CHAPTER 7 The Withered Heart!
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The house was taken, the furniture purchased, and the new home prepared for the young bride and her husband. Taste, comfort, and elegance were visible everywhere. With an appearance of interest that altogether deceived Mr. Hardy, and to some extent her parents, Jane had entered into the business of selecting and arranging the furniture. For the space of three or four weeks, nearly her whole time was taken up in this work; while the occupation of her thoughts in what she was doing, in some degree lifted her above the darkness which brooded over her spirit, and gave to her manner a cheerfulness that was but a mockery of her real inner state.
Then came the formal change from the old to the new home. To her, it was like the going forth of the dove from the ark. Before and around her — everywhere within the range of her keenly searching vision — stretched only a dreary wasteland of troubled waters, above which not even the stony peak of an Ararat was visible. But she went from the warm, loving atmosphere of the old home into the new one, and felt the chilling air strike coldly upon her heart — without a visible tear, or a faltering footstep. The pressure on her feelings was so great, that a sunny countenance was impossible. She had intended to appear cheerful and interested; to manifest not even a shadow of reluctance; to hide the troubled aspect of her spirit from everyone. Alas! this was impossible. She had no skill in pretending. She knew that the searching eyes of her husband were upon her, watching every changing hue in her countenance; and she felt that he saw deeper than the surface.
It was in the forenoon of a fair autumn-day that Mrs. Hardy, accompanied by her mother and her husband, stepped into a carriage, by which they were conveyed to the elegant habitation that was to be the bride's new home.
"I ought to be a happy wife." These were the mental words of Mrs. Hardy, as the carriage moved away from her father's house. Yet even as she said this, she shrank back in the carriage, and drew her veil over her face, lest the tears that it seemed impossible to restrain, should suddenly gush from her eyes. Mr. Hardy noticed the movement, and understood it as indicating a pained and reluctant state of feeling.
Arrived at Garden Street, Mr. Hardy remained only a short time. Business called him elsewhere.
"I leave my young housekeeper to take her first lessons under your instructions," he said with a smile, and in a pleasant tone, to Mrs. Enfield. "She is timid, and fearful that she will not do well; but I am ready to trust all in her hands. Don't you think we ought to be very happy here?" And he glanced around upon the elegant adornments of the room in which they stood.
"Happiness always comes from within," replied Mrs. Enfield in a low, thoughtful voice. "Yes," she added, after an almost imperceptible pause, "you ought to be very happy here; and may Heaven grant you that great blessing."
"Nothing shall be lacking, which it is in my power to give," said Mr. Hardy, as he looked towards his young wife.
She was standing with her eyes upon the floor, and neither looked up nor responded.
"Good morning!" Mr. Hardy spoke cheerfully. "Business first — pleasure afterwards. I must away," and he moved across the room. "But wait," he added, pausing at the door. "I must look myself in regard to the new household arrangements. At what hour shall we dine?"
"What time will suit you?" asked Mrs. Hardy.
"Say two o'clock?"
"Yes."
"Very well, let it he two. You will see me at the door when the clock strikes."
At two, Mr. Hardy returned, and found his wife alone, her mother having gone back to attend to the duties of her own household. She met him with tender looks and loving words; but there was a suffering expression on her face, and there were signs of weeping about her eyes, which worried the young husband.
"Why should she look sad? Why should she weep?" It was 'unreasonable!' He instantly felt cold towards her; and she, conscious of this repulsion, lost her self-control and burst into tears. She was standing before him, and looking into his face, when thus overpowered by her feelings.
Leaning her face down upon his shoulder, she sobbed almost hysterically.
Mr. Hardy did not speak a soothing word, nor so much as draw his arm around her, but stood silent and immovable as stone, until the gush of feeling had subsided. He then said, in no kind voice —
"Jane, I am confounded at this stubborn opposition on your part. None but a self-willed, unreasonable woman could make any objection to becoming the mistress of a home like this!"
"I make no objection," she answered, lifting her face, and looking at him through tears that were not yet stayed.
"Every act, every look, every thought is an objection," said Mr. Hardy, with strong emphasis on his words.
"You do not understand me, John."
"And fear that I never shall," was replied with no softening of voice or manner. "I thought you understood, in assuming a wife's relations — what were a wife's duties. But I have spoken to you plainly on the subject before, and I need not repeat my words now. You know my sentiments on this point."
"Forgive me in what I have done wrong," said Mrs. Hardy, meekly. "It is in my heart to be all God requires of me in this my new and holy relation. But I am a weak, erring, blind creature. Have patience with me, John! Do not bear down too hard upon me — lest you break what you seek to bend."
"Bear down upon you, Jane! I cannot understand such language! What is your meaning? How have I borne down upon you? In what have I been selfish, exacting, or unreasonable? Was it strange that, in taking a wife — I should desire a home? No! But it was strange that the wife I selected from the circle of maidens should, for an instant, think of holding me back from that most coveted blessing. Yes, that is the strange feature in the case. Bear down too hard upon you! Is it possible that I am so soon transformed in your eyes into a domestic tyrant?"
