CHAPTER 14 The Withered Heart!
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From this time forward, new trials awaited Mrs. Hardy at almost every step in her troubled way through life. Her views of home-education by no means ran parallel with those of her husband; and her perceptions of her children's characters and needs, were altogether different from his. He made rules for their government — from his intellect; while she perceived what was best for them — from the heart. He thought out a system of home-management, and decided from reason that it was right as applied to children in all cases, and of course right as applied to his own — any deviation, therefore, from this system on the part of his wife was met by complaint, remonstrance, or censure. Many of his rules and requirements were regarded by her as oppressive; others as cruel; and most of them as in direct antagonism to the needs of the children's nature. To carry them out in all cases — she felt to be wrong, for strict execution of his laws would destroy in them those qualities, which, if nurtured and developed, would be in her estimation the crowning graces of their lives.
And so the years passed, with but little sunshine and many shadows for the heart of the unhappy wife and mother. In the eyes of her husband, she was still a rebel in heart against his just authority; and he, as to the beginning, neither forgave the opposition, nor yielded in anything to what he deemed whim or stubbornness. All her sad states of mind — her days, and sometimes weeks, of gloomy prostration — he regarded as the struggles of an unbroken spirit, yet striving for the ascendancy.
The single instance given, wherein Mrs. Hardy deceived her husband, in order to save her babe from what she regarded the cruelties of an imperfect system of medicine, was but one of a thousand. Almost daily, for the sake of her children, did she act towards her husband with duplicity; and every such act laid a new weight upon her heart, until the pressure became more than she well knew how to bear.
During all this time, even while the ordeal through which Mrs. Hardy was passing was paling her cheeks, robbing her beautiful eyes of their lustre, wasting her form of perfect symmetry to a shadow, and shutting her up recluse-like at home — her husband retained his sunny presence; and in all companies and at all times — except when alone with his wife — he met friends and strangers in the most congenial manner. As in former days, so was he still largely interested in the prosecution of general schemes of benevolence, and freely gave his money to sustain them.
Not having secured sunshine at home — the sunshine so much coveted and so much talked about at the commencement of his married life — he was more ready to give his evenings to board-meetings, public assemblies, and other convocations, at which he either presided, or appeared in some prominent position. In the eyes of most men, and most women also, he was a noble specimen of humanity. And when, at distant intervals, his wretched unhappy-looking wife, compelled, appeared with him abroad, people regarded her with wonder, and pitied her husband.
Seven years after the marriage of Mrs. Hardy, both her father and mother died, within the space of a single month. Her husband, as the sad separation drew near — and its occurrence was seen to be inevitable — awaited the consummation with considerable uneasiness, in expectation of its depressing effect upon his wife's mind. But the solemn hour of death came to both father and mother, and the daughter passed, tearless, with scarcely a sign of emotion, through the scene. Even Mr. Hardy was moved by the sight, and wept at the visible tokens of mortality.
Friends and strangers looked on in wonder, and falsely judging the wronged, bewildered, suffering daughter — assumed that she was devoid of feeling; while her husband also permitted himself to draw partially the same conclusion.
What her real state of mind was, it would be difficult to describe. To herself, it was an appalling mystery, and she felt terrified as the thought of insanity intruded itself like the countenance of a mocking fiend.
"I have not much strength left, O Lord God of my fathers!" she prayed in hopeless anguish, yet praying from the very instinct of hopelessness arid danger. "Stand by me, or I will faint and fall by the way. Lead, oh lead me out of this bewildering maze. Show me the path of life."
And at this very time, Mr. John Hardy stood up, in spirit, and said, "I thank you, O Lord, that I am not as other men!"
The world looked on, and, praising the pharisee — misjudged the unhappy publican.
Time moved on, with little change in the aspect of things. More children were born to the striving mother, and new duties laid upon her; until seven little ones gathered around her in childish innocence and beauty.
She was not a proud, nor a happy — but a loving mother; sometimes a weakly loving, and a wrongly indulgent mother. But, all things considered, who can wonder at this? It would have been strange if it had been otherwise. Maternal love and duty now sustained her. As a wife, she had nothing to lift her up. All the entwining tendrils, which, at the beginning, had shot forth, and with the instinct of a womanly heart, had laid hold of her husband's manly nature, in weaving themselves therewith — had slowly relaxed their clinging coils, letting the vine fall away, and droop to the earth, from which in its young life it had arisen joyfully. Had there been no mother's love — she must have died.
Long before this, every vestige of true affection had perished in the hearts of both wife and husband, who now barely tolerated each other. The bond that still held them together was a threefold one: love for their mutual offspring; a regard for appearances; and a sense of the binding force of their marriage-vows.
But for one, or all of these, they would have been driven asunder, years before, with a strong repulsion. The care of her seven children fully occupied Mrs. Hardy's time and thoughts, offering a valid reason for her declining to go into society, except at distant intervals, or on very special occasions.
It was this care which sustained her. In the daily performance of duty — she found a measure of strength; and in the love of her children, at times — she found precious consolation.
