THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES a THE WITHERED HEART. T. S. ARTHUR, AUTHOR OF "THE THREE ERAS IN A WOMAN'S LIFE," "THE TRIALS AND CONFESSIONS OF A HOUSEKEEPER," "THE HAND WITHOUT THE HEART," "WHAT CAN WOMAN Do?" ETC., ETC., ETC. " Hearts are daily broke, and spirits crush'd, While he who slays destroys in safety." DOUGLAS JERROLD. PHILADELPHIA: JOHN E. POTTER AND COMPANY, 617 SANSOM STREET. P5 A PREFACE. MANY are the withered hearts that lie dor mant in the otherwise animated bosoms that grace the firesides of this world! These are the skeletons in homes which wreck and destroy the peace and tranquility of mind of thou sands, and consign them to the enjoyment of miserable and wretched lives. Domestic un- happiness, too frequently, is the source of this blight upon the heart and its affections. To be truly loved is the great reward life lias to offer. Where there is nothing so sweet as to be loved, except loving,' and where exists true, pure love, which is not a thing of the senses, but of the soul love that is the outgrowth of goodness what should not one do to win and keep such tenderness ? What should one not vl -k, or dare, or forsake for it? But too often, alas ! selfishness steps in and demands a sacri fice too great. The reaction from the realiza tion of a crushed love seldom takes place, and the heart withers and dies, the unhappy cause of tho sacrifice only awakening to a full reali- ' 17374 3 4 PREFACE. zation of his or her misfortune when probably it is too late. John Hardy, the husband in our story, only came to realize this fact, in all its force, \vhcn his wife was passing away to an immortal life, and it is faithfully demonstrated how, but for the display of his self-will, the glamour of a warm and cheering heart might have been his through life. The life-histories and heart-experiences of our characters have their counterparts in many other homes; and we trust that their publica tion may exert a benign and healthy influence upon all such as may be similarly affected, through the spirit of pride and self-will; and a happy love and domestic felicity may find that perfect reinstatement in their social rela tions ere the bitter blight, a withered heart, shall overtake them. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGE DIFFERENCE OF OPINION 1 CHAPTER II. OVERTURES OF FRIENDSHIP ....... .15 CHAPTER HI. JANE ENFIELD'S EARLY LIFE 80 CHAPTER IT. PRESENTIMENTS .49 CHAPTER 7, THE FIRST CONTEST ...... .....61 CHAPTER VI. A VISIT TO GARDEN STREET 75 CHAPTER VH. THE NEW HOME ....91 CHAPTER VHL CLOUDS AND SUN-GLEAMS .......... 102 A 2 (V) VI CONTENTS. CHAPTER EL rAOt EVENING HOURS 116 CHAPTER X. THE NON-ARRIVAL 128 CHAPTER XI. ABSENT AGAIN . . . , 146 CHAPTER XH. END OF THE HONEYMOON 156 CHAPTER Xin. THE FIRST-BOKN 167 CHAPTER XIV. HELEN'S EARLY EDUCATION 183 CHAPTER XV, HELEN SENT TO SCHOOL 19" CHAPTER XVI. HELEN RETURNS HOME 20" CHAPTER XVII. THE ASYLUM 22] CHAPTER xvm. BAFFLED PURPOSES 234 CHAPTER XIX. BRIGHTER HOPES 244 CHAPTER XX. UTTEB DAYS ,.. 251 CONTENTS. CHAPTER XXI. I1JE SEPARATION CHAPTER XXII. EDWARD LINTON Vii Ttn* . 266 . 279 CHAPTER XXm. THE ERROR DETECTED . . ....... 288 CHAPTER XXIV. THE INVALID . . 296 CHAPTKB XXV. TH3 TOURISTS RXTUKN * 808 "The heart that is soonest awake to the flowers Is always the first to be touched by the thorns." MOORE THE WITHERED HEART. CHAPTER I. 0f * Sometimes at a glance thou judgest well ; years could add little to thy knowledge ; When charity gloweth on the cheek, or malice is lowering in the eye, When honesty's open brow, or the weasel-face of cunning is before thee. ******** But often by shrewd scrutiny thou judgest to the good man's harm ; For it may be his hour of trial, or he slumbereth at his post." TUPPER. " MY ideal of a man," said Mrs. Clement, glancing as she spoke towards a gentleman who was just entering the room with a lady upon his arm. He was still in the full vigour of life had dark, earnest eyes, a broad forehead, and a calm, mild countenance. His lips, which were rather full, betokened firmness of character. " Mr. Hardy !" The lady to whom the remark was made, simply uttered the name of the indi vidual referred to. " Yes ; John Hardy. In him you see my ideal of what a man should be." THE WITHERED HEART. " I never thought there was anything very re markable about him," was answered. " He is not particularly handsome." *' I think him handsome, Mrs. Percival." " It is well, I suppose, that we do not all see> alike," replied the lady, smiling. " Mrs. Hardy is, no doubt, of your opinion." " I am not so sure of that, Mrs. Percival. The fact is, I half suspect that she doesn't appreciate her husband as she should do." " She has, one would think, the best opportu nity for forming a just estimate of his character." " Very true ; but it sometimes happens, that individuals are blind to the good qualities of those with whom they are in daily intercourse." " It is in the daily life that good qualities mani fest themselves, if they have any existence," said Mrs. Percival. " True again. But these good qualities in others may not always be such as are most agreeable." " I don't see how good qualities can be any thing but agreeable," observed Mr?. Percival. " Justice is a good quality," replied Mrs. Cle ment, " but not always agreeable to tbe criminal." " Oh ! I understand you ; Mrs. Ilaxdy has her peculiarities." "All of us have them," was the vague reply. After a brief pause in the conversation M Clement said DIFFERENCE OF OPINION. 3 " He is one of the most agreeable men that I meet anywhere in society." " He is move than agreeable," replied Mrs. Percival. " He instructs and elevates by his con versation. As to his being good company, I can agree with you entirely. But, of the real man, existing behind that, I have no knowledge, and cannot speak in any positive way. The exterior seeming and the interior- life have too often very little that is in just correspondence. Mr. Hardy is very highly spoken of. My husband often refers to him as an individual of the firmest integrity. * His word is as good as his bond,' I have heard him say many times. And yet, Mrs. Clement, there is something about the man that gives me an unpleasant impression. Do you know, I have sometimes had the idea that he was selfish and cold-hearted." *' Why, Mrs. Percival ! You astonish me ! Cold- hearted !" "Even so. But I must be more guarded in my words. It is not right to speak to another's detriment from mere vague impressions. No doubt he is a great deal better than I am." While this conversation was going on, Mr. Hardy, the person referred to, had passed to the opposite end of the room from that where Mrs. Clement and Mrs. Percival were seated. Here he became the centre of an interested circle both of 4 THE WITHERED HEART. ladies and gentlemen. Mrs. Hardy had withdrawn her hand from the arm of her hushand or, to speak more correctly, Mr. Hardy had permitted his arm to fall in a way that indicated his wish, that she should relinquish her hold upon him, which was done instantly. A friend joined her at the moment, and in a quiet, unohtrusive manner, the two ladies seated themselves in a retired part of the room. They were intimate and congenial; and took more interest in the things pertaining to their inner lives, than in the external social life around them. Mrs. Hardy was a pale, thoughtful -looking woman ; with an expression of face rather tending to repel than to attract strangers. When in re pose, there was a look of disappointment on her countenance, which at times became almost pain ful. She had once been handsome, and many traces of former beauty still lingered about lips, and cheek, and brow. Her dark dreamy eyes had once been full of dancing light. Now they seldom flashed ; and when they did, the fire that burned in them with a momentary blaze startled the surprised beholder. Those who lemembered her as she was some twenty years earlier, and con trasted her appearance then with the aspect now presented, felt that some unseen causes were at work, sapping the foundations of her happiness. So far as outward things were concerned, she had DIFFERENCE OF OPINION. 5 Ji the world's estimation all that the heart could desire. The home in which she dwelt, and in which were no vacant places, those sad remem brancers of tne loved and lost, was elegant even to luxuriousness. Whatever money could purchase, to the fullest extent of her wishes, was within her reach. And yet, for years, there had heen a steady dimming of her eyes a steady fading of her cheek a steady paling of the light of life. Her voice once so full of gushing joy, had long since lost its buoyant tones, and now rarely lifted itself above a low, murmured utterance of words, that seemed rather echoes of feeling than records of thought. " Not my ideal of a woman, certainly," remarked Mrs. Clement, referring to Mrs. Hardy, who had seated herself not far distant from the place where the former was conversing with her friend. " To me, there is something very repellent about her." " I have heard her spoken of," said Mrs. Per- cival, in answer to this, " as being, in former times, one of the most attractive of women full of life arid animation." " I remember her as a very different person from what she now appears," replied Mrs. Clement, " though I did not know her intimately, nor had I the pleasure of meeting her often." " The change, now so marked, began (as I am told) soon after her marriage to Mr. Hardy. In the space of two or *hree years, she looked con- B 8 THE WITHERED HEART siderably older. It has been whispered that h^? husband is not, in the retirement of home, all tha* he appears abroad." " A gossip's tale ! Mere idle talk !" said Mrs. Clement, with some warmth of manner. " I know a lady who resided in the family for several months, and she says, that a kinder man at home than Mr. Hardy she has never met. She represents him as domestic, orderly, and thoughtful of every one's comfort." " What is her report touching the lady ?" in quired Mrs. Percival. " Not so satisfactory." " Did she specify anything ?" " No. The most that I could gather from her was, that Mrs. Hardy was queer." " That means a great deal, or nothing." " Yes. In the present case it means something undoubtedly. Deliver me from a ' queer' woman ! A man who can get along wilh one must be a saint. Mr. Hardy, she said, was always mild, always even-tempered, always the same. As you saw him on the day you entered his house, so you saw him on the day of your departure, whether you remained a week or a month." " Strong testimony in his favour !" "It is. As for Mrs. Hardy, it is my opinion that she's a selfish, dissatisfied woman at heart, and that all her unhappiness flows from internal causes." DIFFERENCE OF OPINION. 7 " That may be. Yet in the absence of facts, it is best not to suffer our minds to come to any positive conclusions in regard to others. Some great sorrow, I fear, is at her heart, and as a human sufferer, she is entitled to human sympathy. Mine she has. A woman's heart is not always understood, Mrs. Clement ; and of all the readers of women's hearts, men have the least discern ment. Indeed, it is one of my theories that women have emotions, wants, and yearnings, the nature of which men cannot comprehend. And I believe that all around us are women whose very life is dying out daily, because the men, whom they call their husbands, are, in their selfishness and sensual ignorance, trampling under foot what to : them is sacred and holy." " Doubtless, many women of refined sentiments, who are married to coarse brutes, suffer as you intimate," replied Mrs. Clement. " But, in the present case, there is quite as much refinement, and as high a feeling of virtue and honour on the part of the husband, as on that of the wife. Nay, if I do not greatly err, the superiority is on his side." Mr. Hardy, who had been moving about the room, exchanging a few words with a friend here, or a group of ladies there, now advanced to where Mrs. Clement and Mrs. Percival sat conversing, and taking a chair, he said in his peculiarly pleasant way 8 THE WITHERED HEART. " Ah, Mrs. Clement! I am glad to meet your cheerful face this evening. How is your good husband ? Is he here to-night?" "Oh, yes; there he stands." And the lady nodded across the room. " Grood evening, Mrs. Percival !" Not quite so cordially was this said ; nor were the smile and tiord of response to the greeting as hearty as those given by Mrs. Clement. " It is some time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, Mrs. Percival. Have you been secluding yourself?" " Home-duties first, you know, Mr. Hardy. These have large claims upon our time and at tention." "True very true; and I honotir the woman who, from principle, makes home- duties the most sacred obligations of her life ;" Mr. Hardy spoke with earnestness and animation ; " for home is the centre of all good influences. As the homes of the people are, so will the people be. How largely is the world indebted to good wives and mothers !" " You regard them as the world's regenerators?" said Mrs. Percival. " If it is ever regenerated," vas answered, "with them will rest the honou*. A woman's influence, indeed, is all-powerful. It is like heat, steadily going forth, all -p or va dinar, all- subduing. "Wherever it penetrates, it changes DIFFERENCE OF OPINION. 