CHAPTER 3 The Withered Heart!
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"The heart that is soonest awake to the flowers
Is always the first to be touched by the thorns."
There are homes, pervaded by love, as an atmosphere — homes, in which heart meets heart as by the power of a mutual attraction — homes, where the blessed sunshine streams forever warm and golden across the threshold. Such was the early home of Jane Enfield. Her father was a man of high honour, tender feelings, and refined tastes. Her mother, just the woman that such a man would choose for a life-partner — gentle, loving, confiding, and exquisitely delicate in all her perceptions. Beautifully did they harmonize in all things; theirs was a marriage for eternity. In this union, two children only were born; and both were daughters, of whom Jane was the youngest by several years.
Very tenderly was she reared: very loving were all the ministrations of her home. To harsh reproofs, she was an entire stranger — but not so to gentle words of encouragement and praise. It was a theory with their father, that commendation of excellence is better for children, than blame for errors and defects. And he so fully acted out his theory, that in no instance was he ever known to utter a direct rebuke. Such was the mental organization of his youngest daughter, that she would have felt words of reproof as heavy blows, or as a blighting wind passing over the fragrant blossoms of her heart. They would have wrought a change in her whole character, saddening her spirit, and filling with clouds, the bright sky of her young and happy existence.
Mr. Enfield was a man who loved to praise, and this for all degrees of excellence. In his household, he was ever speaking words of approbation. As his daughters advanced towards womanhood, and achieved excellence in their varied studies and accomplishments, his pleasure was constantly finding expression. His tastes made him appreciative; and praise, coming from so good a judge, had in it an element of the highest pleasure.
What a miniature heaven-upon-earth was this home in which Jane Enfield grew up, and in which the blossoms of her young life expanded into womanhood! She herself was refined, and gentle, and loving as an angel. Of the cold, hard, selfish, cruel, social world around her — she had no real knowledge, for her parents had so little in common with general society, and so few sympathies with the superficial worldly-mindedness of most people whom they happened to know, that they mingled but rarely with others in any very intimate relations.
From their earliest years, Mr. Enfield had taught his children that selfishness is an evil; and that the way to happiness — is always the path of duty. He had filled their memories with life-lessons from the Holy Scriptures, so that the ways of wisdom might always be plain before them — and so that from Divine illustrations they might perceive neighbourly love to be one of the primary elements of a truly religious life.
As a preparation for living in the world — the home education of Edith and Jane Enfield may be regarded as defective. They were kept too much aloof from the world, and were consequently strangers to its real nature. They did not know how selfish and evil it is; nor how few of those whom they saw with smiling lips, and to whose pleasant words they hearkened — had any genuine good will in their hearts.
As Jane progressed towards womanhood, her maturing nature presented new aspects of refinement; and her perceptions of the loving and the beautiful, were more exquisite and delicate. In form she was slender, and below the medium stature. Her face, oval in contour, was of faultless proportions — her complexion very fair — her hair, eyebrows, and lashes of a dark chestnut brown — her mouth delicate, and finely shaped. By these exterior things, her soul partially revealed itself; and the revelation charmed every beholder. Those who looked into her eyes, felt that they were gazing into a world of spiritual beauty.
Edith was of a less sensitive nature than Jane; and therefore better fitted to go out into the world, and meet with an enduring heart, the chilling life-experiences which fall to everyone's lot. But it was not designed that she should encounter the trying ordeal in store for the younger sister. She had only gained her twentieth year, when, called to a higher life — mortality was cast aside, and the rising spirit clothed with immortality.
It was the first shadow which ever fell upon Mr. Enfield's household, and for a time it was so dark that no light seemed to burn in the dwelling. Jane's heart was almost paralyzed by the stroke. In this affliction, a few valued and appreciating friends drew close, in tender sympathy, to the stricken family. Among them was the minister of the church in which they worshiped. He had always felt that, on their part, there had been too great an isolation from society; and that it would have been better for them, and for others, if they had widened their circle of friendly fellowship.
