CHAPTER 21 The Withered Heart!
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Gradually, his whole treatment of his wife assumed a new character. Daily, since that memorable evening on which he had noted a gentler expression on her face, had she continued changing in his eyes, growing more and more like the true woman of his imagination — yet seeming all the while to recede farther from him.
And she did recede farther and farther every day, rapidly acquiring spiritual qualities and characteristics so different from those of her husband, that actual heart-sympathy was impossible.
Wonderful also was the change in Mrs. Hardy's countenance.
First, the deadly pallor gave place to the faintest life-tints; and the inward-looking, lustreless eyes, grew bright with feeling. Their old depths of beauty were restored. She had once been very lovely. This charm had faded away, until, to common eyes, but little that was attractive remained.
Yet now her beauty was again renewed — not the old beauty, which was of the earth, earthly — but a new beauty, which was of Heaven, heavenly — the beauty as of an angel!
Between Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Percival, the closest intimacy continued. They were, indeed, sister-spirits. Both had passed through the fire, and both were purer from the ordeal. Mrs. Percival was wiser and stronger; and though the anguish of her soul had been great — no faltering of step or fainting by the way had occurred.
As a true woman, she had now drawn to the side of a suffering sister, and extended a hand for support and guidance. Wise had been her counsels, loving her ministrations, faithful to the highest good her friendship. Neither was happy in her marriage-relation; neither had found the soul's true companion; yet, in no instance, in all their confidential fellowship, had either of them uttered a reproach against her husband. Concerning the gentlemen, no words involving censure were allowed to escape them. That was an indelicacy of which neither was capable. And yet both fully comprehended the other's position; and each gained strength from the other to act the wife's part faithfully and lovingly.
Two years of a new and better life for Mrs. Hardy passed on, altering her whole appearance to such a degree, that all who remembered her former drooping form, and shrunken, depressed countenance, wondered as they looked upon her. To her husband she was a mystery, and had been so from the beginning of this new state. Had he ever comprehended her?
And now, another cycle in her life seemed to have been completed; for there was another change. The feeble, exhausted body, which had caught a fresh vigor from the re-animating spirit, and had put on the beautiful semblance of health, began to fail — steadily, but surely. The cheek paled once more, the step grew slow and feeble, the eye weary. Before the day went down, the delicate framework of her body was oppressed by exhaustion.
Quickest to note these symptoms was her husband, and first to propose change and relaxation. All that care and kindness on his part could do — all that the physician's art could accomplish — availed not. The life-sources of her being were exhausted. Daily she became thinner and more pale, until she seemed only a shadow that might soon flit away.
Even amid all this wasting of the feeble body and waning of its life, she grew more and more attractive in her husband's eyes. He felt the angelic purity of her character, and trembled as the fatal truth of her speedy removal grew daily more apparent. How he longed to win the love of her purified spirit — to draw her into himself — to possess her as his own; and he became the more eager, as the steady recession of her spirit went on, and the sad conviction intruded itself that, in a very little while, he would see her on earth no more.
In no case did Mrs. Hardy repel her husband. Gentle, kind, earnest, thoughtful — she never failed in service until the accumulation of good deeds really oppressed him.
"Do not think so much of my comfort, Jane," he would sometimes remark, when met by new proofs of her loving care for his pleasure, "think more of yourself."
Mr. Hardy felt the heavenly warmth of the smile that would play around her lips and over her countenance; but the source of that smile was hidden from his eyes. It lay too far down in the deep places of her soul, for his dim vision to reach. It was born of heavenly joy, at the recognition that a truer and better life was kindling in the heart of one who had long been ruled by the spirit of selfishness.
How the strong man bowed himself at the feet of angelic beauty! He was as gentle as a child — as tender as a woman — as devoted as a lover. All the hours of the day seemed spent in thoughtful care for his wife. In the morning he lingered at her bedside; in the evening he hastened home to take his place near her pillow, and hold within his grasp, her shadowy hand. What a new spirit pervaded the household! What a new life was there among the children! It had been one of the things nearest to the heart of the failing wife and mother, to create a true sympathy between the children and their father — so that when she passed from among them, they might draw together by the powerful attraction of love. And she had not worked in vain.
For a time, indeed, Helen remained like ice towards her father. Thought and perception had, through his cruelty in separating her from her mother, acquired too rapid a development; and the woman's instincts gained maturity faster than the woman's self-controlling reason.
