CHAPTER 9 The Withered Heart!
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This visit was a timely one. An earnest effort had been made by the daughter to throw off the dreadful state of depression from which she was suffering, and she was in a great degree successful. After her mother left, this better tone of feeling enabled her to make such preparation for receiving her husband, as promised something better than silence, tears, and reproaches. She tried to forget his cruel conduct at dinner-time; for, whenever thought went back to that incident, her heart stood still for a moment — and then gave a bound that sent the blood leaping in burning pulses through all her veins.
At last she heard his hand upon the door, and his footsteps along the hall. She was in the sitting room, but did not go down to meet him, thinking it best to wait until he came up and joined her. How breathlessly did she watch for his appearance, and how anxious was she lest the first glance at his countenance should meet a cold, stern, angry look! He ascended the stairs, and passed the sitting-room door without coming in, keeping on toward the room above.
"Jane!" How suddenly she started to her feet. It was his voice calling to her; and the tone was kind, even affectionate.
How lightly she sprung away, bounding in a few steps from the parlour, and answering as she came near the bedroom —
"Here I am, dear."
There was warmth on her cheeks, and light in her eyes, as she came into his presence, and laid her hands, that were extended towards him, into his.
He bent down and kissed her. So sudden was the transition of feeling consequent on this tender reception, that it required the strongest effort on her part to keep from tears. And why should tears be restrained? Ah! — they were signs of pain, not joy, in the eyes of her husband; and she dared not permit their flow, lest he should regard them as rebuking messengers sent forth from a troubled heart!
Not the remotest allusion was made to the unhappy incident which, a few hours before, had darkened their souls' horizon. Both were desirous to have it pass, for the time, into deepest oblivion. While they yet talked pleasantly together, tea was announced, and they went down, arm in arm, to the dining-room. This proved the most home-like meal they had eaten together in their new dwelling. After it was over, they went into the parlour. Mr. Hardy had on his slippers and robe; and the young husband, as he moved backwards and forwards the entire length of the two elegantly furnished rooms, with his wife on his arm, could not help, in his self-satisfied pride, repeating to himself —
"I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute!"
The sun had set — the twilight fallen peacefully upon nature — and now the brilliant gas lamps were burning in the dwelling of Mr. Hardy, from which the world was all excluded. How very independent of this outer world he felt — how entirely satisfied with his inner home-world. His wife had sung his favourite songs, and played his favourite melodies, and exerted herself to please him in every possible way that she could think of; and she was altogether successful. Mr. Hardy's spirit was basking in sunshine. Something of his high ideal of home was being realized.
"Mother was here this afternoon," said Mrs. Hardy, as her husband laid his hand upon a favourite volume, from which she knew he purposed reading some passages aloud.
"Ah! was she?"
"Yes, and I promised her, that if you were not engaged for this evening in any other way — we would go over tonight. Father sent particular word for us to come."
"Oh, but I am engaged," replied Mr. Hardy, half smiling, half serious.
"Are you? I am sorry. Father will be disappointed."
"Not so very much, I presume. It is not an age since he saw you."
"It may seem an age to him," remarked Mrs. Hardy, with the slightest apparent depression in her tone. "But, where are you going?"
"To stay at home," was firmly answered. "My engagement is with my wife this evening."
"She will excuse you." Mrs. Hardy tried to speak very lightly, and to smile in the gayest manner. But neither effort was entirely successful.
"Ah, but I don't mean to be excused."
"But father will expect us, John. I told mother, if you had no other engagement, we would come; and if they find out that we stayed at home, they will feel hurt."
"I did not authorize you to speak for me, did I?"
"I thought it would give you pleasure — to give me and them pleasure," replied Mrs. Hardy; "and believing this, I spoke confidently."