9 the order of things. Nothing can long resist its subtle power. The very barriers we lift against it soon yield to its warmth ; and we feel its potency in our hearts, while yet dreaming that the outer most gate of entrance is double-barred." " Ah !" said Mrs. Percival, with a sigh. " It" this influence were ahvays for good ! But hea , destroy?, as well as revivifies. The fires that burr, in the human heart are not all holy." " Alas, that it is so !" replied Mr. Hardy. " And, alas ! that women, in general, have not a higher sense of their great responsibility !" Mr. Hardy's eyes wandered across the room as he spoke, and rested so both ladies thought upon his wife, who sat conversing with the friend she had joined on first entering the room. They looked into each other's faces with glances of covert meaning. " All duties are not alike*," said Mrs. Percival. '* True !" Mr. Hardy spoke as if his attention had become busied with some other theme. " Nor are we always the best judges of one an other's social obligations," added Mrs. Percival. ' ' 1 have sometimes thought" and she looked steadil? at Mr. Hardy, uttering her words with emphasis " that we take a higher pleasure in defining the duties of others, than in discharging our own." The sentiment found an echo in Mr. Hardy'a mind, and he responded with animation a 2 10 THE WITHERED HEAET. " Truly spoken, madam ! Truly spoken . I have often given utterance to the same idea." " And are we not in great danger of error in this defining of others' 'duties?'" added the lady. " Perhaps we are." There was a falling cadence in the speaker's tones. " I have also thought," resumed Mrs. Percival, " that we help others to do their life-duties more truly when we perform our own, than when we indicate to them, in words no matter how fitting, the paths in which their feet should tread. It is better to walk in the right way, than merely to act as guide-posts, hetter for others, I mean." " AVe may show another the way in which he should walk," said Mr. Hardy, " and yet not walk in the same way ourselves. No two life- paths are exactly in the same line." " True, hut our walk is more inspiring than our words, Mr. Hardy. Fine sentiments are ad- mirahle in their way ; hut an act has more power than a hundred words. If we would all do what behoves us in our respective spheres, we might Le saved the utterance of many fine precepts that die on the air." "You are a close moralist, Mrs. Percival, and not one at all inclined to flatter weak human nature." " Self-flattery is an easy and natural thing," aid the lady, " but self-compulsion is a harder DIFFERENCE OF OPINION. H matter. Your self-compelling, self-denying peo ple, have of all men the widest chanty for the shortcomings of others. A talking moralist is not usually a living one ; at least, so rny observa tion inclines me to believe." Mr. Hardy did not seem disposed to make any reply. He stood a few moments, in a musing attitude, and then passed to another part of the room, and joined another group of ladies. " Did you mean to be personal ?" said Mrs. Clement. " Perhaps I did. At least I was using a probe, as the doctors say." " You may probe there to your heart's content, Mrs. Percival, but you'll 5nd uo unsound place in his heart*!" " You think him an angel !" "Oh no! not an angel; but a very perfect human being." " There is -no human being so perfect that his heart is entirely free from evil. The best man that lives is impure in the sight of God." " True, of course, in a general way." " Yes ; and sadly true in a particular way. Mr. John Hardy is no exception. " " You arc prejudiced." " Perhaps I am ; we are all of us gij-cn to prejudices, more or less. liut that man's lout- ensemble is, and always has been, disagreeable to 1JR THE WITHERED HEABT me ; and when this is the case, I never feel any confidence. A man may hide his purpose's and thoughts ; but there is a moral instinct that will discern something of his real character through all his disguises." "Hardly a fair mode of judging!" said Mrs Clement. " A woman's perceptions, I take it, are rarely at fault. The evil is, that she is not enough guided by them." "Reason and common sense are safer guides, Mrs. Percival." " No doubt of it, in all cases where reason and common sense can be called into play. But quali ties of mind are not discernible by thought, nor appreciable by what we call common sense. Justice can take note of a man only from his actions. But it is a sad truth, Mrs. Clement, that there are hypocrites in the world. The ex terior, instead of being a mirror to reflect the soul, is too often a veil to hide its re^l form. And so, after all, in our estimate of men's real character, we are driven to depend largely on the impression they make upon us. " The eye rarely deceives us," said Mrs. Clement. " Perhaps not. But what a mystery there is in every eye and how difficult it is to gaze, ex'-ept for a few moments at a time, into the eye of another !" DIFFERENCE OF OPINION. 13 " I have always found it so.'* ''A steady eye is regarded as indicative of coaiige; also of conscious integrity. In a general way, this may be true. But it will not always hold good, and should not be set down as an in fallible rule. I would pardon any one, however, for refusing to trust a man whose eye for ever wandered from his/' " Mr. Hardy has a clear, steady eye," said Mrs. Clement. " I should say not," remarked Mrs. Percival ; " for I found it almost impossible to fix it just now." "The subject of conversation may have had something to do with that. 1 think a portion of what you said, was not likely to be altogether agreeable to him.' " Why not ? Did I atter any sentiment to which a true man might not heartily respond ?" " Things, perfectly true in themselves, may be said in a way that is disagreeable. The bare suspicion that truths, expressed as generalities, are meant for specific application, cannot fail to produce something akin to embarrassment. And herein, I presume, lies the secret of Mr. Hardy's unsteady eye when it encountered yours. So, in this case, I should not think the eye-judgment is to be depended upon." " I am willing to give Mr. Hardy the full 14 THE WITHERED HEART. benefit of your interpretations/' said Mrs. Percivali smiling. " No doubt be lias his own notion as to what ' stuff' I am 'made of;' and no doubt there was in us a mutual sense of repulsion. ]\Iy own impression is, that his opinion of me is just as flattering as mine is of him. And it is quite possible that he is a great deal better as a man, than I am as a woman. But let us change the conversation to a more agreeable theme." CHAPTER II. (Btertos j "There lies no desert in the lancTof life; For e'en that tract that barrenest doth seem, Labour'd of tliee in faith and hope, shall teem With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings rife, Haply no more Music, and Mirth, and Love, And glorious things of old and younger art, Sha'l of thy days make one perpetual feast ; But when these bright companions all depart, Lay there thy head upon the ample breast Of Hope and thou shall hear the angels sing above." F. A. EEHBLB. [T was, perhaps, a full half hour from the time when Mr. and Mrs. Hardy entered the room, that Mrs. Percival found herself beside the latter. They had met in society occasionally, but they were not intimately acquainted ; and all their intercourse up to this time had been marked with a degree of formality. The conversation held with Mrs. Clement had created something of a curious interest in Mrs. Hardy's behalf; and now that the latter was near her, Mrs. Percival felt a desire to know her better. "A little apart as usual," she said, smiling, and with a certain repressed familiarity of manner 16 THE WITHERED HEART. that took away the appearance of ohlrusiveness, " It has always seemed to me, Mrs. Hardy, that you looked down upon the world as we some times look upon the crowd from a casement conscious of its disturbance, yet unaffected by it." " That is impossible," was the low -spoken answer. " So long as we are in the world, we are mixed up with it, and must feel whatever disturbs its harmony. I am no exception, Mrs. Percival." "And there is always something to disturb always some discordant jar along the wires. How sadly is everything out of tune !" " Do you think so?" Mrs. Hardy lifted her dark, sunken, penetrating eyes to the face of her companion. " I have thought the world full of harmonies." " You ?" There was surprise in Mrs. Percival's voice. " Why should it not be so ? Has not God made it? It is full of beauty to the eyes and must be full of harmonies for the heart rightly attuned to perceive them. ' But, ah ! how few hearts there are in tune. It is here that the defect lies. If the strings of an instrument are not in accord, the softest touch will jar us painfully. The world, Mrs. Percival, teems with beauty ; there are sweet melodies breathing along its valleys, and echoing from every mountain. But, with too many of OVERTURES OF FRIENDSHIP. 17 us, the eyes are veiled and the ears dull ol hearing." " If we could but lift the veil, and unstop the cars !" said Mrs. Percival. "Ah! If! if! BetAveen what heights of enjoy ment and depths of misery stands this little word, as an impassable barrier ! If! How many hearts have been broken on this rock ! how many joy- freighted barks wrecked for ever ! " " Happy it is for us that there is a beyond," said Mrs. Percival, a beautiful smile lighting up her face suddenly, as we sometimes see the summer lightning leap from the heart of a sunset cloud, r.oveiiing it with radiance. Mrs. Hardy sighed, and her eyes drooped to the floor, the long dark lashes resting like a silken fringe above her white transparent cheeks. " You have hope in the beyond ?" The voice of Mrs. Hardy trembled slightly, as she uttered these words. She had once again lifted her eyes, in which a singular light was burning. " What were life here, without this hope ! How can you ask the question ?" " Forgive me if my words have been unadvised or distasteful," said Mrs. Hardy. ""You know not how earnestly yea, eagerly I haro looked into and questioned the 'Ltjond.' But no land has yet become visible to in.y straining ryeb no answer has been returi><"J to WT 18 THE WITHERED HEAttT. "We have the great, soul-cheering promise of life life everlasting." Mrs. Hardy shook her head, while a shade of disappointment fell over her countenance. " What more do we want ?" queried Mrs. Per- cival. " Everything ! " ejaculated Mrs. Hardy, with an emphasis that startled her auditor. " Every thing ! Life everlasting ? What an awful thought to one into whose every moment of life are crowded years of anguish ! " ^ " You pain me by your words," said Mrs. Per- cival, in a voice of pity. " I meant not to awaken a pang in your bosom." A feeble smile lighted the wan features of Mrs. Hardy, as she answered " I have but supposed a case." " A vei-y rare one, I am sure. Few such exist j for life, in its worst aspects, has many compensa tions." " Have you nothing in regard to this ' beyond' more definite for -the heart to rest upon?" in quired Mrs. Hardy, speaking hi a calmer voice. " These vague generalities bring no comfort to my spirit." " Can you not trust in the promises of Him whose word is truth ? ' In my Father's house,' He says, * are many mansions. I go to prepare a place for you ' But I need not repeat the glad OVERTURES OF FRIENDSHIP. 19 assurance of future life and happiness to the righteous, which hum like stars in the firmament on every page of Holy Writ." " I know them by heart," said Mrs. Hardy, in a quiet tone. " And they have lighted your path many and many a time, when but for them your feet would have stumbled." " It may be so. I will not gainsay it. But they are only stars, after all; merely penetrating the night. It is the day-dawn for which I am seeking. But not a single gleam yet gilds the mountain-tops. The cry of my soul is ' Watch man, what of the night ?' And I have yet to hear that joyful answer 'The morning breaketh!' But, forgive me, my dear Madam ! your words have betrayed me into unwonted revelations. Lei my heart flutter back to its own dim chamber and fold again its drowsy wings." " I have seen just enough to interest me deeply and to draw me strongly towards you, Mrs. Hardy You seem to be walking in darkness, while there is light around you. It may be in my power to open a window upwards, and let the broad, bright sunbeams shower down upon you. Oh ! how gladly would I do this. For all suffering sister- hearts, I have deep sympathies. Will you, sister in suffering, let me draw near to you in spirit ?" Mrs. Hardy reached out her hand witli a kind 20 THE WITHERED HEART. of eager instinct, and grasped that of Mrs. Per- aival. The movement was quiet and unobtrusive, and gave not a ripple to the surface of things around them. " Let us seek a place less in the eye of observa tion," said Mrs. Percival. And the two ladies passed from the crowded rooms into the beautiful gardeti attached to the mansion in which they were evening-guests. " The peace of nature ! " said Mrs. Percival, glancing up to the illumined firmament, where the stars shone in tranquil beauty. " Nature is all in harmony, and her words to the troubled spirit are, ' Peace be still ! ' " Her companion did not answer, though her eyes looked upwards. " Have you not often heard this voice deep in your heart ?" said Mrs. Percival. " Not for many years," was replied mournfully. '* It is a long time since natui'e has spot en to me with any intelligible meaning. I have not cared even to question her; for the book whurein her oracles are written contains no solution of my doubts ; no answer to the heart-cry long ago sent forward into the future. "What is it you ask of the future?'' inquired Mrs. Percival. There was a long silence, and a deeplj breathed sigh. OVERTURES OF FRIENDSHIP. 