CHAPTER 20 The Withered Heart!
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It was perhaps an hour after Mrs. Percival took leave of Mrs. Hardy, that the latter started from a deep reverie at the sound of her husband's voice. The day was drawing to a close, and Mr. Hardy had returned from business. The perpetual shadow resting over his home — the coldness of the fireside circle — the absence of loving acts towards one who had not inspired love — all tended to sober, and, in a degree, to sadden the spirit of Mr. Hardy, who remained cold, dignified, and exacting.
Of all this, his wife had been thinking; and memory had carried her back to the early times, when her young husband, in his eagerness to compass the blessings of the home he coveted, had trampled upon her feelings, and put out the light that was to warm, and cheer, and make beautiful his dwelling; and she remembered how, ever since, they had walked on, side by side, in darkness. If her life had been a sad and dreary one — had not his been cheerless? Even if he had been wrong — nay, cruel — was he not also a sufferer? A new feeling stirred in the bosom of Mrs. Hardy — a feeling of pity for her husband. Like a stranger in a crowded city, he was in a certain sense alone in the midst of his family. All treated him with respect; yet none seemed to love him. Even the youngest hushed their merry voices, when he entered the room where they played.
As Mr. Hardy came into the room where his wife was sitting, the latter raised her eyes to his face; a thing unusual, for her habit was to avoid giving him direct eye contact. Each saw in the countenance of the other, an expression that caused the gaze to linger. What Mr. Hardy saw, was a something gentle, womanly, and tender; for the heart of his wife was speaking in her eye.
"How are you today, Jane?" He spoke kindly, and with a real interest in his voice. How many, many years had passed, since that voice had in it the slightest melody for her ears! But now it awoke pleasing emotions.
"I feel quite well," she answered, in a low even tone, while the expression of her face had in it something agreeable to the eyes that looked upon it half in wonder.
"Are you as well as usual?" Mrs. Hardy gazed with some earnestness at her husband. There was a change in his countenance, which she had not observed before.
"Quite as well," he replied. "Why do you ask?" he added, after a pause.
"I thought you had a weary look," said Mrs. Hardy, with so real an interest in her voice — not designed, but spontaneous — that her husband was touched with a feeling of tenderness unusual to this cold nature. "I am often weary with the day's care and labour," he replied, "and glad when the hour of rest comes."
Mrs. Hardy said no more, but her eyes, that lingered upon his face, had a new light in them — the light of kindness. She thought of this care and labour to which he referred, and remembered that it was not all for himself — that she was a sharer in the benefit; and that he never withheld anything from her that money could buy, if she desired its possession; while the home he provided for her and his children was not only elegant, but luxurious.
"Have I done all in my power to make this home a pleasant one for my husband?" The question intruded itself almost rebukingly. "As a wife, have I done my duty?" Self-conviction answered, "No!"
Mr. Hardy was surprised; nay, more, he was pleased at this new aspect in his wife's manner, which broke upon him like a sun-ray falling suddenly through a rifted cloud. Very gentle was his demeanour towards her all through the evening that followed, and very guarded was he in speech and tone, lest he should call back the old, leaden aspect to her face, and change the grateful warmth of her present manner — to the cold exterior she had so long worn.
The children noted the change, and a quieter tone of feeling pervaded their spirits. They drew around him with more loving instincts; and, instead of repelling them, as was too often the case — he rather invited their confidence. His speech was more subdued, and his whole air so different from its usual aspect, that a pleasing wonder filled their minds.
Mr. Hardy noted this evening as the most agreeable that he had passed at home, in the midst of his family, for many years. Its remembrance was with him the next morning, and the desire also to pass many more such evenings. Like a desert-wanderer, faint through long journeying under the exhausting sun, he had come to a spring beneath the palm-trees; he had paused for rest and refreshment; and now he felt stronger to move on again.
The first words spoken to him that day by his wife — how rare a thing was it for her voice to reach his ears burdened with any outgoing interest! — took the form of a question as to whether she could not render him a service. With a pleased manner, he accepted the offer, so kindly made. Not in the least obtrusive was Mrs. Hardy. The change in her conduct was simply a change from cold indifference — to a sincere interest.