The cold selfishness of her father had shocked and repelled her, and there had been periods when, but for her mother, she would have fled from his presence. At length, Mrs. Hardy succeeded in creating in the mind of her daughter, a feeling of kindness towards the father. She began by assigning to her the daily performance of a certain service that she knew would gratify him. An expression of pleasure on his part, was Helen's first reward; then followed a word of praise, when he learned to whose hand he was indebted for a daily service. From that time, a new state of feeling was created in the heart of each. The father and child drew together with an hourly increasing affection, and joined hands lovingly in the work of ministering to the angel of their house, whose wings were already lifting themselves, and ready for the departure.
For the first time in his life, the conviction forced itself upon the mind of John Hardy, that John Hardy was not right — that, in his stern persistence, he had been wrong! What a conviction for a man of his character! What a world of blind, cruel selfishness was revealed to his inward glancing vision, as light broke in!
The strong man bowed his head, yes, and his humbled spirit also, to the dust. Memory suddenly became an avenger, holding in her vigorous hand, a whip of scorpions, as she steadily turned over the leaves of his book of life. How earnestly he tried to look away from the past; to shut his eyes, as page after page was unfolded, and the accusing record shown! But that was impossible. What had been done — could not be undone.
Steadily waned the life of Mrs. Hardy, and every day the eyes of watchful love saw new signs of the speedily coming dissolution of soul and body.
"We shall meet again," said the husband, as he sat alone with her, holding her small shadowy hand in his, just as the twilight began to draw its dusky curtains around them. His voice trembled; for he had spoken in answer to her remark that, in a very little while, she must pass away.
"I know not how that may be," she said, very quietly, and fixing her large, glittering eyes upon his face. "In the world to which I am going, the laws are not as the laws of this world, John."
"Oh, Jane! what am I to understand by this?" There was grief in the tones of his voice.
"Only," she replied," that God alone knows our internal states, by which the future is determined. If it is well with us as to these — we need have no concern."
Mr. Hardy felt the words of his wife like sharp thrusts of glittering steel. How calmly she spoke! What a placid, almost angelic expression was in her countenance, as she talked of the laws of the future life — laws which, if they really prevailed, would hold them apart forever!
"I know not how that may be. In the world to which I am going, the laws are not as the laws of this world." Such was her calm, even-toned answer to his almost tearfully-uttered assurance of a meeting after death. It was thus, she removed from under his feet the frail support on which they rested as the waters of sorrow began to roar around him. He covered his face with his hands, and sat silent for many minutes.
"Can you not forgive the past? Oh, Jane! If, through blind error, I wronged you once, have I not sought in all possible ways to make atonement?" Mr. Hardy looked up and spoke with a sudden energy.
A shadow dimmed the face of his wife, and tears sprung to her eyes.
"We have both need of forgiveness, John," she replied; "I, perhaps, most of all. We cannot conceal from ourselves, if we would, that the current of our lives did not run smoothly at the beginning, nor for a long time afterwards. The cords that bound us together were not silken, and light as gossamer to bear; but heavy and galling as links of iron. I blame myself in many things. I was not a true, self-forgetting, loving wife to you, John. I did not make your home a happy one. I struggled, and fretted, and made myself wretched — when I should have thought of your comfort, and striven, in fulfilment of my marriage vows, to make you happy!"
"Dear Jane! say no more! Your words pierce me like arrows!" Mr. Hardy laid a finger upon her lips. "Oh, if the scales had sooner fallen from my eyes!"
"If I had helped you to remove them," said Mrs. Hardy, almost mournfully, "both would have suffered less. But I was young, and weak from years of indulgence by the tenderest of fathers. I did not comprehend your needs and wishes — and you did not understand me. I never meant to act in opposition, and never did, wilfully and perversely. I never intended to give you pain. But I could not hide all signs of anguish, when your words were accusations. Nor could I always look smiling and cheerful, when my heart was aching. I say this now, only that you may do me justice in your thoughts: for I would not have you think of me, after I am gone, as one who, designedly, and for the purpose of gratifying an evil purpose, made the home cheerless which she had promised to fill with sunlight.