21 "The consociations the heart-relations the affinities. what of these? what of these?" Mrs. Hardy spoke with a kind of breathless eagerness. Then, in a calmer way, she added, " But this is all a vain struggle all a vain beating against the barriers of time. Mortal eye hath not seen, nor mortal ear heard the secret things of eternity. It were better for some of us, I have many times thought, that we had not been born." " Life is a great blessing," replied Mrs. Fercival, almost solemnly. " It is the highest gift of the good Being who created us for happiness. I thank Him daily for the boon." " Once I felt the same thankfulness " Mrs. Hardy was about to say more, but she checked herself, and remained silent. " Of the heart-relations, as to which you weie inquiring, my friend, we may speak with some confidence," said Mrs. Percival, repressing all excitement of feeling, and uttering her words in a low, earnest tone. " Heart-qualities will make heart-affinities." Mrs. Hardy did not reply, but bent her head in a listening attitude. " Love is the life of man; and love of good, the life of heaven. Of one thing we may all be sure: if we are prepared here for the mansions of bless edness, we shall, in all things, have to eternity the desire of our hearts. The heart -affinities will o2 SJ2 THE WITHERED HEART. all be true affinities. We shall possess what we love for our desires will tart. " Jane ! " the call was repeated, as the speaker stepped from the porch, and moved down one of the walks. " I am here," said Mrs. Hardy; but her voice tvas cold Mrs. Percival thought, indifferent. " I have been looking for you," said Mr. Hardy. ' Won't you come into the house ?" " Certainly, if you desire it," replied Mrs. [lardy, without hesitation, yet exhibiting not the slightest interest. " Will you come back to the bouse, Mrs. Percival ?" " With pleasure." Mrs. Percival walked beside Mrs. Hardy until they entered the porch, when she fell a little behind, and then separated her~ self from them ; while yet she kept near, a deeply interested observer of every act, expression, and word, that passed between Mrs. Hardy and her husband. They drew close to the piano, whero the lady who had been singing was still seated. A crowd were around her; some urging her to sing again. She complied, and, after one or two more pieces, left the instrument. " Is'ow, Jane, you will sing." Mr. Hardy said 26 THE WITHERED HEART this loud enough to be heard by all who were standing near. " Oh, no !" was instantly replied, with a kind of shuddering horror ; and Mrs. Hardy moved backward. But her husband, as Mrs. Percival observed, retained a firm hold upon her hand, which was drawn within his arm. " Now don't say no, Mrs. Hardy." And two or three ladies gathered around her. " Oh no, no ! I have not touched the piano nor sung a note for years." " No good reason why you should not sing now/' said her husband, in a mild, kind, persuasive tone. " Now do, Jane, oblige the company and me. It will give us so much pleasure." Mrs. Hardy's face grew pallid. " Impossible, Mr. Hardy ! How could you ask me?" she said, lifting her eyes to her husband's face, and ga/ir.g steadily at him for a moment or two, with an expression which, by those who saw it, was accounted singular, if not mysterious. " We should all do our part in ministering to the enjoyment of others, you know," remarked Mr. Hardy, smiling blandly, and speaking in a pleasant voice. " The time was," he added, " when my good wife could stir the hearts of crowded assemblies with a voice which I am sure has not yet lost its power. IJut I fear" he spoke hi a slightly depressed tone " that she is not as OVERTURES OF FRIENDSHIP 27 ready to give pleasure as she was a few years ago How is it, Jane ?" Mr. Hardy recovered his more buoyant tone in the closing sentence, and looked with eyes of tenderness upon his wife. " I am sure our friends will excuse me," replied Mrs. Hardy, seeming almost to catch her breath as she spoke. " It is impossible to comply with the request to sing. If in any other way I can con tribute to the pleasure of the company, I will gladly do so." So saying, she moved back from die centre of the group, and, disengaging her hand from the arm of her husband, made her way quietly to another part of the room. Mr. Hardy sighed, as he turned partly around, and followed her with earnest glances. " It is hardly right to force her into doing what is evidently so repugnant to her feelings," said Mrs. Percival, with covert rebuke in her voice. " Force her, madam !" replied Mr. Hardy in a tone of surprise : " Heaven knows I desire nothing so much as to see her happy ! and it was only in the hope of reviving old feelings by old associations, that I urged her to sing just now. If she had complied, she would have been happier for the effort ; and I did hope to have extorted compliance by gentle force. Some of you remem ber how exquisitely she once performed, and how every lip would be hushed into silence when hei 28 THE WITHERED HEART. voice broke in melody upon the air. I would give much to hear it, filling this room, as I have heard it in times past." Mr. Hardy appeared to be deeply moved ; and, as if to conceal his emotion, turned away and left the little company that were gathered around him. " I pity that man from my heart," said a lady, speaking to Mrs^-Percival. " Acting !" was the brief response. " Oh! no. I can't believe that," replied the lady. " You wrong him." " Perhaps not," said Mrs. Percival. " If Mrs. Hardy has neither sung nor played for years, was it reasonable in. her husband to expect her to do so to-night ?" The lady was silent. " It was quite the reverse, I say," added Mrs. Percival, a little warmly. " And the fact of his proposing anything of the kind shows him to be an unreasonable man, and gives some clue to the singular state of mind into which his w r ife has fallen." The lady shook her head in an incredulous way, and remark'ed in a light, almost indifferent tone of voice, " Oh ! she is queer ;" and then turned from Mrs. Percival, with an air that was by no means pleasant. OVERTURES OF FRIENDSHIP. 29 " Queer ?" Mrs. Percival said to herself. " How indefinite the word, yet how certain to carry pre judice into the hearer's mind ! If there is nothing; directly evil to allege against a woman, detraction looks wise, and says ' she is queer ;' and too surely, the heart is closed to sympathy. Ah ' these e queer' people are usually great sufferers The world is not over-patient with them." A little while afterwards she noticed that Mr. Hardy was the centre of a group of ladies and gentlemen, to whom he was talking in a very animated way. Mrs. Hardy was not on his arm. She sought for her through the crowded rooms, but not finding her, went out into the garden, where she discovered her standing under an arbour, lookii>g more like an immovable statue than a living woman. As she came up, the light streaming out from the open windows, and fulling upon her cheeks, glittered among the crystal teais, and told 'that she was weeping. CHAPTER III. fife. M The heart thtt is soonest awake to the flowers Is always tht flrst to be touch'd by the thorns." Moom. THJ.RE are homes, pervaded by love, as an atmo- sphtre ; homes, in which heart meets heart as hy the ^ower of a mutual attraction ; homes, where the Llossed sunshine streams for ever warm and golden across the threshold. Such was th-j early home ol 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 chocbc for a life-partner, gentle, loving, confiding, and ^iquisitely delicate in all her per ceptions. BeaMtifully did they harmonize in all things; theirs \vas a marriage for eternity. In this union, two children only were horn; 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 JANE ENFIELD'S EARLY LIFE. SI to gentle words of encouragement and praise. It \vas a theory with their father, that commenda- tiou 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 woiild 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 approba tion. As his daughters advanced towards woman hood, 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 82 THE WITHERED HEART. little in common with general society, and so fe-v sympathies with the superficial worldly-mindedness of most people whom they happened to know, that they mingled hut 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 Word, so that the ways of wisdom might always he plain before them ; and so that from Divine- illustrations they might perceive neighbourly love to he 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 refine ment ; 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 fault- JANE EN FIELD'S EARLY LIFE. ' 33 less 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 that fall to every one 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 that 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 ministei of the church in which they worshipped. 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 inter course. 84 THE WITHERED HEART. 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 " There is one way in which you may dra\r nearer to your angel-sister than in any other." Jane lifted her eyes to the minister's face with a look of earnest inquiry. " In heaven all love to do good, and in blessing others they find one of their highest delights. Doing good is a heavenly employment; Editli is now, and will be for ever engaged in this Divine work. If you would draw near to her, and keep near to her, 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 Avalk ; 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 ve gather into our Sabbath schools, uniting them JANE ENFIELD'S EARLY LIFE. 35 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 not 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 succeeding sabbath, 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 lu-r 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 86 THE WITHERED HEART. 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. Tire 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 probity. 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 Avas an air of frankness, that won for him at the very first a favourable regard ; and so far as his general intercourse with men and women was concerned, this regard rather increased than diminished. All spoke well of John Hardy. Singularly enough, Jane Enfield was not favour ably impressed by the handsome young superin tendent. There was something about him which JANE ENFIELD'S EARLY LIFE. 37 ehe 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 sxiccessful, at least so far as not to suffer it to influence her conduct. On the succeeding Sabbath, 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 intercourse 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 Sabbath, and this without attracting attention. 88 THE WITHERED HEART. The first unfavourable impressions experienced by Miss Enfield gradually wore off. She could not help being struck with the young superinten dent's earnest devotion of himself to the welfare of the Sabbath 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 Sabbath, and showed by their mannei towards Mr. Hardy, that they held him in no ordinary estimation. As Jane grew better ac quainted with the teachers, she found the general sentiment towards the superintendent to be warmly eulogistic. His pi'aise was oil 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, arid 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. JANE ENFIELD'S EARLY LIFE. 39 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 Sahbath intervals, and this almost every week The alleged purpose of these visits Avas to consult with her on some special matters con- ceiTiiiig the school ; the real object to gain a more intimate personal acquaintance with herself and her family. The pretexts for calling were gene rally framed with much ingenuity, and as they were supported by facts, they readily lost tho aspect of excuses. One week he had discovered that a scholar, absent from her class on the pre ceding sabbath, 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 Jaiie, 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 foi others, she had put her hands. Mr, Enfield, who knew Mr. Hardy by common reputation, and was in the habit of meeting him 40 THE WITHERED HEART. occasionally in business circles, had formed in a general way, a favourable opinion regarding bin* The fact of his calling to see Jane, explained though it always was by the (laughter to be only a visit having reference to her duties in the Sabbath 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 ot character about the man that had in it something disagreeable to both of them. Yet opposed to this was the fact of a bland, courteous, gentlemanly exterior, united with a winning grace of mannei rarely seen, a devotion of nearly all the time not ecu pied in business to deeds of general bene volence ; 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 nearei to Miss Enfield, attracted by a loveliness the fascination of which was irresistible ; and as JANE ENFIELD'S EARLY LIFE. 41 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 declara tion seriously embarrassed Mr. Enfield, for his mind was very far from being made up on a sub ject which had troubled him from the first moment of its unwelcome intrusion upon his thoughts. " Frankly, Mr. Hardy," was his answer, " I can not 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 an ticipated 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." 