Too frequently, however, the interference of her husband with her rule among the children, his opposition to her wishes in regard to them, and his custom of pursuing a line of discipline totally at variance with her's, robbed her of this only source of pleasure that remained to brighten feebly her gloomy way.
The first three children were daughters. When the oldest reached the age of fourteen, Mr. Hardy, finding that it was impossible to make his wife do just as he wished in regard to her, assumed the position, in his own mind, that the child would be ruined if allowed to remain at home. So he took into consideration the scheme of sending her to a boarding-school; and after viewing the question on all sides, determined the matter affirmatively. The first intimation received by the mother, that he was even thinking upon the subject, came in the announcement of his settled purpose.
It was a long time since Mr. Hardy had seen his wife so moved. The proposition disturbed her more profoundly than anything that had occurred for years.
"No, John," she said, as soon as she could compose herself enough to speak calmly; "don't think of that. Helen must not be sent away. Home is always the best and safest place for children."
"Not always," was the cold reply. "Helen will be ruined, if she remains at home."
"Ruined, John! How?"
"In many ways. I can see that she is changing for the worse every day. Do you require her to learn all her lessons correctly?"
"As far as it is in my power to attend to her. But, you must remember, that she is not the only one I have under my care."
"Just so. And that shows the necessity of her being placed in different circumstances, where she can be better trained than it is possible for her to be at home."
"Why not get a private teacher or governess?" suggested Mrs. Hardy.
"I don't believe in private teachers," was answered dogmatically. "Never knew one that was worth a penny. No, no. It is not a private teacher that Helen needs, but a new set of associations — and these I have made up my mind she shall have."
Powerless in the iron grasp of her husband, had Mrs. Hardy felt for years. Opposition, she knew to be hopeless; but passive, silent endurance was, in this case, no protection for her child. For herself, she never thought of beseeching any change in the stern, hard decisions which she had learned to recognize as unalterable. She could endure — she could not cry out for mercy for herself. But now another's happiness and well-being were at stake — even the happiness and well-being of her precious child, her first-born, who inherited, in a high degree, her own sensitive nature. The thought of sending her from home, sent a thrill of pain to her heart.
"Let me beg you, John," she said, in tones of pleading anguish, "to refrain from this. Helen is not the child to send away from home. Do not make her wretched!"
"She is just the child that needs to be sent away," was the unyielding reply; "and it is our duty to look to her future good. A few tears will do her no harm; and they will soon be dry. The grief of childhood, is as the morning cloud and the early dew."
"You do not know her truly. Trust me, when I say that it will be doing a great wrong to send her from home to school. Oh, dismiss the thought at once from your mind; and if there is anything in which I can meet your wishes in regard to her, it shall be done cheerfully."
"You cannot help indulging her natural weaknesses and habits of indolence, and these, unless eradicated, will destroy her as a woman. Your imbecile yielding to every whim of your children, is ruining them, as I have told you again and again. But, all that I have said, has gone for nothing; and now I take the matter into my own hands. By this time, you are probably aware, that I go through with whatever I undertake. Helen has got to leave home. That I wish you to regard as a settled thing!"
Mrs. Hardy's heart, which had leaped and struggled with pain at her husband's announcement of his intention to send their eldest daughter away to school, now fell heavily, and almost pulselessly in her bosom. Her head drooped until her face was so hidden from her husband's eyes, that he could not see its expression; and there she sat, as her husband had seen her sit so many times, motionless as a statue — the very image of despair. Not the slightest wave of pity moved over his feelings, as he looked at his wife, nor was there in his mind the slightest change of purpose. Whatever he saw to be right — that he set himself to do, and with an unflinching purpose. He had reasoned himself into the clear conviction, that it was best for Helen to leave home — so from home she must go, if all the world were in opposition.
It was late in the evening, and they were alone. Mr. Hardy felt very composed, resolute, and well satisfied with himself. He had proposed to do only a plain duty — and to use his own words — "Duty with John Hardy was law." He had turned partly away from his wife, so that the unpleasant aspect of her drooping, motionless form, might not offend his eyes; and, to appear indifferent to her state of feeling, had taken a newspaper in his hand, which he rustled most imposingly. For nearly a quarter of an hour he read over the news, all of which he had read before, and read advertisements in which he felt not a particle of interest, momentarily expecting his wife to move from her fixed position. But she gave no indication of life or feeling.
"Jane!" He had arisen, and stood looking down upon her, with a kind of lordly, imperious air. She startled at his voice, and fairly sprung to her feet — looking for some moments, as if just awakened from a bewildering dream, and not yet able to distinguish between what was dream, and what was real. Mr. Hardy had never before seen so peculiar an expression in her face; nothing so like the glare and distortion of insanity.
"Come," said he, "it is getting late." He moved a pace or two towards the door. But his wife did not stir from the spot where she was standing.
"Jane! This is folly! madness!" Mr. Hardy turned upon his wife, almost angrily.
The poor suffering woman struck her hand hard upon her forehead, and, holding it there tightly, looked up into her husband's cruel countenance with steady, intense, fiery eyes.
