CHAPTER 16 The Withered Heart!
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The first letter received by Mr. Hardy from the principal of the school to which Helen was sent, or rather taken by her father, had in it this sentence:
"So far we have been unable to gain any encouraging access to the mind of your daughter. It is just one week since you left her here, and she has scarcely tasted food, or ceased weeping, during the whole time. I am afraid that she will become seriously ill."
Within this letter, which gave the darker shade of the picture, was contained another in which Helen was spoken of as getting on tolerably well, and becoming daily better pleased with the change.
This was for the mother's eyes! How the consistent, truth-loving John Hardy reconciled this duplicity with his strong sense of right, is a problem we will not stop to solve. His answer was on this tenor. We take only a few sentences from his letter:
"Time and perseverance accomplish all things. The state of my daughter's mind only illustrates what I said to you concerning the morbid development of her character under a one-sided home influence. You see, that she has scarcely any endurance, self-reliance, or self-denial. A few years longer under the old state of things, and she must have been totally ruined. Be firm with her. Do not abate a single iota in the rule of conduct required. This discipline may be painful, but it must be beneficial. I think you may rest satisfied of one thing, that her external condition is more grievous than her internal state. I will not call her deceitful; but I am quite ready to believe, that, in order to work upon all our feelings, she will assume quite as much as she endures, and a great deal more. Be patient with her for a little while, and all will come right."
A week later, and the principal of the institute wrote: "I cannot say that there is any change for the better. Helen, it is true, comes into her class, studies the lessons we assign her, and manifests a willingness to comply with all the rules of the school. But a smile has never been seen on her sad face; and in no instance has anyone entered her room, when she was alone there, without finding her in tears. I am afraid of the effect which this forced removal from home may have upon her health."
"I will take the responsibility as to her health," wrote back Mr. Hardy. "She will tire of weeping in the end. The fact that she is giving her mind to her studies, I regard as an encouraging one. It is to increased mental activity, that I look for the beginning of a beneficial change. As her thoughts become more and more engaged with the realities presented in her lessons, sentimental feeling will subside. I am encouraged."
Helen wrote every week to her mother — this was as often as the father would permit. The letters came through his hands, and were suppressed. A single paragraph, extracted from the first of these, will show their tenor, and the state of mind in which she wrote:
"I am trying to be patient, and to study. Everybody is kind to me, and everybody seems to pity me. I am very unhappy. O mother! dear mother! Can't you come and see me? I would give the world to look into your face again, and feel your arms around my neck. Ask father to let you come. Tell him that if he will just let you visit me once, I shall be a great deal better afterwards. Oh, it seems to me as if I would die, if do not see you!"
Mr. Hardy crumpled the letter in his hand impatiently, and threw it into the fire! "Die" he muttered, half in contempt. "How soon the girl puts on the woman! Women are always going to die, if things don't shape themselves to their wishes. But dying is not so easily accomplished!"
Two, three, four, five weeks went slowly by, dragging to the heart-sick child their weary train of hours along; and, in all that time, there came not a single line or token from her mother. Her father's letters, filled with good advice, and written quite as much for the eyes of the principal of the school as for her own, came regularly, but they I had not a word in them about her mother. Rendered desperate at last, the poor child wrote these brief words to her father:
"I am coming home. I do not wish to disobey you, and therefore shall not wait for you to forbid my coming. You can punish me in any manner that you think I deserve. But no punishment is so fearful to think of, as what I now endure. Helen."
Two days after this letter was written, Helen stood on the threshold of her father's house, and on being admitted by the astonished servant, rushed wildly upstairs, calling out, "Mother! Mother! Dear mother! Where are you, mother?" But the mother's voice answered not. Into the nursery she burst, with the word "Mother!" flung eagerly from her lips. There were all her sisters and brothers, and a strange but matronly-looking woman sitting among them.
"Oh, Helen!" exclaimed the sisters in surprise, starting forward to meet her.
"Where is mother?" cried the bewildered girl. "Oh, where is mother?" A sudden pallor overspread her face.
"Your mother is not here," said the strange woman, rising and coming towards Helen.
"Where is she?" A wild, demanding emphasis was in the young girl's voice.
"Mother is ill, and they look her away from here last week," said one of the younger children.
There was a meaning in this answer instantly comprehended, and with a cry of anguish, which chilled the heart of the stranger, Helen fell backwards. The woman caught her in her arms, before her form struck the floor.