418 THE WITHERED HEART. " My worldly prospects are gbc d. I have already accumulated some property, and I have business relations of the safest and most pro mising character." "A consideration that should always be secord- ary 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 pru dential 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 con nexion as you propose; but of the heart-fitness I am not so well assured." "I only wish," replied Mr. Hardy, with con siderable ardour, " that I had a window in my breast, so that you could look down into my hjeart." This answer to his words did not produce the favourable effect that was intended. It was re garded 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 JANE ENFIELD'S EARLY LIFE. 43 "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, inde pendent 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 meeng 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, woman always suffers most, because she feels the deepest. There are few minds so delicately organ ized 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 Avell of this matter, Mr. Hardy look closely into your own heart ; pause hero. 44 THE WITHERED HEART. and re-examine the whole question. It is impos sible, 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 un hesitating 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 super intendent of the school where she is a teacher, has given me good opportunities for knowing her true character ; and every aspect of it has rilled 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 soft as a bed of roses. If the helm of hei life-bark be resigned to m/j, JANE ENFIELD'S EARLY LIFE. 45 she shall be piloted through tranquil waters. Ah, sir ! do not fear for the future of your child. If love be the aliment of her soul, love shall be her's in unstinted measure. Give her to me, Mr. En- field, and I will treasure the precious gift with more than a miser's affection for his hoardel gold." Mr. Enfield sighed. The impression made upou 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, lie was not easily to be deceived. " Have you spoken to my daughter on this sub ject?" 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 consulta tion," 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 K2 46 THE WITHERED HEART. 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 any thing like its just importance. " How long a time will you require, Mr. En- field?" 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 measura 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 intercourse with all classes of people ; but the '' window in his breast," 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 hus band. Externally, therefore, he regarded himself JANE ENFIELD'S EARLY LIFE. 47 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 tc 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 ex pressions of doubt ns to his ability to make his daughter happy, and after his ardent declaration of deep love, he looked only for a generous acqui escence. The change, produced by a state of things so unexpected, was apparent in the altered man ner in which he asked the question " How long a time will you require, Mr. Enfield?" "A week perhaps two." The voice was de pressed 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 over wrought, 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. 48 THE WITHERED HEART. Let me enjoin upon you to pass the time in the most rigid self-inquiry. Never have you stood, as noAV, at a point in life where the next advanc ing 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 su'.rxe, each with his eyes cast down. Then Mr. I'vrJ.y paid, in as calm a voice as he could assume " In a fortnight I will see you a;,rJr , and with the fondly cherished hope in my L, vJ, that ill I have asked will be cheerfully gh a ' And so they parted, neithei of them fueling happier for the interview. CHAPTER IV- JJrtstntarts. Lean not on earth ; 'twill pierce thee to the heart) A broken reed at best, but oft a spear: . On its sharp point peace bleeds, and hope expires." YUCNO. ")N the following Sabbath, one teacher was miss- ing from school, who had never been away from her post since .she assumed the holy office of lifting the thoughts of little children unwards towards heaven. This absence was noted, and the questions, " Where can she be ?" " Is sh unhappy I" F 54 THE WITHERED HEART. " I am not unhappy ! " Jane spoke with sur prise in her voice. " You are not as you were. There is a shadow on your feelings. You are much alone are silent often weep. Ah, my child ! these are not the signs of happiness." " Marriage is a very solemn thing, mother." Jane spoke in a low voice, full of emotion and full of meaning. " It is, my dear girl," was the simple response. " And as I approach the hour when I am to take upon myself those solemn vows and sacred duties, I feel a shrinking and trembling that grow more oppressive every hour. Dear mother ! what if I should fail to be to my husband all that he anticippVs? What if I should disappoint him, and lie should turn from me coldly, as one not worthy of his love? The thought haunts me daily, disturbs my sleep, and fills my eyes with tears ! If it should prove thus, my heart would break. I could not live if he grew cold towards me if he were ever to regard me with indiffer ence !" " These are but ideal fears, my child," replied Mrs. Eufield. " Do not cherish them a single moment ; for it sometimes happens that, by che rishing the ideal, we give to it an actual existence. A loving heart will keep alive responsive feelings; and a wife who truly loves, and truly desires to PRESENTIMENTS. 55 bless her husband, cannot, unless in strangely exceptional cases, fail to receive her reward." Jane sighed deeply. After a moment or two, she said, " The lot of an unloved wife, mother ! Oh ! is it not a terrible thing ? Death would be, instead, a sweet consummation." " How strangely you talk, my child ! What is the meaning of it ?" asked Mrs. Enfield. " Can it be that you have reason to question the love Mr. Hardy bears for you ?" " Oh, no no no, mother !" was almost wildly answered, "not the shadow of a reason. I know that he loves me with his whole heart. I know that I am very dear to him, and that he will do all in his power to make me happy. But, mother" and she spoke more calmly "men have a different mental organization from that of women. We are very unlike each other, and cannot always comprehend each other's states and feelings." " True, my love." " I do not think I always understand Mr. Hardy ; and I am afraid he does not always under stand me." " Time, and closer union, will enable you to understand each other better," said Mrs. Eniield. Jane sighed again, as she remarked "Ah! it is that closer union, involving a closer vision, that I strangely fear. Shall I be to 66 THE WITHERED HEART. him then as I am now ? Coldness, indifference, blame, would kill me outright !" " Do not keep your high ideal of the married life so distinctly before your mind, " said Mrs. Eufield. " None are perfect here and there are few perfectly happy marriages. Do not expect too much. Be ready to yield forbearance, as you must receive it. Mr. Hardy is an inhabitant of earth ; a human being with hereditary evils to overcome ; not a purified spirit in heaven. He cannot be always the same to you, nor can he always present the same loving aspect ; for in the purification and elevation, through which I trust he is passing, changing moods are inevitable, and you must be prepared for them, and meet them with patience and fortitude. After every evening of shadows and depi'ession, will succeed the morn ing, with its cheering light; and if the evening be spent in prayer and hope, instead of in gloomy repining, the morning will be all the brighter, and the day that succeeds will be the longer. The path of life Avinds not always among flowers, my child. The dreary desert must be passed, as well as the fragrant meadows. The Pilgrims dwelt not always upon the delectable mountains/' "Ah, mother!" replied Jane, weeping freely; " I know it must all be as you say. What I fear is, the failure of strength to endure the roughness and trials of the way." PRESENTIMENTS. 57 " Tt is from the STRONG that we receive strength. c As the day may demand, shall our strength ever be.' Do not doubt do not tremble do not fear. If the deeper and sometimes sadder experiences of life bring pain to the mind, they also give new capacities fur enjoyment. There is a blessed corn- peiisativeness in every life-relation. Even when the all-eclipsing sun has withdrawn, and left the night to reign for a season, the firmament has still its myriads of stars." In such a conference, almost on the eve of the wedding-day, how little was there, alas ! for a spirit so delicately organized as that of Jane Enfield, to rest upon in hopeful anticipations. The words of her mother did not throw a single ray upon the future, nor give any new strength to her heart; but rather oppressed her Avith a vague sense of coming evil. The approaching nuptials gave to the lovers a more unreserved intimacy. Mr. Hardy came very frequently to the house ; while Mr. Enfield en couraged his visits and intimacy, in order to read him the more closely. As the young man, from feeling more and more at home in the family, indulged in greater freedom of action, so that his outer seeming gave a more exact image of his inner life. Jane was constantlv made sensible of one strong point of contrast between him and her father. Very gentle, very thoughtful; aud very i2 58 THE WITHERED HEATIT tender was Mr. Enfield in his paternal relntion. He never met his daughter without a pleasant word, nor left her without a parting kiss. Every one of her acts, that in any way involved a service, was sure to have its reward in some approving acknowledgment. Thus was she stimulated to a daily thoughtfulness in regard to his comfort, and a daily consultation of his tastes. Not so with her lover. Mr. Hardy rarely praised. If she sang his favourite pieces and she did sing with rare perfection he filled the succeeding silence with no warmly admiring words. He frequently asked her to play or sing, and he really enjoyed her exquisite performance ; hut the closing of the piece was more frequently followed hy a request for another, than by any remark upon that which had been given. If he expressed approval, it was oftener of the composer than of the singer oftener of the piece than of the charm ing execution. Jane never sang without entering, with all the rare perceptions of a truly poetic mind, into the sentiment expressed in the song, and all her heart's emotions were perceived in her voice. She felt the beauty, pathos, or inspiration of the words, and uttered them as if they were impi-ovisations. The lack of all truly appreciative response on the part of her lover, stimulated her to even higher achievements ; but the result was not changed. PRESENTIMENTS. 59 Her performances struck him as most exquisite, and he felt a glow of pride as lie thought how far, as his wife, she would eclipse the common crowd. Even while she was listening eageirfy for some spoken approval, he was mentally picturing the admiration she would excite, and the exultation he would feel ! In dress, Jane exhibited a rare and delicate taste. This, also, Mr. Hardy saw ; yet, strangely enough, he never indicated, in any way, his ap preciation of the fact. But if the slightest want of harmony in colour, or the slightest apparent deviation from taste in any portion of her attire met his glance, he was sure to remark upon it, after they had become more intimate ; nor was this always done in choicely selected words. His pride in the rarely endowed maiden was, we fear, stronger than his love for her. She was to be the minister of his pleasures, the agent of his worldly ambition ; and, in dreaming of this, he forgot that she had a hungering and a thirsting spirit, that would droop and die if the bread and wine of life were not given to her freely. No wonder that, as Jane Enfield approached nearer and nearer to the wedding-day, her heart grew faint, and she sometimes wished that she might die. Yet never did woman love with more intensity of feeling. Up to her betrothed she looked, as to a purer being, possessed of all man's superior 60 THE WITHERED HEART. endowments ; and his failure *o give the warm approval, for which her spirit so longed and prayed, was rather attributed to actual deficiencies in herself a failing, on her part, to attain the high standard of excellence which he expected in the woman who was to be his life-companion than to coldness or indifference to her state of feeling. And so the time moved on, until the marriage- hour arrived, and the beautiful, accomplished, and loving girl, completed the sweet cycle of her maidenhood, and entered the new and higher sphere towards which she had advanced wilh tt enabling hope and fear. CHAPTER V. | irsi Cmiitst. " One thing, sirs, full safely dare I say, That loving friends each other must obey, If they would long remain in company. Love will not be constraiu'd by mastery: When mastery cometh, the God of love anon Beateth his wings, and farewell I he is gone !" CUADCA IT was the desire of Mr. and Mrs. Enficld (hat their daughter should remain with them, at least for a time, and that her husband should make their house his home. This was the desire also of the young wife; expressed, as well before as after the marriage. But Mr. Hardy had made up his mind, from the very first, that he would have a home of his own, that he might be master there; and he had never wavered from this purpose for a single moment. All the warmly expressed wishes of his bride and her parents did not weigh with him a feather in the opposing scale. It was one of liis theories, that, in marriage, man was the head, and must rule ; that his judgment was to deteiMiinc what was best; and that what was his will, ought to be a wife's pleasure. Accordingly, 62 THE WITHERED HEART. at the very beginning of his wedded relation, he sought to make the gentle, loving one who had given her happiness into his keeping, comprehend this as his view of the matter ; not in clear, out spoken words, indeed, but in such hints as he deemed clear enough, yet not so broad as to give offence. But the idea of rule on one part, and submis sion on the other, had never been even remotely conceived of by the young bride ; and the intima tions given by her husband were not comprehended. All her life long she had lived in an atmosphere of mutual love, forbearance, concession, and the denial of self for the pleasure of others. The utterance of a wish by any member of the family, was the signal for all to do some part in the grati fication of that desire. Love, not self-will, or nicely discriminated precedence, was the ruling power in Mr. Enfield's household; and if any wore the chain of obedience, the flower- links were so light, that they were not in the slightest degree felt to be a burden. It was a new experience in Jane's life, to find her wishes altogether disregarded J and, under the circumstances, a very painful one. She had felt certain that an expressed desire on her part to remain with her parents, at least for a short period after their marriage, would have received a cordially approving response from her husband ; THE FIRST CONTEST. 