occurred in the symptoms. In the mean time, give me any hint you think needed in the observation of them."
The doctor reflected a moment, and then gave the directions she asked. Hurrying home, her heart fluttering with fear lest her husband, from some instinctive knowledge of what she was doing, should have returned during her absence, she entered, with glowing cheeks, the room where she had left her babe. The nurse looked up with an anxious countenance.
"Poor child!" she said almost tearfully. "How ill she is! Hadn't we better give her the medicine; it must surely have come?"
"Yes, it has been brought to me," remarked Mrs. Hardy, averting her face, so that its expression could betray nothing that was in her thoughts. "I will bring it in a moment." After bending down to look at her sick child, and kissing it, she went hastily to her room. Then taking the medicine prescribed by the visiting physician, she carried it to the nursery, and handing it to the attendant, said as she received the babe into her own arms, "Mix this according to the directions, and bring it up when ready. It is to he given every hour."
The nurse took the packet of medicine, remarking to herself, as she did so, that not many mothers would trust another to prepare medicine for a sick babe, and went downstairs to obey the orders.
The moment she had left the room, Mrs. Hardy drew forth a little packet of powders, and hastily opening one of them, dropped its contents into her infant's mouth. It was no offensive dose, for the lips of the sick babe were instantly compressed, and then moved as if a sweet morsel were on its tongue.
When the nurse returned, the mother was gazing anxiously on the child, yet with a new hope in her heart, born of her confidence in the attenuated remedies prescribed by the old family physician. The attendant came forward, and stood before Mrs. Hardy, holding the cup of medicine, in expectation that she would take a spoonful of the sickening compound, and force it down the throat of the tender babe. Mrs. Hardy looked at its face for a few moments, and then said —
"Put the cup on the table; I will not disturb her just now, she seems to be sleeping."
"It is a good while since he doctor was here," suggested the nurse, "and the baby is very ill. Isn't it risking too much to delay any longer?"
"I will not disturb her at present," replied Mrs. Hardy firmly. "She is asleep, and sleep is a great restorative."
"You can go downstairs," she added, after a little while. "When I want you, I will ring."
The nurse wondering at what seemed to her such singular conduct, obeyed the suggestion, and left the room. Not once was the babe out of its mother's arms from that time until Mr. Hardy's return at two o'clock. Every half hour during that period, she had given a powder, and now had the infinite satisfaction of seeing a marked improvement — so marked, that the father, as he bent anxiously over his first-born, felt a heavy weight of care taken from his bosom.
"Dr. Fairfax is a man of great skill," said he. "His prescription is doing wonders. You may rest in the fullest assurance that all is safe in his hands. A very different state of things would now exist, had I been weak enough to yield to your prejudice, in favor of the silliest medical practice that ever deceived the people. Instead of this healthy change, our precious babe would now, in all probability, have been far out of the reach of human aid."
Mrs. Hardy offered no reply, but kept her face bent so low over the babe in her lap, that its expression was hidden from the eyes of her husband.
When the doctor called soon afterwards, he found a most encouraging change. The fever had entirely subsided, and every other symptom of disease was visibly abated. He congratulated the mother on the favourable turn things had taken, consequent on the curative action of the medicine prescribed.
Mrs. Hardy did not respond very warmly to this, nor did she seem at her ease. Naturally free from deceit, and truthful from principle, this, almost the first instance of her life in which she had acted with duplicity, disturbed the quiet of her self-repose. She had deceived the doctor, and done what he would regard as a professional insult. And this being so, she could not assume towards him the pleased, familiar, confiding air his manner invited; but rather treated him with greater coldness and reserve than in the morning. The doctor was altogether at a loss to understand her. He had heard something said as to her being "peculiar;" and he was inclined to think that there might be some truth in the report.
"How much of the medicine is left?" he inquired, looking towards the mantel-piece, where the cup, in which it had been mixed, was standing.
"It is all gone," was answered. "I knocked over the cup a little while ago, and spilled every drop. But baby is so much better, that I hardly think a new supply will be needed."
"I will repeat the prescription, making a slight change. You can send for it, and give a dose every three hours, instead of every hour, as at first."
The doctor departed, musing within himself on the peculiarity of Mrs. Hardy's conduct, and wondering what it could mean. "There is something behind all this," he said within himself, "something hidden below the surface, and out of the reach, at present, of my plummet-line. I must dive into the mystery."
Mrs. Hardy, while rejoicing over the escape and speedy convalescence of her babe, and feeling conscience-clear, so far as duty to her tender offspring was concerned, experienced a new sense of inward pain. A stern necessity, as she deemed it, had required her to do violence to one of the instinctive virtues of her nature. Truth was born with her, and truthfulness of conduct had ever marked her deportment from childhood upwards. But, in this thing, she had deceived her husband, and deceived an honourable, kind, and gentlemanly physician. How painful was the self-abasement, which assumed a morbid condition, and which increased the longer her thoughts dwelt on the recent hurried scene through which she had passed!
During the afternoon, Mrs. Hardy made another visit to the homoeopathic physician, and received an additional supply of powders. When her husband returned in the evening, and found the babe so much better that all fear on its account was entirely removed, his satisfaction was great, and he expressed his pleasure in the warmest manner. Mrs. Hardy seemed scarcely cheerful, and did not respond in a way that to him was satisfactory. Even greater than his was her rejoicing; but her pain of mind was great also, and shadowed her countenance. She had, in the performance of what she regarded as a mother's sacred duty, done violence to one of the higher instincts of her nature — and such violence is always followed by suffering.
"I am half inclined to believe that you are sorry the child is better," said Mr. Hardy, abruptly. (He always spoke severely to her now. The entire absence of any sign of feeling when he thus spoke with harshness, led him into the erroneous idea that she had lost the sensibility of former years, and that it needed a deep probe and a firm hand to find the region of pain. Most faithfully did he act up to this conviction.)
"Why so?" inquired Mrs. Hardy, lifting her quiet eyes to his face, and speaking in a voice that betrayed no emotion.
"Because the fact proves the value of the old and true system of medicine, and forever silences your cavilling objections."
There was no change on the countenance of Mrs. Hardy, whose eyes dropped to the face of the babe that lay close to her bosom. But it was a mistake that she did not feel the unkindness of her husband's remark. She would have cared less, if she had not deceived him. That fact rested like a mountain upon her heart, and made deeper the shadows which never lifted their sombre curtains for a moment.
At this point in the sad history of her inner life, sickening doubts began to intrude themselves upon her mind; doubts as to the wisdom and goodness of that Divine Providence which she had been taught, from her childhood up, to regard as personal, and as extending even to the minutest particulars of life.
Truth, she loved and revered; a fact in her mental organization, which may serve to show how deeply she must have suffered under the false charge of "acting a part," so often alleged against her by her husband. The new trial into which she was brought by the sickness of her babe, with the seeming necessity that rested upon her of doing what was contrary to her husband's wishes — and that with a secrecy which to her involved duplicity — enabled some evil spirit to throw into her mind a flood of doubts and wild questionings, and painfully to bewilder her hitherto clear perceptions.
Mr. Hardy having gained a triumph, as he imagined, over his wife, and compelled her to have an old-school physician to attend to their sick babe, did not show himself a very generous conqueror; but kept referring to the fact over and over again, and in a way that was far from being agreeable. Mrs. Hardy did not reply to him in any case. But he saw that her countenance,
when she fell into her usual state of abstraction, was more shadowed than usual; and he interpreted the meaning of this to suit his own false estimate of her feelings.
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