A few weeks after the death of Edith, on one of his visits to the house of affliction, where still the fountain of tears gushed freely, he said to Jane, while seeking to pour into her spirit the oil and the wine of consolation —
"In Heaven all love to do good, and in blessing others they find one of their highest delights. Doing good is a heavenly employment; Edith is now, and will be forever engaged in this Divine work. My dear child, you must do on earth — what she is doing in Heaven."
"Oh, sir! what can I do?"
How almost eagerly was the question asked!
"The Lord's work is all around us," said the good man. "It meets us at every turn in our daily walk; and in faithfully doing the work our hands find to do, we ever serve Him best. But there is one special good work upon which you may enter, and in which I have long desired to see you engaged."
Jane looked up again into the minister's face.
"There are many children around us who have little or no religious instruction at home. These we gather into our Sabbath schools, uniting them with children who have better advantages. Do you think, Jane, that there is upon earth, a more heavenly employment than that of leading such children upwards to the kingdom of our Father?
Faithful, earnest, loving teachers are always needed. In our own school they are wanted. Will you not put your hands to the work? Will you become a toiler in the Lord's vineyard? Your reward will be very sweet."
"I cannot promise now," she replied. "But I will think of what you have said, and talk to father about it."
Mr. Enfield encouraged Jane to do as the minister had suggested, and to the gratification of the latter, she appeared in the school on the following Sunday, and assumed the duties of a teacher. It was soon perceived by the minister, by the superintendent, and by many others, that Jane Enfield's heart was in her work, and that she attracted the children towards her with a kind of fascination. She was unobtrusive and retiring; none of the teachers felt her manner in the least degree repellent; and they soon began to have a closer knowledge of her character, which they found as pure and lovely as her person. Her deep mourning, her quiet, almost sad face, and her eyes that seemed looking in upon her own spirit, instead of out upon the world of nature, awakened towards her a feeling of tender sympathy, showing itself in a warm grasp of the hand, a loving smile, or words of kindness. But very near to her, no one could approach; she was so unlike all the rest.
Jane's heart was in her work from the beginning. The children interested her deeply; and as she saw them eagerly hanging on her words, while she talked of things good and holy. She felt that the employment was indeed heavenly, and that her own spirit was raised to a purer region.
The superintendent was a young man named Hardy, who took great interest in the school, and was very active in all that concerned its welfare. He was the junior partner in a wealthy mercantile house, and was highly esteemed in the community as a man of energy and honesty. With the minister of the church, he was a favourite; and they were on terms of the closest intimacy. Mr. Hardy's appearance was decidedly attractive. He possessed a fine, manly person, rather above than below the middle height. In his address, there was an air of frankness, which won for him at the very first a favourable regard; and so far as his general fellowship with men and women was concerned, this regard rather increased than diminished. All spoke well of John Hardy.
Singularly enough, Jane Enfield was not favourably impressed by the handsome young superintendent. There was something about him which she so disliked, that she seriously thought of not returning again to the school after the first day's experience. But this feeling, she struggled to overcome; and was successful, at least so far as not to allow it to influence her conduct. On the following Sunday, she was in her place. During the afternoon, Mr. Hardy took occasion to speak a few words to her about the children in her class, and the modes of instruction adopted in the school. Sufficiently well-bred to control her feelings, Jane listened with apparent interest, and answered with entire self-possession in her own sweet way. The superintendent lingered near for a little while, detained by an irresistible attraction, and then passed on to another part of the room. The lovely young girl had interested him deeply from her first appearance at the school.
Though an attendant at the same church, he had heretofore looked upon her only, as it were, from a distance, and with no thought of ever making her an intimate acquaintance. Now she had been brought so near, that something like familiar personal fellowship was involved, and the superintendent was in no way disinclined to profit by the circumstance. It was an easy thing for him to make occasions for exchanging a word or two with her, as often as three or four times during school hours every Sunday, and this without attracting attention.