63 and when he met her proposal with the smiling remark " Young married people should always begin life in their own home," she did not ima gine that behind the words lay a resolute purpose to make the sentiment a practical one in their case. At no time previous to their marriage had she urged the matter, for she believed that her lover would esteem it a pleasure to meet her wishes. Whenever an allusion was made to the subject, either by Jane or her parents, the young man did not fail to reply in the words just given, or in others of similar import ; but he spoke so mildly and pleasantly, that Jane, at least, had no suspicion of the fact, that his mind was made up to remove her from the home of her parents as soon after their marriage as might be practicable. " There is a house in Garden Street, which I think will suit us exactly," said Mr. Hardy, just one week after their wedding-day. They were sitting alone in the dimness of the falling twilight, the young wife's head resting lovingly upon the bosom of her husband, and her heart full to over flowing of new and glad emotions. Jane did not reply ; but her husband was con scious, though not from any sign perceptible by the senses, that the remark gave her 110 pleasure. " The situation is a very desirable one; the house new and handsome. I want you to go with me to look at it to-morrow." 64 THE WITHERED HEART. Jane was on the point of saying that she would go, but she could not trust herself to speak, and so, almost from necessity, remained silent. This silence annoyed Mr. Hardy, who in part attributed it to the right cause. "Will you go with me?" he asked, in a tone which, to Jane's ears, was so new, that it startled almost frightened her. She rose up quickly from her reclining posture, and said " Of course, Mr. Hardy, I will go with you !" " I did not know," he answered a little coldly " Silence is not always to be taken for consent." Jane felt an icy chill go shuddering through her whole being. " You know," said Mr. Hardy, after both had remained for nearly a minute without again speaking, " that I have intimated my wish, from the beginning, to h^ve a house of my own ; and not for an instant have I ever designed any thing else." He spoke with unusual gravity of tone and manner, and with something of an im perative air. " When a man takes a wife, he expects to have a home of his own, and household goods of his own. If he be a true man, he will be satisfied with nothing less. I certainly cannot, and will not be." For some moments it seemed to the yoang wife as if her h^art ceased to beat, and her lungs to THE FIRST CONTEST. 65 respire. Then, in spite of her strong effort at self-control, tears gushed from her eyes, and sobs convulsed her frame. Now, for such an exhibition of feeling Mr. Hardy could see no real cause, and he very coolly set it down to the account of design on Jane's part, as if she were striving to work upon his sensibilities, and thus to extort from him an acqui escence in her views. This' only made him the more determined to execute his purpose. So he uttered not one gentle or soothing word, but sat perfectly silent until the grieving creature at his side had, by many efforts, repressed the upheaving emotions of a stricken heart. Neither referred again to the subject. When the family met at the tea- table, half an hour after wards, the quick eyes of Mr. Enfield read trouble in the face of his daughter, for it was pic turing its image there, even through a veil of smiles. " I have found a house to-day," said Mr. Hardy, soon after they were seated at the table, " which I think will just suit us." Both Mr. and Mrs. Enfield turned their eyes upon him with looks ot surprise. " It is in Garden Street ; one of the pleasantcst situations in the city. Jane and I are going together to look at it in the morning." " Don't think of such a thing," replied Mr Enfield. DO THE WITHERED HEART. " Not for ai> instant," said the mother. " We are not going to let you altogether deprive us of our daughter. She cannot leave her old home yet, Mr. Hardy. It is large enough for you and her; so don't talk of houses or housekeeping. When we consented that you should marry our child, we did not relinquish all claims upon her." The young man, quite self-possessed, as he could always be when there was sufficient reason to wai- rant an effort, blandly replied, " I have never thought of anything else. It is one of my favourite theories, you know, that every young married couple should at once set up a home-establishment for themselves. To me, life's highest ideal is a home" " We only ask you to defer the change for a few short months," said Mrs. Enfield, almost in a pleading voice. " It will be easier for us to part with our daughter then, than it is now." " We shall not be far from you," answered the young man, still with a pleasant smile and tone. " Jane can see you every day." Thus, smilingly, yet in real earnest, the con troversy went on betAveen the parents and the husband ; but the young wife said not a word, a circumstance that did not escape the observation of Mr. Enfield. " Suppose," he said, " that we leave the ques tion to be decided by Jane." THE FIRST CONTEST. 67 1 She is a party interested," was quickly answered by Mr. Hardy. " So are we all," said Mr. Enfield. A slight flush came into the daughter's face, when this reference was made to her ; but she did not respond. " You know very well," remarked Mr. Hardy, in a laughing way, "how she will decide. But our full-fledged bird must leave the mother-nest, and build one for herself. Her wings are strong enough to bear her up into the pure air of heaven, and she will be all the happier for the effort." Both Mr. and Mrs. Enfield, perceiving that Mr Hardy was altogether in earnest, and that their daughter was ill at ease while the conversation went on, deemed it wisest to say no more. A slight feeling of embarrassment was experienced for a time by all parties. But Mr. Enfield broke through this by the introduction of a pleasant theme ; and no farther reference was made to the subject. From that time, Jane was conscious of a strange feeling of pressure and constriction over her heart. The unyielding spirit of her husband deeply dis appointed her. Through many hours of the night that followed, while he was in a sound slumber, she lay weeping the bitterest tears that ^had ever wet her eyelids. There are many who will not sympatliize very 68 THE WITHERED HEART deeply with the young wife in her wretchedness, who will deem her unreasonable, or weak, or even selfish. But she did not mean to be either. Love was her very life ; and she had loved Mr. Hardy because she believed him pure, good, and unselfish ; one who loved her with a devotion equal to her own ; one, who would be to her clinging woman's nature, as the manly oak to the upreaching vine ; one, who would love and cherish her with even more than the tenderness with which the best of fathers had loved and cherished her from childhood upwards. She had never intended to set up her will against his ; and as little had she dreamed that her husband would assume the love-extinguishing position, that his will was to rule in all things. Had her parents not seemed so earnestly desirous that she should remain with them for a time, she would have yielded to her husband's wishes the moment she saw that he really preferred the new arrangement proposed. Indeed, she had never regarded him as really in earnest about the matter, until he now mentioned a particular house, as one that he thought would suit them. His doing this, in so cool and determined a way. after he had clearly understood the feelings both of herself and of her parents, was vAr.it threw the shadow over her heart. She saw in the act a moral characteristic not plainly apparent before a savouring of self- THE FIRST CONTEST. 69 love and . self-will. It was soon yes, too soon alter their closer union by the marriage ritf to discover, that he loved and regarded her only less than himself; and that he was ready to defer to her wishes only when these did not run counter to his own. Too rudely was the veil torn from her eyes, and her vision opened to realities, the know ledge of which almost palsied her heart. The next morning, no reference w'as made at the breakfast-table to the subject discussed en the previous evening; but yet it was in the thoughts of all. In Jane's heart had sprung up the hope that her husband, after reflection, would have concluded to yield his wishes to theirs And v/ith this hope, there had also qui^k^n* 3 '! in her mind the spontaneous purpose to refer all to him, to advocate the establishment of a ne\* fiome, because his heart was dwelling fondly upon hat iJeal. As this aspect of the case assumed a more distinct form, and was at length regarded by her as a verity, the light which had grown so dim blazed forth again, and her spirit felt an upward, bounding impulse. Her cheeks glowed and her eyes sparkled as of old. Already were her lips preparing to utter the proposal that she should go with her husband and look at the house in Garden Street, while pleasant images of the home she would beautify and make delightful for the beloved of her heart were beginning to fill her mind, when o2 70 THE WITHERED HEART. he said to her, in a quiet, cool, almost imperative tone of voice " Come, Jane, get ready as quickly as you can. You know we are to look at that house this morning." It seemed as if the light of the sun had suddenly been removed, leaving her in thick darkness ; as if the warm air around her had become icy cold. The colour left her cheeks and lips, and the brightness of her beautiful eyes greAV dim. All this Mr. Hardy saw and understood or, to speak more correctly, thought he understood. He was dilpleased, and, to some degree irritated, by this " wilfulness," as he mentally termed it, on the part of his wife. " One of us must rule," such were his rapid thoughts " and fhe sooner it is determined which is to be master, the better." Then speaking aloud, he said, very slowly, very emphatically, and very resolutely, " Jane, it will be better for you to understand at the outset, that I am a man not given to vacillation. It will save both you and me a great amount of trouble. I am, moreover, always in earnest in anything that I propose, and I usually grow more earnest and resolute under opposition. Now it is plain that touching this matter of housekeeping, you have either not supposed me in earnest, or you have believed that a well-sustained opposition would lead me THE FIRST CONTEST. 71 to alter my purpose. In this you have been altogether mistaken. I have been in earnest from the beginning; and to speak my mind plainly, I did think, Jane, that your love had in it enough of the unselfish element to lead you to give up something of your own preferences, in order to meet your husband's wishes. It seems, however, that none of us are perfect. Our ideal angels prove at last but women, the children of unhappy Eve !" Poor Jane grew white as death, and caught her breath convulsively, like one suddenly deprived of vital air. She was standing when her husband began to speak, but strength forsook her limbs, and she sank, almost powerless, into a chair. Mr. Hardy was not in the least softened towards her ; for his interpretation of the effect produced by what he had said, was as wide from the truth in regard to her state of mind, as pole is from pole. " It is useless, Jane," he continued, " to set your will against mine. We had better under stand each other completely at the first ; and then all after misunderstanding and consequent un- happiness will be prevented. As the husband, my judgment of things, and my decisions, must, to a certain extent, prevail. There cannot be two heads in any government national, municipal, ur domestic. This is self-evident. One has to rule, in all cases, or else disorder, discord, and 72^ THE WITHERED HEART. anarchy, must be in the ascendant. As God is the head of the church, so is man the head of his family. Thus it has been Divinely ordained ; and any deviation from this order is fraught with most disastrous consequences. In taking upon yourself the vows of a wife, you have consented to all this as a Christian woman ; and I am sure a moment's reflection will give clearness to your mind, and a willing, cheerful, submissive spirit to your heart. If not, then have I greatly mistaken my wife. Heretofore, as a daughter, the will of your parents has been, more or less, the law of your life. But that law is abrogated. Your desire must be now unto your husband. His wishes, not theirs, must now be governing motives I regret that you did not see this for yourself. The task of bringing it to your remembrance is no pleasant one." " I speak very plainly," resumed Mr. Hardy, after a pause, and seeing that there was no move ment towards a response on the part of his pale, statue-like wife ; " it is, as I before said, best to do so. Clear apprehensions at the beginning prevent a world of subsequent trouble. If all men, at the commencement of their married lives, would speak out plainly as I do now, there would be far less of misunderstanding and contention, lhan prevail to a sad extent, marring and deform ing so many fair households. Now, I wish you THE FIRST CONTEST. 