"Charity begins at home, you know, Jane" — Mr. Hardy was very self-composed, and spoke with a quiet smile playing about his lips; "it begins at home, and afterwards diffuses itself. I want to cultivate the home-feeling a little — to get used to my slippers and robe. We men, after a day's battle with the world, feel too comfortable at home to care about making night forays. No, Jane, I cannot go out this evening."
Mr. Hardy was in earnest, and the tone in which he spoke the closing sentences satisfied his wife that he had not the slightest intention of complying with her wishes. As a simple incident in their lives, unconnected with any unpleasant antecedents — this little circumstance could have had no power to mar their happiness. It would have been only a passing ripple on the surface of things, while all remained peaceful below. But, unfortunately, it stood in too close a relation with much that was painful to their feelings; and both were conscious of the intruding presence of a shadow — the unwelcome precursor of an enemy to their peace.
Mrs. Hardy said no more on the subject. She did not even trust herself with the words, "Let it be as you wish, John," although they were on her lips. She feared to speak, lest more of disappointment should be visible than she wished to show; and so she sat in silence, with her eyes cast down.
Mr. Hardy's evil genius now found easy access to his mind, and at once began to whisper accusations against his young wife. He opened the book upon which he had laid his hand at the beginning of the conversation, and running over the leaves, selected a passage which he commenced reading aloud. As he did so, he perceived that his wife turned herself slightly from him. She was not herself conscious of doing so; although such was the fact.
Mr. Hardy read on for some time. Then he paused, and made some remarks on what he had been reading. His wife's responses showed plainly enough that her thoughts were not with the author's, upon whose beauties her husband was descanting. Mr. Hardy read on again; and again stopped for comment, this time purposely asking questions that his wife could not answer, without betraying her state of entire abstraction.
"Oh, well, if you don't wish to hear me read," he said, in an offended tone of voice, shutting the book as he spoke, "I have no desire to worry you with my poor performances."
"Oh, John! do not speak so to me!" Mrs. Hardy turned upon her husband an appealing look. "I always like to hear you read. Go on again, won't you? My thoughts were, for the moment, wandering. We cannot always help that. Read on, won't you! and please, John, do not speak so to me any more! You do not know how hard I find it to bear any tones from your lips that are not full of love."
"Speak to you in what way, Jane? I don't quite understand you." There was affected surprise in Mr. Hardy's manner.
"As you spoke to me just now."
"How did I speak to you?" Mr. Hardy was cold and imperative.
"As if you were offended with me."
"And so I am!"
"Oh, John! I cannot bear it!"
"Cannot bear what?"
"That you should feel anger towards me."
"I am not angry. What a silly child you are!"
"Then read on, won't you?"
"No; why should I? Your thoughts are far away from here. No book can interest you this evening."
"I will be all attention. Don't stop reading."
But Mr. Hardy, instead of re-opening the volume, tossed it from him upon the table, in an irritable manner.
The full heart of his wife could bear no more. Tears would flow. To conceal them, she turned herself from the light, so that her face was hidden from her husband's eyes. Mr. Hardy noticed the movement, and gave it a wrong interpretation.
A little while he sat meditating on what he should do or say. He felt very impatient at these strange and unexpected bad behaviours in his young wife.
"Am I," he said to himself, "to have no will of my own? — no preferences? Must I, at the peril of tears and reproaches, stand ready to do her bidding at all seasons? Are her inclining to be my law? Never! When I give up all freedom and manhood after that fashion — I shall cease to be John Hardy!"
"Jane!" — he turned towards his wife, speaking in the decided tone of one who has made up his mind, "if you have set your heart on going to your father's tonight, I will send for a carriage. I have no desire to deprive you of any pleasure. As for myself, I do not wish to go out, and shall remain at home."
Mrs. Hardy made no reply. How, or what, could she answer? Do or say what she would — her act and word were certain to be misapprehended. So she neither moved, nor made any response.
"Shall I call the servant, and tell him to get you a carriage?"
Mr. Hardy spoke very firmly.