A slight shudder ran along his nerves, as continued thus to gaze.
"John," said she, in a voice that was hoarser than any he had ever heard from lips. "I warn you not to do this thing! I cannot part with Helen. She is my first-born; my very life is bound up in her; she is the warm sunshine upon my path. Don't separate us!"
"This is all idle — all selfish weakness," replied Mr. Hardy."I am amazed at your folly!"
"John!" — there was no change in the quality of Mrs. Hardy's voice, except that it conveyed a deeper warning, "there is always a point beyond which the strongest heart cannot sustain itself. I feel that mine is on the utmost verge of endurance. Spare me, then, my husband! Oh! spare me! Do not strike me down with this threatened blow. I shall surely sink to the earth, if it falls upon me!"
The tremor of weakness was in some of the tones that uttered this sentence, while some of them were harsh and unnatural.
"Jane," was the slow, steadily spoken reply, "as I have just said, I am amazed at all this. You talk as if I were a persecuting tyrant, and not a thoughtful father, seeking the good of his children, and firm in his purposes of duty. Spare me, I pray you!"
"O John!" How very sad, almost wailing, was her voice, as she added, "Let me beg of you to stand still. Every step beyond the point where you now are, will be upon my heart. Your foot is very heavy; and the heel is shod with iron! Visit me with any other painful punishment — it matters not how severe — but spare me in this. Spare me; for my strength is not equal to the trial!"
"Jane Hardy!" — there was not the slightest sign of weakness in the husband's tones, "I am not to be moved from a purpose which I know to be right, by any passionate appeals. Such things go for nothing with me — literally nothing!"
"Hard of heart, and cruel of purpose!" Another change in the mother's aspect was visible. The almost wild excitement into which this new assault upon her feelings had aroused her, died away in all its visible manifestations, and her face took again its almost stony expression. But there was a prophecy of coming evil in the eyes that were riveted upon the face of her husband with a look that sent a sudden chill along his frame. "God will judge between us! Again I warn you, in the sight of Heaven, not to send our child away! Evil will come of it; and on your head it will rest with a heavy curse!"
"Let it come!" The cold, persistent character of John Hardy spoke in these few words. Pride left no room for pity or for change. "Let it come!" he repeated, that his firmness might the more fully appear. "If I am not strong enough to bear all the evil you predict — let it crush me down!
"Selfish and cruel to the last!" The eyes of Mrs. Hardy never turned for an instant from her husband's face, nor lost their weird expression. "You are a brave, bold man!" What a sharp, stinging scorn came suddenly into her husky voice. "A brave, bold man!" she repeated the words very emphatically, "to do battle for conquest with a weak woman, and a helpless child! A safe field for manly conquest this! How proudly your trophies will be worn! All men will do honor to him who carries the shield of the broken-heart!"
"Jane Hardy! Quiet! Viper!" Mr. Hardy stamped his foot, and threw fiery and threatening glances upon his wife. But there was no change in her countenance or attitude.
"There will come for you, as there comes to everyone, John Hardy, a day of reckoning!! There is an Eye that sees into every heart — a just God who rewards and punishes; the same God who said, two thousand years ago, as He says now, and will say forever — Woe unto you scribes and Pharisees — hypocrites!"
"Quiet, I say!" The heavy stroke of Mr. Hardy's foot, jarred the room, and rattled the pendants that glittered on the candelabras.
"Quiet? Quiet?" Mrs Hardy spoke in an under-tone, as if to herself. "Long, long ago the rustle of her white garments was heard in departure. She will not come at your call, John Hardy!"
"Mad woman!" was retorted angrily.
A gleam shot across the face of Mrs. Hardy, as if the light of a torch had fallen upon it suddenly. It was paler the next instant.
"Mad woman!" repeated her husband, in blind rage.
"Go your ways, John Hardy! Do your worst. Waste no pity on me. The utmost verge of endurance is at last reached, and visions of unconscious rest are floating in the distance. You have often said that you would bend me to your will — even if I broke in the bending, and that there must be a submission on my part before there could be peace. If I had been a mere machine; if there had been no life in me, kindled from the life of God, and vital with freedom, the gift of God — I might have submitted long ago, and laid myself down upon the earth, feeling no pain when trampled upon. But it was otherwise. I had an individuality — a mental and moral organization — different from yours; a soul, God-owned, not husband-owned; a nature with instinctive needs, and capacities for joy or sorrow, independent even of its own volitions. I had no power to lay my hand upon my suffering heart, and say, 'Peace, be still!' Too blind in his selfish pride to comprehend anything of this, was John Hardy. But let all that go with the rest. The husband's heart is dead. Yet if there is a living pulse in the father's heart, let it beat with something of a father's true feeling for his child. Do not send her away from home! Do not cloud her young life! Do not make the days weary and dark, which should be bright and warm with sunshine."
"Poor fool!" Yes, these were the cruel, heartless words that fell from the lips of Mr. Hardy, as he turned away in blind anger, and left the room.
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