73 to bear in mind particularly, that, when I express a desire for anything, I am in earnest ; and that it will be useless for you to make any attempt to circumvent or turn me from my purpose. Your wishes I cannot, of course, disregard ; and to meet them will ever be, I trust, one of the purest pleasures of my life. But, should these wishes, at any time, lift themselves against my own declared purposes purposes that I have set myself deliberately, and from reason, to carry out, as in the present case your efforts to turn me aside from the objects I seek to attain, will be like beating the air ; or worse, beating a statue that will only bruise the tender hands which strike its marble surface." Still the young wife sat before him, with her long lashes laid closely down upon her pallid cheeks, her hueless lips slightly parted, and her hands clasped over her bosom. Other eyes would have seen in that form an image of despair ; but it did not appear so to the husband, whose eyes looked through a blinding veil. " We understand each other at last, Jane," he said, in a slightly softening tone; "and now, like a dear good .wife, get yourself ready, and let us go and look at our new home." But she neither moved nor spoke. " Jane !" There was no response. 74 THE WITHERED HEART. " Jane !" He laid his hand upon hers, and, as he did so, a thrill passed through his frame, for > that hand was icy as the hand of death. " Jane !" He might as well have spoken to the dead ; for, ere the sound of his voice had died upon the air, she fell forward, and his arms only saved her from striking the floor with a heavy concussion. Love was the life of her soul, and he had well nigh trampled it out, with the crushing strokes of his iron heel ' CHAPTER VI. 3 flbit 10 barton Start. 14 1 may not hope from outward forms to win The iassion and the life whose fountains are within." COLEBIDOK. MR. HARDY lifted in his arms the insensible body of bis wife, and laid it upon the bed. He waa startled, pained, and alarmed, as well he might be ; but not to the extent most readers would imagine. Of a very equable temperament, he was never greatly moved by any sudden occur rences, no matter what their character ; and rarely was the equilibrium of his mind disturbed. In the present case, instead of calling Mr. and Mrs. Enfield, he began chafing the bands and arms of bis insensible wife, sprinkling her face with water, and using such other restorative means as occurred to him. Nearly ten minutes were spent in these efforts, before the ^smallest sign of life appeared ; and then the returning . pulse beat very feebly under the pressure of his searching ri liters. 76 THE WITHERED HEART. The father and mother were now summoned. To them the condition of their child was appalling. Never since her earliest childhood had they seen her in such a state ; for never, even in severe illness and its consequent debility, had the life- forces of her being been for a inciment suspended. Their eager inquiries elicited no satisfactory reply from Mr. Hardy. The utmost they could, learn from him was, that while they were conversing, he noticed an unusual pallor in her face, and that soon after, her eyes closed, and she fell forward into his arms. It was, doubtless, a " mere faint ing fit," he said; and he urged the parents not to feel needless alarm. There was far less of comfort, far less of hope, in his almost calmly spoken words, than the young man supposed. That he should appear so little disturbed under the cii'cumstances, surprised Mr. and Mrs. Knfield, and awakened vague sus picions in their minds. "Oh! run for the doctor! quickly! quickly!" exclaimed the mother, as soon as the first bewil derment passed away,, and she could think at all. " Don't be frightened," said Mr. Hardy. "It will scarcely be necessary to call in the doctor, for she is gradually recovering. It is only a faint ing fit. See, her eyelids are quivering, and there is a motion in her lips and hands. It will be over ill a few moments. Do not be alarmed " A VISIT TO GARDEN- STREET. 77 As ne spoke, a low, sad murmur breathed through her lips ; it had the vagueness of a dreamy sound. " Jane ! Jane ! Dear child ! " The lips of the mother almost touched the ear of her daughter; and her tones were eager, and trembling with love and pity. Only the sad moaning sound was repeated ; but it was less vague, and more fraught with a living anguish. "Jane, dear! .My daughter! Speak, if you hear me." It was the father who now addressed her. The sound of his voice seemed to penetrate the shut door of her spirit. Her eyes slowly opened ; for a moment or two she looked from face to face of the anxious group bending over her, and. then tin-owing her arms around her father's neck, sobbed out " Father ! father ! Oh, father ! " " My dear, precious child ! what ails you?" " Jane ! Dear love ! " The mother bent close to her, and kissed her tenderly. " You are better now," said Mr. Hardy, laying his hand upon her damp forehead, and smoothing back the hair which had fallen over its polished surface. He spoke in an even voice. Mr. Enfield was struck with the apparent want of emotion in the young husband, under circumstances so deeply distressing to himself. Jane did not seem to notice his presence. H 78 THE WITHERED HEART. Gradually life and consciousness were restored; but not to the full extent. To the many ques tions of her paients, touching the cause of her sudden illness, Jane gave no reply. After the first startled recognitions of those who were stand ing around, her mind seemed to relapse into 'a torpid, semi-conscious state. Her countenance remained very pale ; and its whole expression was that of intense mental suffering. Mr. and Mrs. Eufield were distressed beyond measure; and it is but justice to say of Mr. Hardy, that he was deeply troubled. His state of feeling, and his thoughts on the subject, were, however, widely different from theirs. He viewed the case before him from a stand-point of his own ; and, painful as the trial was, he resolved not to recede a single step from the position he had assumed. It was, as he conceived, only a simple struggle for the mastery ; and he even went so far in his conclusions as to assume, that baffled self-will had quite as much to do with his wife's present condition, as any other feeling! In this he was sincere. But he was not the man to yield in any struggle for right or predominance. Let the contest be long or short, he was determined to maintain his ground to the end. " I did not expect this," lie said to himself, as he left the house on seeing Jane well nigh re covered from her fainting fit, and to'*k his way to A TISIT TO GARDEN STREET. 79 his office. " I did not expect this of her, one who, in all her maidenly intercourse, has been so gentle, so loving, so ready to concede, so yield ing in all that concerned herself. Ah ! woman ! woman ! thou art indeed a riddle most difficult of solution ! How soon have the roses, dropped from thy gentle hands, become thorns in my path !" When Mr. Hardy returned at dinner-time, he found his wife entirely recovered. She was alone in her room, and received him with a flitting smile on her still pale face. He kissed her as he sat down by her side; and taking her hand in his, inquired tenderly as to her health. " Oh, I am very well now," she replied, en deavouring to speak cheerfully, and to wear a pleasant smile. The smile and tone, however, were but a mockery. Mr. Hardy tried to con verse with her on subjects in which, heretofore, both of them had been interested, but he failed to awaken any warm response. This did not soften his feelings; for he called that woman's perverseness, which was simply a resultant con dition of mind, and impossible for her to cast off. He even permitted himself to charge her in his thoughts, with acting a part in order to gain him over to her will. This idea hardened him towards her, and widened the breach between them. In the evening the state of things was but 80 THE WITHERED HEART. slightly improved. Jane did not come down to tb/ 1 tea-table, and Mr. and Mrs. Enfield were too niucl depressed in spirits to enter into anything nion than a mere monosyllabic conversation with Mr ' Hardy, who, whatever was the true state of his feelings, maintained a bland, affable deportment. To some extent, during the evening, the young wife was able, by a strongly self- compelling effort, to assume a more cheerful aspect towards her husband, which he regarded as a favourable omen. How little of what was in her heart could he understand ! Did it suggest the thought that he might make some concession ? No ! There was rather a feeling of exultation at the signs of victory; and there was the stirring of a meaner purpose to make the submission still more com plete than at first designed. Longer than the next morning he could not wait, before again proposing to go and look at the house in Garden^Street. He saw the paling of his wife's face, the quiver of her lip, the sudden catching of her breath, that followed his words : but these did not shake him in hi-s purpose, nor cause him to hesitate. They only made him the more resolute to move onward. He had hoped, that, after passing through the convulsive struggles of the previous day, conscious weakness would induce her to yield. That she manifested sur prise and pain at the renewal of his proposition, A VISIT TO GARDEN STREET. 81 satisfied him that there had heen a mutual error both having regarded the victory as won. "Will you go with me this morning, Jane?" lie said firmly. " If you desire it," was faintly answered. " Certainly, I desire it." Mr. Hardy spoke firmly, and in a rebuking tone. "I shall be ready in a few moments." And Jane turned to the wardrobe to get her shawl. He did not notice that she staggered in her gait, as she crossed the room. " You will find me in the library," said he, leaving the room. The instant he closed the door, his wife stood still, and clasping her hands across her bosom, lifted her eyes upwards, saying with an even, repressed voice " O Lord, give me strength and endurance Make me a true, good wife. Teach me the way of duty. Guide my wandering feet. () Lord, help me ! for I arn weaker than the bruised reed." Then, with a firmer step, she moved about the room, and with quicker movements made pr^para- tioii to go with her husband. " I saw the owner of the house yesterday," said Mr. Hardy, as they left the street-door, " and he says that several persons are desirous to rent it, and that we shall have to decide the matter to-day. I told him I thought there was no doubt of your taking the house." 11 2 82 THE WITHERED HEA.RT. Ho waited for a response, but none was madi, The remark was intended to impress his wife with the fact, that he was still entirely in earnest ; and such was the effect, for she remembered that it was while she had been lying sick in bed, that he was coldly prosecuting the object which he sought to obtain, even at the expense of trampling on her already crushed feelings. A low shudder went quivering along every nerve at this new proof of his utter disregard of her wishes. " Lord, help me ! " From away down in her suffering spirit arose this almost despairing cry. Very weak she felt ; her own strength was almost gone. She must fall by the way, unless Heaven sent the power to bear up and move on. Her silence, as little understood as any state of mind had been during this brief but unhappy contest, was set down to an unsubdued spirit, that yet hoped to compass its own will. " It is of no use," he said, " my pretty one !" speaking to himself, in a light vein. " These weapons of warfare strike against polished armour. I can be as insensible as iron when I choose. And so the quicker you get over all these airs, the better it will be for yourself." The house in Garden Street was a handsome edifice ; much handsomer than that in which Mr. and Mrs. Eiifield were living. The neighbour hood was pleasant and desirable. Indeed, in. most A VISIT TO GARDEN STREET. 83 respects the choice was good. All this Jane sa\v at a glance ; and yet, as she entered the spacious doorway, and passed into the elegantly-finished parlours, she felt that here was the burial-place of all her happiness. A dead coldness, like the atmosphere of a tomb, struck chillingly on her spirit. To the All-seeing One only was it known how, with the utmost strength of her soul, she struggled to assume a cheerful and interested manner, and to meet with a wife-like acceptance the earnestly- spoken fcommendations lavished by her husband upon the new home into which he purposed re moving her. " Don't you think these parlours beautiful ? " he asked with animation. " Very," was replied. Jane wished to say more ; but she was no actress. She could not veil her feelings with her voice ; and she feared that the attempted utterance of words would only betray her state of mind too fully. Mr. Hardy was disappointed at the brief re sponse, as well as chafed by the still unbroken, persevering wilfulncss of his wife. They passed into the large garden filled with choicest shrubbery, and adorned with a tasteful summer-house. "Is not this charming ! I have seen nothing tike it iu the whole city," said Mr. Hardy. 