Mr. Hardy was sent for instantly — also the family-physician. The anger of the former, when he saw Helen at home, was stronger than his pity, and stronger than his alarm at the condition in which he found her. He had not really believed her threat. The serious air of the physician, and the grave, searching nature of his queries, soon changed the character of Mr. Hardy's feelings. Dr. Fairfax pressed upon him question after question in regard to Helen's state of mind at school, as well as the causes of her sudden return against the wishes of her father; and did it so closely and rapidly, that considerably more was admitted by Mr. Hardy than he liked to own, or than he would have owned, if he had not been thrown off his guard.
"This is a serious matter," remarked the physician, as he sat looking anxiously into the thin, death-like face of the child. "Helen is of too sensitive an organization to come into rough contact with the world, or to bear any sudden shocks.
Did she know of her mother's illness?"
"Not a word, until now," was answered. The physician asked no more questions, but set himself earnestly to the work of restoration. In about an hour, Helen was so far recovered as to recognize her sisters. Returning consciousness was followed by violent weeping. Mr. Hardy had been taken from the room by the doctor, as soon as signs of life were observed; and, when they were alone, the latter said — "As far as I am able to understand your daughter's case, it appears that she has left school without your consent, and returned home; and this while in entire ignorance of her mother's unhappy condition, the first intimations of which, on her arrival, so shocked her feelings as to produce a state of unconsciousness. Now, justly displeased as you may be on account of her disobedience, let me caution you not to say anything on the subject at present. There is no calculating the mental injury she may already have sustained; and if you add to her sufferings, the smart of your displeasure — the worst consequences may follow. Poor child! To what a sad consciousness is she now returning!"
Mr. Hardy promised all that the physician required. The serious tone and countenance with which the latter had admonished him, forced into his mind some unpleasant convictions. Doubts also intruded themselves. He might have been too rigid in the execution of his purposes. But he had "meant all for the best."
When the doctor returned to the chamber where he had left Helen with her attendants, he went in alone — Mr. Hardy, at his request, remaining behind. She was so far restored as to recognize him instantly; and her first words, as he bent over her, were:
"Does father know that I am here?"
"Yes, he knows it."
"Tell him not to send me back to school, Doctor, will you?" She spoke in an imploring voice, and raised herself partly from the pillow as she spoke. "I can't go there again — I would rather die!"
"He will not send you back, Helen," replied the doctor confidently.
"He is very angry with me; I know he is!" she whispered, looking with a terrified countenance towards the door. "But I couldn't help coming home, Doctor. I wanted to see my mother so much — my mother, from whom not one word had come to me from the hour I left her! O Doctor! where is she? Tell me! for I must know!" And her eyes glanced wildly about the room.
As best he could, the doctor soothed and assured her; and then commanded absolute repose and silence. But how easy to command these! — how fruitless, at times, the command! As well might we say to the heart, "Cease your pulsations, and yet give life to the body!" Helen could not rest — could not be silent. "Where is my mother? Tell me of my mother!" This was her incessant cry.
"Your mother has been very ill," said the doctor. But for this, she would have written to you."
"Why did they not tell me of it? Why did they not send for me?" she demanded, in so firm and self-possessed a voice, that the doctor looked at her thin, pale, almost child-like face, with surprise.
"You could not have helped her by your presence. It was, therefore, thought wisest not to distress you by the painful news."
"Where is she now?"
The doctor was silent.
"Is she in the house?"
"No."
"In the Asylum?"
"My dear child!" said the kind doctor, laying his hand upon the excited girl, and gently bearing her back upon the pillow from which she had arisen, "this must not be! You do yourself great harm. Wait until you are better and stronger — then I will answer all your questions."
"I shall never be better nor stronger, Doctor, until the questions are answered," was the firm reply. "Is my mother in the Asylum?"
"She is."
A quick shudder ran through the poor girl's frame: and her white face turned to a more deathly hue. Her dark lashes fell slowly upon her cheeks, hiding the glassy luster of her eyes. The hands, lying across her bosom, drew together; and the fingers united in a firm clasp, as of one in prayer. And she did pray, for the lips moved in the sight of those who looked tearfully upon her. For a long time, there was no change in her position; but a visible change slowly passed over her countenance. It became more tranquil. At last, unclosing her eyes, she looked up to the doctor, who still remained at the bedside, and said in a low, steady voice —
"I will do all that you require." Then drawing his head down, she whispered —
"Be my friend, Doctor. Oh! Please be my friend!"