The first unfavourable impressions experienced by Miss Enfield gradually wore off. She could not help being struck with the young superintendent's earnest devotion of himself to the welfare of the Sunday school, and indeed to all matters of public good, so far as she had opportunity for observation. He was the president of a missionary society connected with the church; and showed much zeal in the cause for the promotion of which the society had been established. He was also a very active member of a society for aiding the sick and indigent. The minister, and several prominent men in the church, came to the school every Sunday, and showed by their manner towards Mr. Hardy, that they held him in no ordinary estimation. As Jane grew better acquainted with the teachers, she found the general sentiment towards the superintendent to be warmly praiseful. His praise was on every lip.
Yet, despite this favourable testimony, there was something about Mr. Hardy that Jane Enfield could not like. She blamed herself for the feeling, and strove to gain a mastery over it. Thus it found a gradual diminution; and as it wore away in the progress of time, the lovely girl experienced a sense of pleasure at the change in her impressions, because she deemed that change a tribute of justice to the real worth of a man whom others seemed to regard as the possessor of every moral excellence.
It was soon plain to others, if not to Jane herself, that Mr. Hardy's tenderer sentiments were becoming interested in the young teacher. After the lapse of a few months, he found reason for calling upon her at her father's house, during the Sunday intervals, and this almost every week. The alleged purpose of these visits was to consult with her on some special matters concerning the school; the real object to gain a more intimate personal acquaintance with herself and her family. The pretexts for calling were generally framed with much ingenuity, and as they were supported by facts, they readily lost the aspect of excuses.
One week he had discovered that a scholar, absent from her class on the preceding Sunday, was ill, and he called to suggest the propriety of a visit to the invalid; on the next, the absence of another, he had learned, was occasioned by a lack of decent clothing, her parents being poor, and he had called to enlist the teacher's generous sympathies in behalf of the child. There was always a reason for calling, which removed every suspicion from the mind of Jane, that the excellent superintendent had any other purpose than to enlist her heart more deeply in the good work to which, in a spirit of genuine regard for others, she had put her hands.
Mr. Enfield, who knew Mr. Hardy by common reputation, and was in the habit of meeting him occasionally in business circles, had formed, in a general way, a favourable opinion regarding him.
The fact of his calling to see Jane, explained though it always was by the daughter to be only a visit having reference to her duties in the Sunday school, produced a feeling of uneasiness on the father's part, and caused him not only to observe the young merchant more closely, but to institute inquiries about him in all directions.
The result of these inquiries was perhaps more satisfactory than personal observation. All men spoke of him in words of praise.
As he had impressed the daughter, so did Mr. Hardy impress the father. There was a tone of character about the man that had in it something disagreeable to both of them. Yet opposed to this was the fact of a kind, courteous, gentlemanly exterior, united with a winning grace of manner rarely seen; and a devotion of nearly all the time not occupied in business to deeds of general benevolence; and a reputation among his fellow-men that was unmarred by a single blemish. He had, besides, a well-stored mind; and his tastes, if not so thoroughly educated and refined as those of Mr. Enfield and his daughter, were yet more than ordinarily appreciative.
Steadily did Mr. Hardy draw nearer and nearer to Miss Enfield, attracted by a loveliness, the fascination of which was irresistible; and as steadily, under the charm of his winning manners, did the feelings of repulsion at first awakened in her heart, gradually wear away. After the lapse of a few months, Mr. Hardy became a constant visitor at the house. This could not long continue without a declaration of his purpose, which was first made to the father.
Though not altogether unexpected, the declaration seriously embarrassed Mr. Enfield, for his mind was very far from being made up on a subject which had troubled him from the first moment of its unwelcome intrusion upon his thoughts.