84 THE WITHERED HEART. " It is very beautiful," replied Mrs. Hard/ in an absent way. In truth, her eyes had scarcely taken in the form of these external things ; for, just at the moment, arose before the eyes of her spirit that dreadful, never-to-be-obliterated scene of the previous morning ; and she seemed again to be looking appalled into the changed and terrible face of her husband, which, like that of another Medusa, was changing her into stone. Mr. Hardy bit his lips to repress an impatient, rebuking word. With an unusual effort he kept silent. From the garden they went into the upper rooms, both speechless both embarrassed; and one in a state bordering upon angry excite ment. Two handsome apartments, opening into each other by folding-doors, and finished with everything convenient and appropriate, were on the second floor, and, as they stepped into them, Mr. Hardy said " How do you like these, Jane?" From the moment the young wife's feet crossed the threshold of this house, a chill fell upon her spirit, as if the wings of death had thrown their cold shadows over her ; and every advancing step she had taken, seemed like going farther and farther into the dusky chambers of an Egyptian tomb. She tried to answer her husband's question A VISIT TO GARDEN STREET. O& tried to frame approving words in her mind tried to master her feelings so as to sy-ak v/irh apparent smiling cheerfulness. But all wio vam. And so she remained silent under tLe pressure of emotions it was impossible to throw off. " Why don't you speak, Jane?" Mr. Hardy's impatient feelings overleaped his self -control. " Surely, all this makes some impression upon your mind, favourable or unfavourable ! I am at least entitled to a response." He had turned upon her suddenly, and was gazing sternly into her sad face. She met his fiery eyes with a startled look. " Can't you say whether you like the house or not ? " Two or three times Jane attempted 13 answer; but her tongue clove, literally, to her mouth. Sternly her husband continued to gaze upon her, the angry spirit ill his eyes smiting her with terrible anguish. " It is of no use, Jane, thus to set yourself up against my wishes," said he, speaking very firmly, yet under greater self-control. " I understand more than half of this to be mere acting; and the other half the painful struggles of conscious Weakness. Under tne law of our marriage and you solemnly vowed before Heaven to keep that law it is my prerogative to decide all questions ou which difference exists. We have differed here, 86 THE WITHERED HEART. and my decision you know. You wrong me, therefore, by this fruitless opposition; and you create for your own mind a world of wretched ness. Surely, a man may be pardoned for de siring a home for himself; and that v.'ife is greatly to blame who opposes her husband in this reason able desire, particularly when she sees that he has set his heart upon it, and cannot bo turned aside from his purpose ! " "Oh, John! John!" exclaimed Mrs. Hardy, bui-sting into tears, " how greatly you misun derstand me ! how sadly you wrong me ! " And she leaned her face upon his shoulder, and for some moments wept bitterly. Mr. Hardy drew his arm around her, and pressed her to his side ; but there was no heart- thrill conveyed by the pressure, for no heart was in the act. As the outburst of feelings died" away, he said " I should be sorry to misunderstand or wrong you, Jane. In this respect, it is my effort to be blameless in the sight of Heaven towards all men. Just, I have ever sought to be." Jane could speak no farther. A mere servile humiliation of herself at his feet was impossible, and this seemed to her the only alternative offered. There were necessities in her being that could not be wholly abrogated. "Will you answer me one question, clearly A VISIT TO GARDEN STREET. 87 and firmly?" said Mr. Hardy, with a resolute tone of voice, stepping a little apart, as he spoke. " Certainly." There was a calmer utterance OT the word than he had expected to hear. " Shall we take this house ? Sa j yes, or no." " Yes, take it by all means," she answered, speaking evenly, but not lifting her eyes from the floor. " Very well. That is settled. So far we under stand each other. I will see the owner, and make the contract Avith him this morning. And now, for the matter of furnishing; that must be con sidered next. If you have any choice as to A he cabinet-maker and upholsterer, I shall be giau to consult your wishes in this respect. Indeed, if you and your excellent mother will undertake the whole business of furnishing every part of the house, I shall be gratified. What say you ?" "If mother consents, as I have no doubt she will, I shall cheerfully consent to the arrangement." This was almost too coldly too mechanically said, to suit Mr. Hardy. There was neither warmth nor will enough in it. A moment or two he stood, hesitating whether to make any farther remark. He then said " Come ; there is more of the house yet to be seen." Mrs. Hardy moved away with him, ex hibiting a degree of interest not manifested before 88 THE WITHERED HEART. The fact was, her feelings had suddenly congealed, giving an exterior placidity, and a smooth, glassy surface, which would coldly mirror back whatever image was presented. The ice, indeed, was very, very thin. But enough, that the waters were frozen, and to such a depth as would secure their remaining for a while undisturbed by the lighter airs which swept over them. " I am glad you like the house," said Mr. Hardy, as on closing their examination they started homeward. The remark was made in a voice that indicated satisfaction, and showed that he was deceived as to the real state of his wife's mind. " How soon shall we make arrangements for selecting the furniture ?" " I see no reason for delay in the matter," replied Mrs. Hardy. " Nor I ! And now, Jane, will you, assisted by your mother, undertake this work, and relieve me from all care on the subject ? We are very busy at the office, and my time and thoughts are both fully occupied." " If you desire it, and can trust to our taste in the selection," was the answer. " Oh ! I'll willingly leave the whole of that matter to you ; making, however, one exception everything must be handsome, and of the best quality. It is always cheapest to buy good furni ture, and of the most recent patterns. It lasts A YISIT TO GARDEN STREET. 89 tonger, and does not so soon go out of fashion. Don't you agree with me in this respect ?" " Yes ; I thiitk you are right ; only, there must be a limit as to price. It is possible that, in the selection, we might be tempted to exceed the sum you can afford to appropriate for the purpose. This is my only fear." '*' You need not be alarmed about that. I wish to furnish handsomely, and you are at liberty to consult your taste in everything. Let elegance, not cheapness, be your guide." Mr. Hardy, who was a man of but feeble perceptive powers, was again deceived as to the true state of his wife's feelings. He was weak enough to suppose that she had yielded in the contest, and was now submitting herself dutifully, and in a returning spirit of cheerfulness, the result of right purposes in the right direction. Pleasantly, and almost volubly, he talked of the future, and how delightful it would be when they could close the doors and windows of their own home at eventide, and shut out the world. How far was it from his thoughts, that every word he uttered struck the icy exterior of his wife's feelings, and glanced off without making the feeblest impression ! How little did he imagine, that her seemingly pleased responses were only from the lips out ward, and that, in the deep places of her soul, were agitation and opposition as profound as the THE WITHERED HEART. life-sources of her being! He did not for ;in instant dream that a permanent change had passed over the surface of her feelings, and that, by gaining his purposes in the way in which he had gained them, he had lost his wife! that all the sweet, loving, gentle, celestial graces of her woman's nature, which had lured him by their heavenly attractions, had faded from the changed exterior, and retired for safety and life, far up into the interior mansions of her spirit, there to hide themselves until mortal should put on im mortality. Ah ! what an error had been committed ! "What a wrong done ! The selfish, self-willed young husband did not understand the instrument upon which he sought to play ; and in his bold self- sufficiency, dashed his hand in amon? the dt-Ucate strings, first producing discord, ftnJ tier ^V~e*u^ them to piece* CHAPTER VII f le IJftto J0me. No more can faith or candour more, But such ingenuous deeds of love Which reason could applaud, Now, smiling o'er her dark distress, Fancy malignant strives to dress Like injury and fraud." AKENSIDE. 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 that brooded over her spirit, and gave to her manner a cheerfulness that was but a mockery of her real state. 92 THE WITHERED HEART. 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 waste 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 shade of reluctance ; to hide the troubled aspect of her spirit from every one. Alas ! this was im possible. She had no skill in dissembling. 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 habita tion that was to be the bride's new home. " I ought to be a he ppy wife." These were the mental words of Mrs. Hardy, as the carriage moved away from her father's house. Yet even as she said THE NEW HOME 93 this, she shrunk hack in the carriage, and drew hoi 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. tj 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 ; hut I am ready to trust all in her hands. Don't you think we ought to be very happy here ?" And he "lanced around upon the elegant adorn ments of the room in which they stood. " Happiness comes always from within," replied Mrs. Enfield in a low, thoughtful voice. *' Yes," she added, after an almost imperceptible pause, " you ought to he very happy here ; and may Heaven grant you that great blessing." " Nothing shall be wanting, 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. 1 must away :" and he moved across the room. " But ft] 94 THE WITHERED HEART. stay," he added, pausing at the door. " I must book 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 be two. You will see me at the uuor 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 hoasehold. 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 " un reasonable !" 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 110 kind Voice " Jane, I rm confounded at this persevering THE NEW HOteE. 95 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 under stand 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 96 THE WITHERED HEAKT. desire a home ? No ! But it icas strange thnt the wife I selected from the circle of maidens should, for an instant, think of holding me hack 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 ere 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 suffered right thoughts to guide him to a perception of her true state ; if he had then resolved to seek her happi ness 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 THE "NEW HOME. 97 a fare 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 fi-cble 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 counte nance 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, dis appointed self-will was its exciting impulse. No; lie had no pity ; r.o sympathy. His cool, Avell- THE WITHERED HEART. balanced mind was not disturbed by any feeling ot commiseration for his wife. He was only offended by her pertinacity. 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 up stairs 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 com posed, and her voice steady; but her face was almost hueless. 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 mouthfuls, and, though she made a feint 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 start she gave, as the sound struck upon her ear. She sat very still for a few monents, and then rising, went up to her THE NEW HOME. 99 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 feel ings, 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 re turn, she aroused herself, and removing as far as possible, all traces of suffering from her counte nance, met him with an air so pleasant and. cheer ful, 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 wonted 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 100 THE WITHERED HEART. herself, and her husband listened to her voice and her praises with a glow of pride. *' How happy we miyht 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 unob trusive, so apparently unselfish, had so strong a will and such endurance ?" " What a little paradise you have !" said one fair friend tc the bride. "If you are not happy here, there is no happi ness 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 feel ings again, and opened his mind to the influx of subtle accusations. The sudden depression that followed the break ing up of a company before whom she had really been acting a part, only confirmed Mr. Hardy iu 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 TH* NEW HOME. 101 thai were in his mind, for he wished to avoid a gcene ; but his manner became icy cold as he per ceived 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 i for all who, like them, are unequally joked together 1 CHAPTER VIII. ani Sun-(|Is* ....." High winds worse withto Began to rise ; high passions, anger, hate, Mistrust, suspicion, discord ; and shook sore Their inward state of mind, calm region onc And full of peace, now tost and turbulent. * Thus they in mutual accusation spent The fruitless hours, but neither self-condemning, And of their vain contest appear'd no end." MILTON. THROUGH many wakeful hours of the night that followed this first day of trial in their new home, did Mrs. Hardy lie and ponder the question of duty. Ah ! if it had been the question of love nothing would have been easier than the solution! Morning found her with the problem yet un solved. Pale cheeks, weary eyes, joyless coun tenance, silent lips ! Across the breakfast table John Hardy looked, and saAV but these ! Did they move him with pity ? Did loving sympathy, or tender emotion, awaken in his heart? No! He saw only the unlovely type of a yet unconquered pride ; and anger, not love, stirred in his bosom. CLOUDS AND SUN-GLEAMS. 