The words of this sentence were, at first, as painful blows on the young wife's heart; but before it was closed, they rebounded from the hardened surface, leaving scarcely an impression behind. She had felt a reviving tenderness for him, as her appeal indicated; and if he had then folded her lovingly in his arms; if he had then allowed right thoughts to guide him to a perception of her true state; if he had then resolved to seek her happiness rather than his own ends — the dark clouds already overhanging their household would have been scattered, and the bright sunshine filled every chamber. But there was no such movement in his cold, selfish nature. A little while his wife stood near him, with her eyes no longer wet with tears — her cheeks no longer flushed with feeling — and then moved back slowly, increasing the distance between them, until she reached the opposite side of the room. She then turned her face from him, and stood still.
"Jane!" Mr. Hardy spoke sternly.
Slowly she turned round, and in so doing showed a face as colourless as marble, and eyes that had a stony aspect.
"Jane! do you hear me?"
There seemed not even an attempt to reply.
"What am I to understand by this?"
The voice was neither so stern, nor so imperative.
A feeble flushing of the cheeks, a slight glancing of the eyes, a scarcely perceptible motion of the lips, showed that his words had reawakened her to the consciousness of what was passing.
"Is this the right beginning for us? Oh, Jane! how little did I dream that such a trial as this was in store for me, when, with a heart full of joyful anticipations, I asked you to become my wedded wife!"
The hue of death again settled over the countenance of Mrs. Hardy, and, staggering forward, she fell upon the sofa — not this time in a state of insensibility, but of utter physical prostration.
Shall we say it? Yes, even at the risk of having the narrative doubted, as involving an impossibility — not a single wave of pity moved over the surface of her husband's feelings! He did not spring forward to lift her up tenderly; he showed no sign of alarm; he merely stood where he was, and looked on coldly! It was, in his eyes — only acting; or, if there was real emotion at the bottom, disappointed self-will was its exciting impulse. No, he had no pity — no sympathy. His cool, well-balanced mind was not disturbed by any feeling of commiseration for his wife. He was only offended by her stubbornness. A moment he looked sternly upon her form as it lay crouching upon the sofa, with the face hidden; and then calmly left the room, and went upstairs with a measured tread.
Ten minutes afterwards, the ringing of a bell was heard. It was the announcement that dinner was on the table. Mr. Hardy went to the dining-room without seeking his wife. He was a little surprised to find her there, giving some brief directions to the servant. Her manner was composed, and her voice steady; but her face was almost hue less. She quietly took her position at the table, and served her husband to the various dishes. Upon her own plate, she took only one or two spoonfuls, and, though she made a pretension of eating, scarcely anything passed her lips.
Thus was their first meal in their own home eaten in silence, and under painful embarrassment on both sides. It was ominous of dark and evil days to come. Rising from the table at its close, Mr. Hardy, without speaking, left the dining-room. His wife, still seated, turned her ear, and listened to his footsteps as he moved along the passages. That she was not prepared for the jar of the street door, was evident from the startle she gave, as the sound struck upon her ear. She sat very still for a few moments, and then rising, went up to her own room, shut the door, and locked it. Crossing her hands, and laying them tightly upon her bosom, she lifted her eyes upwards, and offered a silent prayer. But the anguish of her spirit was not removed. While the arrow rankled in her heart — there could be no cessation of pain.
After a brief, unavailing struggle with her feelings, Mrs. Hardy, weak in body as in spirit, laid herself upon her bed, and with shut eyes, in a state of half-conscious misery, passed the hours until evening. A little before her husband's return, she aroused herself, and removing as far as possible, all traces of suffering from her countenance, met him with an air so pleasant and cheerful, that he was surprised and gratified. He had expected a very different reception. Just as far as pride and self-will would let him go, did he seek to conciliate her feelings, and to yield to what he deemed her wishes.
Purposely he avoided all allusion to their home and to household matters, lest he should touch a discordant string. The result well repaid him for this small measure of self-control. Something of the former light came back into her eyes; something of the old warmth to her cheeks, and the usual music to her voice. A few friends called after tea, and the evening passed cheerfully away. Mrs. Hardy's voice had been well trained, and she sang with uncommon sweetness. On this occasion, she almost surpassed herself — and her husband listened to her voice and her praises with a glow of pride.
"How happy we might be!" he sighed faintly, as the thought crossed his mind. "Beautiful — accomplished — possessing every external grace" — so his thoughts ran on. "Ah, if there were only submission and self-denial! Alas! alas! who could have dreamed that one so gentle, so unobtrusive, so apparently unselfish — had so strong a will and such stubbornness?"
"What a little paradise you have!" said one fair friend to the bride.
"If you are not happy here — there is no happiness to be found on earth," said another.
Mr. Hardy stood by when these remarks were made, and looked steadily into the face of his wife to see the effect. But he could perceive no change in its expression.
"How perfectly she can act!" thought he.
Blind, ungenerous man! Perversely bent on misinterpretation! That thought warped his feelings again, and opened his mind to the influx of subtle accusations.
The sudden depression that followed the breaking up of a company before whom she had really been acting a part, only confirmed Mr. Hardy in the idea that his wife was assuming a great deal more than she felt — in order to gain her purposes. He did not permit himself to utter the thoughts that were in his mind, for he wished to avoid a scene; but his manner became icy cold as he perceived a change in his wife's deportment.
And so there rested darkness and silence upon their spirits, as well as darkness and silence upon the face of nature. Very ominous of dark days to come, was this termination of their first day's life in their new home. Alas! alas! for all who, like them, are unequally yoked together!
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