"Frankly, Mr. Hardy," was his answer, "I cannot say that your proposition gives me pleasure."
It was plain from the way in which the response was met by the young merchant, that he had anticipated an entirely different reception. His whole manner was that of a man suddenly startled by an unexpected and disagreeable event.
"May I ask the reason why?" he inquired, as soon as he had recovered a little, and could trust himself to speak. "Does not my character stand fair in the community?"
"None stands fairer, Mr. Hardy," was the calm reply.
"Have you any ground of personal objection against me, Mr. Enfield?"
"No, sir. Personally I have for you a high regard."
"My worldly prospects are good. I have already accumulated some property, and I have business relations of the safest and most promising character."
"A consideration that should always be secondary in matters of the heart," said Mr. Enfield, "and one that has little weight in my mind. Marriage, Mr. Hardy, is a thing of such high importance, that we should keep all the motives affecting its consummation as far above mere prudential considerations as possible. Internal fitness should be the great operative law in all such unions. Harmony of tastes and ends — should first be regarded. It is this, my young friend, that makes me hesitate. So far as external things are concerned, I see only the desirable in such a connection as you propose; but of the heart-fitness, I am not so well assured."
"I only wish," replied Mr. Hardy, with considerable ardour, "that I had a window in my bosom, so that you could look down into my heart."
This answer to his words did not produce the favourable effect that was intended. It was regarded by Mr. Enfield as something dramatic. "None but the Great Creator can look down into the heart's secret chambers," was replied, almost solemnly to this remark. Then, after a pause, Mr. Enfield continued —
"A woman's affections, Mr. Hardy, are a sacred thing — they are her very life; and he who takes upon himself their guardianship, assumes a holy and responsible duty. A true woman loves, independent of all worldly circumstances; but if she discovers, after marriage, that she has mistaken appearances for qualities, and that the beautiful land outspread before her enchanted vision, and towards which her love-laden bark moved gently onwards, was only a deluding mirage — the after desolation of heart, reaching through all her sad lifetime — words have no power to describe. Ah, sir! in view of this, you must not wonder that I hesitate, when the question of my daughter's happiness or misery is the theme of consideration — and this I regard as the question now at issue.
"Your happiness, also, is no less at stake; for the man who is destined to fail in meeting the heart anticipations of the woman he weds, is surely planting thorns in his own pillow, as he leads her to the altar. Wretchedness in marriage is a mutual doom; though in the sad relations, the woman always suffers most, because she feels the deepest. There are few minds so delicately organized, as that of my daughter, and the knowledge of this has always made me tremble when the thought of her marriage has come as an unwelcome intruder. Think well of this matter, Mr. Hardy — look closely into your own heart — pause here, and re-examine the whole question. It is impossible, from the few opportunities you have had of observing my daughter, that you can understand her true character — and any mistake will prove fatal to the peace of both. She is not an ordinary woman, with ordinary perceptions and views of life. She will not be happy in marriage, as a large class of women are happy. With her, it will be positive happiness — or positive misery. For your own sake, therefore, Mr. Hardy, as well as for the sake of my daughter — give this subject a renewed consideration."
"I deeply appreciate all you say," was the unhesitating answer. "I have pondered the subject long and well, and have, from the beginning of my acquaintance with your daughter, observed her with the utmost care. My position, as superintendent of the school where she is a teacher, has given me good opportunities for knowing her true character; and every aspect of it has filled me with admiration. Truly and tenderly do I love her, Mr. Enfield; and, I trust, that I am not at all unworthy to be loved by her in return. This I know, that I am ready to devote all I have and am, to the work of making her future life happy. If to my hands is given the task of making the path in which her feet are to walk, it shall be smooth, and straight, and as soft as a bed of roses. If the helm of her life-bark be resigned to me, she shall be piloted through tranquil waters. Ah, sir! do not fear for the future of your child. If love be the nourishment of her soul, love shall be her's in unstinted measure. Give her to me, Mr. Enfield, and I will treasure the precious gift with more than a miser's affection for his hoarded gold."