Very careful was her husband, not to say or do anything that could disturb this new and better state of mind. How different from his usual conduct! So accustomed had he become to the utterance of unkind words, as the simple expression of his unkind feelings, that another form of speech was almost new to him; and he was in danger every moment of acting from the old habit, instead of the new purpose. Once, as they sat at the breakfast table, he forgot himself, and spoke to her with a cold sneer on his lip. He looked for a total change in her manner — for the instant going out of the light, the first faint rays of which had fallen upon him with such a genial warmth. How deeply did he regret his weakness, and blame himself for unkindness.
Almost stealthily did he lift his eyes to his wife's face to see if the old expression had returned. No — it was not there! The long lashes had fallen until they made a dark line on her cheeks, and her lips were closed rather more tightly than usual. If there was any change in her countenance, it was a look of regret, softened by a spirit of enduring patience. A kind word soon dropped from his lips, and he had the pleasure of seeing its hoped-for effect.
All day, from the time he left home in the morning, till his return at night-fall, was Mr. Hardy pondering this change in his wife's manner, and wondering at its origin. No event had occurred, to which he could trace it. There had been no change in him. He had been as hard, and cold, and selfishly exacting, as ever; and even on the very morning of the preceding day, had permitted himself to speak to her with more than usual unkindness. Almost the first thing observed by him on coming home again, was a little arrangement for his comfort — a trifle in itself, yet evincing a thoughtful anticipation of his wishes. Its nature left no doubt as to the hand to which he was indebted for the service. He was touched and rebuked.
The meeting between himself and his wife was quiet, and slightly reserved on both sides; yet in the manner of each, there was a new spirit of kindness. Doubly guarded was Mr. Hardy, lest, in a thoughtless moment, he should wound a sensitive nature, which he now felt prompted to shield from assault.
The deep, interior gratification felt by Mrs Hardy, at the favourable change in her husband, following so quickly upon a change in her own manner towards him — was not unmingled with painful regrets for past neglect of duty.
"Ah!" she said, "if I have suffered — have I not also occasioned suffering! If my cup has been very bitter — has not his been bitter also? A wife should be as the sun in her husband's dwelling; but I have not been even as the moon or stars!"
A deep sigh passed her lips. It reached her husband's ears; and — a thing unusual — did not fret him as of old, though he was a man who had no sympathy with sighs and tears. Much easier than she had hoped to find them, were the new duties which Mrs. Hardy had prescribed for herself. The first effort was, perhaps, the most difficult. It was hard to forget self — to change the habits of years — to be kind towards and thoughtful of another who had made her life wretched beyond the power of words to express. But after a beginning was made — and, more particularly, after the unexpected change in her husband's manner, which that beginning had produced — the task was easier, and her reward was with her.
From that time forth, Mrs. Hardy walked in a plainer way, and there was light ahead. Upon this light she fixed her eyes, and moved steadily onward. If, from the force of habit, thought inverted upon itself, and old melancholy states began to return — she found, in a sympathetic regard for the good of others, a sustaining and a comforting power. The ground of her mind thus prepared, a religious principle took deep root. But hers was not a mere religion of pious forms, or sanctimonious observances; it was a religion whose essential worship of God was evinced in a life of daily charity. Circumscribed was this charity, mainly by the bounds of her home-circle; but it had scope enough for exercise there.
One only friend could open the door of her heart; but that friend was not her husband. To him it was closed forever. Once he had the key, and might have entered in and possessed it as a kingdom. But that time had long since passed, and would no more return.
There is always an attractive beauty in the truly Christian spirit, let who will be its possessor; and only what is unselfish is truly Christian. Even the selfish can see an attraction about everyone who acts unselfishly. The power of this new principle — the fruit of daily effort as well as of daily prayer to Him who alone can lift the heart out of its natural loves, which all turn inwards — gave to the whole life of Mrs. Hardy, at least in the eyes of her husband, a dignity which claimed respect, and a nameless charm that extorted an almost unwilling admiration.
After the first few weeks of wonder on Mr. Hardy's part, and an effort on the part of his wife to be and to seem all that her position required of her, the new order of things moved on with an easy progression. Prompt, kind, considerate of all around her, and especially considerate of her husband, Mrs. Hardy removed the temptation to oppress her, out of his way. Never claiming anything for herself, never seeming to think of herself, but always seeking to benefit others, or to give them pleasure — it was impossible for him to feel unkindness, or to find occasion for blame.
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