The cruelty of all this roused so indignant a spirit in the suffering heart of the young wife, that she almost yielded to the impulse which prompted her to say — "Yes, call him — but it will be the last service I shall ever receive at your hands!"
She had even turned, with a flashing glance upon him, and the sentence was about escaping from her tongue, when the whisper of a good thought gave power to restrain the utterance of words that, under the circumstances, would only have been fruitful of evil. Mr. Hardy noted the sudden kindling of her eyes, and the indignant flush that for an instant mantled her cheek; and, for the moment, he was startled. He saw that there was a spirit in his wife, which it might not be well to arouse.
Not another word passed between them during the evening. Mr. Hardy took up the volume he had been reading aloud, and tried, though vainly, to get interested in its pages; while Mrs. Hardy sat for nearly an hour, with her head resting on her bosom, silent and motionless as a statue. How crushed, and weak, and hopeless she felt. All things seemed closing around, and pressing upon her. No ray of light streamed in through the shadows that wrapped her spirit in darkness. In the despairing anguish of her soul — she prayed that she might die!
"O Lord!" — thus she directed her cry upwards, "this burden is too heavy for me! It is crushing me to the earth! Oh, let the cup pass from me. Let me die!"
And even while this cry of anguish was ascending, the thoughts of the husband were busy in accusations against his wife. She was the stubborn wrong-doer — and he the sufferer. Her silence — he called moodiness; its long continuance — her unyielding purpose to break down his endurance. "A woman's weapons!" he said to himself, "and they are an overmatch for most men. But John Hardy is no weakling. He takes care to be right; and right is as strong as iron! She will understand this in good time. Let her struggle on as she will. It is but the unhappy waves of passion, dashing against shores of immovable granite." Several times he was tempted into the utterance of some cold, cutting, ironic words. He was an adept in the use of speech — he had the organ of language; but, at the expense of some self-denial, he wisely forbore.
"This is a direful beginning" — so his thoughts formed themselves into a mental soliloquy, as his head reclined on his pillow that night, "this is a great deal more than I bargained for! If this is wedded happiness — then what a prospect for the future! If this is wifely submission, and loving devotion — then how have I misconceived the import of the words! It is plain that a struggle for supremacy has begun in real earnest; and that before any peace is to be obtained, one side or the other must conquer. Shall I yield? Shall I step down from the manly position that is by nature my right and prerogative? Shall I be ruled by a woman? Is my reason to submit to a woman's random impulses? Never! There is too much of the man about John Hardy for this! First or last, Jane must give way; and the sooner I can break down her determined self-will — the better it will be for both of us. It is a hard task to put upon a young husband — a sad reality, in lieu of the beautiful ideal so fondly cherished — a pillow of thorns, instead of a downy resting-place. But, when enemies to our peace rise up in our path — the only hope lies in conquest. And so, I must hold my true position with a sterner courage; and in battling for the right, I must give heavier and quicker blows in hope of a speedier victory!"
And then, the self-approving John Hardy meditated new cruelties towards the wretched young creature, who, shrinking in hopeless suffering on the pillow beside him, was praying in her sharp despair, for strength, patience, and guiding light. But no strength came, and not even a star-ray penetrated the darkness of her soul. After an hour of wakefulness, she became aware, from his deep breathing, that her husband slept.
Once assured that all his senses were locked in slumber, the power to lie motionless, or even remain in bed, was instantly removed; and she was impelled to rise and move about the room
like some uneasy spirit. She felt strangely; and a cold shudder chilled her to the heart, as the thought of insanity flashed over her mind, conscious as she was, that suffering had already drawn every fibre of endurance to its utmost tension.
"O Lord, help me!" she again prayed, in trembling fear. "Help me! save me!" And she fell upon her knees, and for a long time remained bowed in spirit before Heaven. Gradually a more tranquil state of mind was attained, and she returned to the pillow she had left, though not for a long time, to find the oblivion of her woe.
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