"Trust me, dear child," replied the physician, moved by this appeal. "I am, and will be, your true friend."
"How is she, Doctor?" asked Mr. Hardy calmly, as the physician came from the sick chamber.
"She is in a quiet, and, I trust, promising condition. If all disturbing causes are withdrawn, we may hope for a speedy recovery."
"I am afraid, when she learns all the truth about her mother, that the effect will be injurious."
"She has already guessed the truth." Mr. Hardy sighed deeply.
"Let me advise," said the doctor, your entire silence on this, and every other subject calculated to disturb her mind. Leave her entirely in my hands, and trust, as far as you can, to my judgment in her case. There is mental as well as bodily sickness — and a true physician should minister to both."
"She is in your hands," replied Mr. Hardy, almost meekly. "I trust you with the fullest confidence."
When the doctor came the next morning, he was surprised to find Helen sitting up, and looking, except for her pale face, but little like an invalid. Two of her sisters, and the stranger before mentioned, were in the room.
"I wish to see you alone, Doctor," said Helen, a little while after his entrance. Those who were in the room with them took the hint, and retired. There was a womanly self-possession about the slender girl that astonished the physician.
"I have asked no questions of anyone about my mother," she began, "since I received from you, yesterday, the information I sought. Now, I wish you to tell me all about her. The cause of her affliction, I believe I know."
"Do you?" The physician's face lighted instantly. "Then I ought to know it also; for on that knowledge, almost solely, may depend her cure. Speak to me freely, my child."
"We should never have been separated, Doctor. We cannot live apart. If she suffered all that I suffered, as weak as she was at the time I was forced away — I do not wonder at the dreadful consequences."
"Could that have been the cause, Helen?" The doctor seemed half incredulous.
"If you had seen my mother's face, as I saw it, when I looked upon it last, you would not doubt for a moment. We should never have been separated. But I say this only to you, Doctor. Father was wrong — he was hard — he was cruel; but only in your ears do I speak this; and it is for your ears alone. He meant right — father meant right. But tell me how she is?"
"Her mind has sadly wandered," said the doctor. "About a week after you went away, I was sent for, and found her in a strange condition. She had not slept, they told me, for a great many nights. There was a wild look in her eyes, and she had a rambling way of talking. She was dressed as if to go out, with the exception of not having on a bonnet; and she told me, in a confidential way, that she had been made a prisoner in the house by your father, and that she knew he wished to kill her, and would do so unless she could get away. I did all I could to quiet her fears; and for her sleepless condition, I prescribed powerful sedatives. On the second day sleep came, and she remained under the influence of morphine for three days. But her mind was yet astray. There still remained the idea that she was a prisoner, and her life in danger. About two weeks ago, she was discovered in the act of leaping from a window. I advised that she should be immediately removed to the Asylum, which was done."
"How is she now?" asked the eager listener, as soon as the doctor ceased speaking.
"Not as well as I could wish; yet, for the most part, she is in a tranquil state."
"Doctor," — Helen's manner was firm, "I must go to her, and remain with her."
The doctor shook his head.
"Don't say, No." she spoke with pleading earnestness. "The first wrong step was in our separation — that must be retraced. Let us begin here, if we would begin right. There is no other hope."
The doctor looked at the young girl, as her form seemed to rise into womanly dignity — with a feeling of amazement and admiration. Conviction forced itself upon his mind. He saw that she was right.
"We must wait a few days until you are stronger," said he; "the trial will be severe."
"Fearful consequences hang on every hour," replied Helen firmly, and with a maturity of expression that more than ever surprised the doctor. "There is not a moment to be lost. I am as strong for this duty today, as I shall ever be — nay, stronger!"
"I must consult your father."
"He will not consent, and the matter will only be made worse!"
The physician pondered for some moments. He saw, he felt, that Helen was right; yet his slower judgment came but tardily to the approval.
"Do you think you are strong enough to bear this trial?" he asked, with manifest concern.
"Stronger to bear that than to endure a single hour's absence from my dear, dear mother! O Doctor! take me to her at once. I feel as if my heart would burst with impatience!"
The good physician hesitated no longer, but gave his consent; and, as soon as Helen could be made ready to accompany him, took her in his carriage, and drove her out to the Asylum.
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