CHAPTER 22 The Withered Heart!
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Happy would it be for the world, if evil consequences died away, when those die who have perpetrated the evil, and originated its dire results. But wrong as well as right, has a reproductive power; and the circle of baneful influence, no less than that of influence for good — is ever growing wider and wider. It is with our every action, as it is with the first disturbing force which ripples the lake's placid surface, and thus stirs into existence a hundred concentric circles, which spread away in the distance until the eye is baffled in its attempts to trace and number them.
On this principle it is, that we feel constrained to furnish the SEQUEL without which our narrative would be incomplete. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy slumbered in the grave; but being dead, they yet spoke. There were those living who had been moulded under their training, who had lived in their presence, who had been witnesses of their home-life.
Helen, the eldest sister, as she advanced along the cycle of womanhood, and as all the pure excellence of her character impressed itself in beauty on her countenance, won the love of many; and not a few were the suitors who came to her, speaking words that rarely sound in a maiden's ear without causing her heart to thrill. When she recalled so much of her mother's history as she could comprehend, it made her shudder and shrink back from the thought of marriage. She felt that she dared not take the chance. And yet, true woman as she was, she felt a deep yearning for companionship — and for a love, the foundations of which were laid far down in the deep places of her soul.
Among the suitors for the hand of Helen, was a young man named Edward Linton. He was worthy to possess her; and to say thus much, is to make a large admission in his favour. As he approached — she receded; as he sought to unlock the door of her heart — she double-bolted it upon the inside.
"I have seen one heart withered up — one life made wretched beyond the power of language to describe," she said to herself, "and I will not venture the precious freight of a woman's love in one frail human vessel. I will not put it in the power of any man to trample upon a heart that prefers loneliness to wrong — and unsatisfied yearnings to a cruel bondage."
Yet, even as she said this to fortify her resolutions, the sound of Edward Linton's voice echoed faintly, but very musically, from some far-off chamber of her soul, which it had reached in spite of all the interposing barriers.
Edward was one of the successors to her father's business, and also an executor under his will. This naturally brought them frequently together in a business-relation, and made his visits to the family almost a thing of course. With Helen's brothers and sisters, he was a favourite; and his place in her own regard was higher than that of any man she had ever met. Had her life-experiences been different — had there been with her no haunting memories of woman's wedded wrongs — her heart would have leaped to his words of love with a joyful impulse. As it was, she closed her ears, and resolutely repressed her inmost feelings.
But, with Edward Linton, the love of this pure and beautiful maiden was no passing emotion. Not suddenly had it been born; for there was such a shy reserve about Helen — such a shrinking away from observation — that he did not at first comprehend her true worth. When once he did, the entrance-way for any other love was closed forever in his heart.
It was on a pleasant June evening, that he ventured to speak plainly of the love which he had already manifested in a thousand little acts and words which no maiden could misunderstand. They were walking home from a friend's house, at which Edward had called for her — not by appointment, but of his own accord, and with the express purpose of securing an opportunity to tell her of what was first in his thought at morning-dawn, and last in his thought when the night-shadows closed in temporary oblivion around him. He did not feel the hand tremble which rested on his arm; nor was there any visible emotion in the low, sweet voice — always sweet to his ears — which answered,
"Be to me a brother, Edward — and let me be as your sister. I shall never marry."
"Oh, Helen! Helen! you must recall these words," said Edward, with a grief in his tones which could not be concealed; for he was unprepared to meet so calmly-spoken, and so distinct a denial of his suit.
"Never!" With what a deep, calm earnestness was the word spoken.
"Never!" It was repeated with even a deeper emphasis.
"Never!" she added, as if to extinguish all hope in the mind of her lover.
"Helen!" The young man grasped her hand, and held it very tightly, even though she made a feeble effort to remove it. "Helen — dear Helen! This must not be. I will not say over again, the words I have just spoken; nor add others of like import. Truly have I told you of my love — a love that can never die. If I am one you cannot love — "
"No, Edward," was the quick answer, breaking in upon the words he was about to utter; "as a friend and brother, you are more highly esteemed than any other. Be to me still a friend and brother. But seek no nearer relationship — for I am resolved to pass through this mortal existence unfettered and free. No man's happiness, shall be marred by the inharmonious action of my life, and I will not risk the destruction of my own, through lack of harmony in another's life indissolubly linked to mine."