Mr. Enfield sighed. The impression made upon him was that of making him look upon Mr. Hardy as one in a play, who acted his part with enthusiasm. Being a man with almost intuitive perceptions of character, he was not easily to be deceived.
"Have you spoken to my daughter on this subject?" he asked, almost abruptly.
"No, sir," was returned with the utmost suavity of manner. "Not until you were advised of my sentiments, could I in honour make them known to her."
"I must have time for reflection and consultation," said Mr. Enfield.
"Certainly, certainly." There was a manifest depression in the young man's tones. "And yet I had hoped that my frank avowal of a preference for your daughter, would have met with as frank an acceptance in return."
Mr. Enfield did not reply to this remark, which, while it failed to raise the suitor in his estimation, had a depressing effect upon his own mind. He saw that the young man's perceptions were at fault — that the objections he had endeavoured to urge were not clearly comprehended — that, in his eagerness to possess a coveted object — he was willing to take all risks, even the risk of his child's happiness — that the momentous act of marriage was not elevated in his thought into anything like its just importance.
"How long a time will you require, Mr. Enfield?" The voice and manner of Mr. Hardy betrayed a great change in his feelings. He had come to the father as a suitor, with a full measure of self-confidence. No one knew better than himself, the high place he held in the good opinion of all men; and no one's good opinion on that subject exceeded his own. He was virtuous; not so much the result of internal purity, as from a certain hereditary coldness, to which was added a powerful accessory — love of reputation. He was active in works of benevolence; but the main stimulus was the praise of men. He was amiable, affable, self-denying — in a word, gentlemanly in his fellowship with all classes of people; but the "window in his bosom," one of his favourite allusions, would have shown the moving impulse to be meanly selfish. Nor was he any stranger to the fact, that he had an attractive, manly person, such as any woman might be proud of in a husband. Externally, therefore, he regarded himself worthy to claim the hand of any lady in the land; and self-love in no way made him depreciate his internal qualities.
Mr. Enfield's hesitation wounded the suitor's complacent self-estimation. He was not greatly surprised at the father's manifested reluctance to yield his consent at the first word. Such yielding would scarcely have seemed decorous. But after the more earnest explanation of himself, which he had given in response to the father's natural expressions of doubt as to his ability to make his daughter happy, and after his ardent declaration of deep love — he looked only for a generous acquiescence. The change, produced by a state of things so unexpected, was apparent in the altered manner in which he asked the question, "How long a time will you require, Mr. Enfield?"
"A week — perhaps two." The voice was depressed — almost sad.
"Two weeks, Mr. Enfield? The days of so long a period will seem to me as years!"
The tones in which this was said sounded overwrought, and the manner a little too dramatic. Neither made any favourable impression on Mr. Enfield, who was a man of accurate perceptions, and one who could not be deceived when every moral faculty was aroused into keenest action.
"Two weeks may be a very brief period in which to settle questions of infinite importance. Let me enjoin upon you to pass the time in the most rigid self-inquiry. Never have you stood, as now, at a point in life where the next advancing footstep was destined to determine so much of good or evil in all the coming future. That step once taken — it can never be retraced. Onwards in the new way you must go, be the path rough or smooth — the sky bending over you bright with sunshine, or veiled by the cloudy tempest. And remember, my young friend, that you will not walk this way alone. Another, and one capable of suffering far beyond yourself, must be your wretched companion — should the union you seek prove to be disastrous. Oh! no, sir! two weeks for consideration is not a long period!"
For some minutes the two sat in silence, each with his eyes cast down. Then Mr. Hardy said, in as calm a voice as he could assume —
"In a two weeks I will see you again, and with the fondly cherished hope in my heart, that all I have asked will be cheerfully given."
And so they parted, neither of them feeling happier for the interview.
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