God gave me power afterwards to rise above the weakness of my nature; and I was able to be to you, my husband, all that I desired to be from the beginning. If you had helped me, and borne with me at the first; if you had been gentler and more forbearing; if you had laid your hand lightly on what seemed wrong; if you had regarded me as a weak, inexperienced girl, sensitive to a fault, yet full of the purest love for you — and not as a matured, thoughtful woman, with a strong purpose to have her own way — you would have judged me more correctly, and it would have been better for us both. But the past is past, and I turn to it only for justice — not in order to wound. Forgive me for what I have now said, if it has given you any pain. I cannot, in parting with you, perhaps forever, leave on your mind the impression that I ever meant to be anything but a true wife."
"Forever, Jane? Forever? Oh, do not say that word! Let me hear your lips recall it!"
And Mr. Hardy bent over her with a countenance full of anguish.
Mrs. Hardy, after a slight pause, resolved on giving utterance to the following truths, just because they were truths, and best therefore to be spoken, even if they failed in affording any present comfort. There were few signs of earthly emotion in her low voice, musical though it was with angelic affections.
"A woman's heart, John, is a strange instrument, and few men have learned to play upon it skilfully. In most cases, the bold hand is dashed roughly amid its delicate strings, shattering some, straining others, and silencing forever, chords which would have thrilled with delightful harmonies. It is woman's nature to love. To her, love is an eternal necessity. But this love is a free principle. No power in earth can bind its impulses. It goes forth spontaneously and takes hold, like a vine, upon some manly nature, seeking to give beauty and grace, and lifting itself up thereby into higher and purer regions. It binds its arms gently, yet firmly, around this sustaining manhood, and bears its fruitful clusters of blessing. And the more it is cherished and protected — the stronger it grows, and the more intimately and lovingly does it entwine itself amid all the outspreading branches. There is nothing hard, nor harsh — nothing of opposition or contention — nothing of proud self-sustaining isolation in the nature of a true woman. She asks only the right to love — and the joy of being loved in return.
"In this world, where hearts are hidden things, and woman must believe where she cannot see — must take loving words and acts in the full confidence that they are true words and acts — it too often happens, that her lot is one of wretchedness. The fair exterior of manhood, so attractive in her eyes, often proves to be a false exterior. She finds nothing in his affection or his principles with which she can truly harmonize; and, though she may live with him dutifully, and even in some appearance of love, yet is there no true union of the heart — no marriage in the higher sense."
Mr. Hardy had bowed his head while she was speaking. It was some moments before he looked up. When he did so, his face was paler, his eyes were heavy, and his countenance wore a drooping aspect. What sharp arrows of conviction were in the words which had been spoken by his wife!
Neither made any further remark for some time, and then the theme was changed. Not again, even remotely, was the subject of their unhappy lives referred to by either. Mrs. Hardy had spoken only from a sense of duty. If pain followed her words, it was a beneficial pain.
A few days later, and the closing scene arrived. With the last fluttering of her pulse, the last faint sigh that parted her lips and gently moved her bosom, Mr. Hardy felt that he had indeed parted with his wife; and, he feared, forever! God had given him, as a companion, a true, loving spirit, who would have been an angel in his house; but in his selfish blindness, he had wronged and cruelly oppressed her from the outset; and when his eyes were opened, and he saw the celestial beauty of her character, she was fading from the earth, and rising upwards. It was too late! — Alas! alas! how many, like him, have made a similar discovery too late!
A different man was he from that time forth. Among the last words of his dying wife were these: "Be tender with Helen — she is more like me than any of the rest." Did he forget them? No! They seemed constantly sounding in his ears. In form and features, as well as in disposition, Helen was like her mother; and now that the mother's presence was removed, this likeness grew daily more apparent. In stature, carriage, and voice, she resembled her mother, as much as in countenance and disposition. And so a living remembrance of the lost one was ever kept before the father's mind.
His thoughtful, never-wearying, affectionate care, now turned with undying devotion upon his eldest child — who had felt towards him an almost entire alienation, and whose remembrances of the past were painfully vivid. But he won, at last, her love and confidence; and warm affection took the place of duty.
Mr. Hardy aged rapidly after the death of his wife. He separated himself almost entirely from general society, and lived a kind of hermit-life in the bosom of his family. Four years later, and prematurely old, stooping and life-weary — he laid down the burden of mortality.
Helen was still unmarried; but her life was beautiful. She was the maiden sister, caring for all, beloved by all, and diffusing around her a heavenly atmosphere which made her presence an inspiration. And so her existence moved on like a quiet stream, glassing the daily sunshine, and bearing along its way, health, and greenness, and beauty.
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