"Oh, Helen! — Sister! — if you will let me call you by no dearer name — but sister only now — in what false school have you learned this strange philosophy?"
"I have learned it in the stern school of life, Edward," was answered with unwavering calmness. "Very early I took my first lessons — very early were my eyes opened to the real, sad, heart-breaking realities around me; and I have been a learner and an observer ever since. That my mother was not a happy woman, I need not tell you, Edward; and yet she was a true, loving woman, capable of the highest happiness — a truer, better, and more loving woman than I am, or ever shall be. If she had not married, her life would have passed along beautifully and tranquilly, like a pleasant stream through grassy meadows. But it fretted and chafed for years amid rocky channels; was lost for a time in the hot sands of an arid desert; and only became clear and fertilizing at last, through God's infinite pity for one of His wronged and suffering children."
"If she had not married," said the young man, slowly and impressively, "you would never have been born. Think of that, and then tell me whether her life, even though passed in suffering, was a vain life? Can you turn your consciousness inward, and after considering yourself as you are, wish that you had never received the gift of being — or, that you had been endowed with any other individuality than your own?"
"Your questions bewilder me, Edward," said the maiden, seeming almost to catch her breath.
"Try to answer them to your own satisfaction," he replied.
"I can never hope to do that. As I am, God made me — and I ask not to be changed, except from evil to good. But as for marriage, that is a new condition of life, voluntarily assumed. I have thought long and often of this matter, Edward — I have deeply pondered it in my heart, and you know my life-enduring conclusion. I will not trust my happiness in the keeping of any man. The risk is too great."
"You may safely trust it in my hands," was the answer, in tones of winning tenderness.
"It is in vain, Edward. I question not your high honour, nor your deep sincerity. But no man can rightly understand a woman. There are needs in her nature — capacities of loving and suffering — which lie too deep down in her soul for the plummet-line of his perceptions to reach. No, Edward — I understand myself too well, to risk everything on the experiment of marriage. Not only would I be the loser, if the experiment were to prove disastrous — you would be a sufferer also. Bound together for life, in bonds that no human hands could unloose — both of us would be wretched. If I were miserable — could you be happy? Impossible!"
"It grieves me to hear you speak thus, Helen," replied her lover, "grieves me deeply for your sake as well as my own. Your views have become strangely warped — your feelings are morbid, not healthy."
"Just the reason why I should not marry, Edward — and one of the reasons why I will not I admit all you say. My life has not been a healthy one. I have had experiences that changed the child-life into the woman's-life too early, and gave to it a morbidly sensitive development. I would be forever in danger of misapprehension. An unkind look, would be to me a blow; an unkind word, a death-wound! No — no, Edward. Pass on your way. Seek another companion, and let me work out my life-problem alone. Perhaps we may — "
But she suddenly checked the utterance of what was in her thoughts.
"Perhaps what, Helen? Speak on."
"I have no more to say, Edward."
How evenly, almost coldly, this was said!
"Take up the whole subject again?" urged the young man, almost imploringly, as he was about parting with her that night. "There is a true marriage, as well as a false one, and its crown is unimagined felicity. Dear Helen! ours, believe me, will be a true marriage."
They had entered her house, and were sitting together. Helen turned her face, so that the light fell upon it; and Edward saw that it was pale and very sad — showing a depth of emotion which her voice had not betrayed.
"As a friend and brother, Edward," she replied, "I bear towards you a warm affection. No deeper sentiment can be admitted into my heart. If you will continue to be as a friend and brother — well. If not, let our ways in life diverge here; for, believe me, they can have no closer parallel!"
For many minutes, Edward Linton sat silent and motionless. He then said —
"Answer me one question, and truly, Helen."
"I will answer one, or two, or three," she replied. "But let it be understood, that, with this interview, the subject closes forever."
"Is there anything about me which repels you?"
"Nothing," was the prompt, free-spoken word that fell from her lips.
"Have you seen in my character any trait the existence of which, if you were my wife, would destroy your happiness?"
"No, Edward, I have not."
"One question more, and the last — Have you ever loved another?"
"Never! Never! My heart, Edward, is a sealed book."
"Enough," said the young man, rising, "I accept all you will give me — the love of a sister and friend."
He would have said more, but his heart was too deeply moved. Almost crushing the small hand he held at parting, he uttered the words, "Good night!" and turning away, went slowly from the house. It was night with him, and one that continued long before the breaking of day.
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