103 Even while the ears of his sad young wife were listening for words of comfort, he was meditating sharp repi-oof. When she saw his lips part, and heard the first murmur of his voice, after a long silence, her heart leaped np with an eager impulse. " I bargained for sunshine, not cloud and tem pest." A low shudder went electrically through every fibre of her soul. The expectant heart sunk down like lead in her bosom. But her coun tenance revealed scarcely anything below the surface. Calmly so it seemed to her husband looked her spirit forth. Mr. Hardy was irritated. " A contract is a contract ;" he spoke wuh cold severity ; " and among men, such things cannot be violated without loss of honour." Still the eyes of his wife looked out calmly upon him ; still her countenance remained im passive. There was no motion about her lips ; no indication of feeling. His words seemed as if flung back upon him mockingly. " I am tired of all this, Jane," he said, after waiting for some response. " Clouds and tem pests were never to my mind. I like clear skies and sunshine." Mr. Hardy had seen, more than once in his lifetime, blows given with such stunning force that the body receiving them was deprived, for a brief period, of even respiration. But it nevei once occurred to him, that the heavy blows his 104 THE WITHERED HEART. strong arm was inflicting upon a weak, sensitive woman, were in as full a measure depriving her spirit of even the power to evince a sign of suffering. " Heaven help us both, if life is to go on after this fashion !" he exclaimed, rising from the table. " It is well said, that woman is a mystery !" He stood and gazed down upon his wife, who sat, with drooping eyelids, and unchanging expression. She saw not the aspect of his countenance with her natural eyes, but all its terrible sternness was mirrored to the eyes of her spirit with blasting distinctness. " Jane ! will you speak to me ?" As quickly, as the glancing of a thought were the eyes of Mrs. Hardy raised to the face of her husband. A few moments they looked at each other steadily. " Will you answer me, Jane ?" " I will. Say on." The evenness of her tone a little surprised Mr. Hardy. " Do you think that all this is loving and right ?' "To what do you refer.'" Still the voice was very calm. " To your purpose to thwart my desires ; to make the home I had pictured in the future as a paradise, a darker, colder, and more wretched place than the dreary world, into which our first parents went when thrust from Eden." CLOUDS AND SUN-GLEAMS. 105 " I have no such purpose, Mr. Hardy ; and God is my witness that I speak the truth. As ycur wife, I will strive earnestly, in the sight of Heaven, to do my whole duty. This I have already pledged you; and I now renew the pledge. If strength fail me if the burden be too heavy if I fall by the way the weakness must be for given for its own sake. But if I can bear up, I will. Only have patience with me, John ! Don't lay your hand too heavily upon me in the beginning. I trust to be stronger and more enduring by and by." There was no trembling or failing of the voice : no drooping of the steady eye ; no sign of wavering, as she said these words. " You speak as if I were a tyrant, and you a slave !" said Mr. Hardy, who was angered rathei than softened by her words. Pride, not tender ness and sympathy, was aroused. Mrs. Hardy did feel the quick rising of an in dignant impulse at the ungenerous blow, and under its influence, she answered " I have, at least, made one painful discovery." " What ?" " That, between the lover and the husband, there is as wide a difference as between Cancer and Capricorn." "Jane!" Mr. Hardy's brow contracted, and he looked wrathfully upon the young creature he had wooed with loving words from, the warm Kl 106 THE WITHERED HEART. home-nest, where only love had heen the aliment of her soul ; looked wrathfully upon his young wife, who, never from childhood up to the ripe years of maidenhood, had gazed into angry eyes that hurned against her. But she quailed not. With her, the sharpei agouy was over. The truth had come, ere this, in all its hard, strong, crushing power ; and now the life-lesson she had to learn was endurance. " I have said it, John." She spoke low, sadly, yet not with apparent weakness. " Perhaps, like something you have uttered, it were better if the thought had died in silence. But spoken thoughts can no longer be hidden secrets. You have the painful conclusion to which my heart has been driven ; and it may be well that it is so." Mr. Hardy was confused and silenced, not only by the firm demeanour, but by the words of his wife, which sounded strangely to his ears. That she could intimate anything wrong or unreason able on his part confounded him. What had he done more than to act upon the defensive ? Had not all the trouble originated with her? And now to be charged back, by implication, with any wrong treatment, was, in his mind, but adding insult to injury. He saw that a new spirit one of retaliation had been aroused in his wife ; and, just then, he did not care to drive it into further action. So, after returning for a few CLOUDS AND SUN-GLEAMS. 107 moments longer her calm, unvarying look, he left the room, and went forth, without a parting word, to his daily business. Very uncomfortable did he feel nay, more, he was positively unhappy. But he took no blarrje to himself. Pride gave no place to self-accusa tion. Calmly he reviewed the subject of his marital relations ; and the review only strength ened the first conclusion of his mind. He had asked nothing that was not perfectly natural. '* In taking a wife," he said to himself, " does not every man look to the establishment of a home ? Who could imagine that, on this question, any division were possible ? Who could dream that a wife would make objections ? Was I to yield here ? To give up the dearest wish of my heart ? NoJ All the manhood in me says, No ! I cannot, I must not, I will not be driven aside! Tears, vapours, sharp words, impenetrable silence, noue of these can move me ! I will be granite to all opposing forces. Yes, I will be the ruler of my own household. My judgment shall be law !" Again, as thought went on reviewing his un happy relations, and memory recalled words and incidents, he said " The uukindcst cut of all ! the husband and the lover, Cancer and Cnpri- certi ! 1 shall never forget that, were I to number Methuselah's years. What can she mean by such conduct ? But tliis assumption of injured inuo- 108 THE WITHERED HEART. cence -will avail nothing. I am on her tra(K, and though she double upon me like the panting hare again and again, I will never yield the pursuit. John Hardy is always right with himself; and, right with himself, he cannot he wrong towards others. I have asked nothing unreasonable have set no foot, in trespass, on her prerogative have sailed under no false colours." And thus he fortified himself, looking only on one side of the question, and seeing only that aspect of the case which flattered his pride and encouraged his self-will. " I can hold out as long as she can :" so he con tinued talking with himself, as thought, ever and anon, turned from business-concerns to the matter nearest his heart. " It is but a question of time ; yet, of all time, if needs be. I can and will hold out to the end even to the end of life! When John Hardy is right, he never yields even the fraction of a hair. If he were to yield, he would cease to be John Hardy !" And thus, through all the hours that intervened until his return home, did the ungenerous young husband continue to write bitter things against his wife, and to fortify himself in opposition. When he laid his hand upon the door-knob, and entered, with a firm step, at dinner-time, his head was erect, his countenance composed, his blue pves calm even t severity. His wife met him CLOUDS AND SUN -GLEAMS. 10& with smiles and loving words ; and, for a little while, he was deceived into the belief that they were outward signs of real feeling, and accepted them as such. At once, the coldness of his ex terior gave way ; light beamed from his counte nance, his tones were gentle, and his words kind. " How much better this, than clouds !" he said, as they sat together on one of the sofas. He had taken her hand, and was holding it tightly in his own. " O Jane ! shall we not always have light in our dwelling ?" Mrs. Hardy did not answer, but her husband felt her hand thrill in his clasp, as if some strong emotion had suddenly been awakened in her heart ; and, at the same time, he was conscious of a perceptible shrinking away from him. Instantly his feelings changed, and the accusing spirit re- entered his heart. There was a dead silence for the space of several minutes. Mrs. Hardy's hand still lay in that of her husband, but it lay there passively, neither giving nor receiving the slight est pressure. Then it was slowly withdrawn, ajid with the motion a sigh broke on the strll air a low faint sigh, yet painfully distinct to the ears of Mr. Hardy. " I cannot breathe an atmosphere like this !" he exclaimed, suddenly, starting to his feet. " I shall die of suffocation." And leaving the room with a firm step, he took 110 THE WITHERED HEART. np his hat, anil before Mrs. Hardy had time tc imagine his purpose, had left the house. As he shut the street-door, the bell rung for dinner. It was some minutes before Mrs. Hardy had strength to rise from the sofa, so stunned was she by this unexpected conduct on the part of her husband. A second time the dinner-bell rung; and then, for appearance' sake, she forced herself to walk as far as the dining-room, where the servant stood waiting. . " Mr. Hardy has gone out," she said, in as firm a voice as it was possible for her to assume ; " and I do not know how soon he will return ; perhaps not till evening. I am not very well, and do not wish for anything; so, you can remove the dishes from the table. If Mr. Hardy comes back, you can replace them." It did not escape the servant's observation, that his mistress's face was pallid, and her voice husky. He had his own thoughts on the subject, which he did not fail to express on returning to the kitchen. " I have begun ; and I shall go through, cost what it may !" said Mr. Hardy to himself, as he sat down in a state of remarkable calmness, to eat the dinner he had ordered at a club-house. " The fiercer the tempest, the sooner it is over. If gentle measures avail not, harsher ones must be adopted. There is one thing certain, I can hold CLOUDS AND SUN-GLEAMS. Ill ott -43 long as Mrs. Hardy, who will find, before she has done with this business, that, in setting up her will fe gainst mine, she has reckoned without her host When John Hardy knows that he is right, John Hardy never yields." Excellent John Hardy! In his own eyes a pattern man ! From the dining-room Mrs. Hardy went up, with failering steps, to her own room, where, after shutting and locking the dnor, she sank upon her knees, and lifting her tearless eyes upwards to ward heaven, prayed thus, with an utterance despairing, rather than hopeful : " O Lord ! give me light, patience, strength ! Show me the true path, and help me to walk in it, even though sharp stones cut my feet at every step. O Lord ! pity and help me ! I am lost in a trackless desert; and the darkness of old Egypt is around me. I have no wisdom of my own to guide no light in my heart to show me the way. O Lord ! pity and help me !" And thus she prayed for a long time, writhing in her agony. But no light came as yet ; no strength was given. The heaven seemed as brass to her petitions. From her knees she arose at length, and in her weakness and despair threw herself across the bed. How long she had lain thus, when there came a low rap at her door, she knew nc t, for suffering THE WITHERED HEAR1. brought a partial paralysis of feeling and suspen sion of thought. She started up and spoke. " Jane !" was the response. It was her mother's voice. The door was opened, and Mrs. Enfield came in. There was not time for the daughter to school her exterior, and the forced smile with which she greeted her mother, re vealed more of suffering than pleasure. Tenderly was she enfolded in the maternal arms, and fondly were love's kisses laid upon her lips and cheeks. " Are you not well, dear ?" asked Mrs. Enfield with concern. " Not very well. My head aches," was the answer. " I have been lying down since dinner time ; and must have slept. What time is it ?" " After four." " Then I have been sleeping. How is father ?'* " Quite well. He wants you and John to come down this evening." " Does he ? Tell him that if Mr. Kardy has no other engagement, we will come. De.ir father ! So loving, so gentle, so good ! Since our brief separation, tears come into my eyes w lenever I think of him. If all men were like hi D, what a lisppy world this would be ! But" aft er a pause " all cannot be like him ; for he is b< st of all." " How is John ?" Mrs. Enfield inqu ired, wiih- out seeming to notice or to understand tae remarks made by her daughter. CLOUDS AND SUN-OLEAMS. 113 " Tie is well," was the simple reply. " Delighted, I suppose, with the new home upon which his heart was set. I'm a little afraid, Jane, that we somewhat erred in making even the smallest ohjections to his wishes in this re spect, seeing, as we now do, how the attractions of a home Avere magnified in his eyes. He showed, perhaps, a little too great eagerness in the matter; but, if Ave put ourselves in his place, AVC shall not be so greatly surprised that it was so. Here centred, for him, the highest ideal of life ; and he was disturbed at anything which came in between himself and the full realization of his Avishes. We must have patience with him, and make many alloAvances. All men are not like your father, Jane." Mrs. Hardy only responded Avith a sigh. But she was gaining temporary poAver, to hide the weakness of a crushed and suffering heart. " Perhaps," said Mrs. Enfield, " one of the greatest errors \ve commit, and one from Avliich the aAvakening is most painful, is the error of imputing virtues in perfection to those AVC love. But Aveakness and imperfection are inherent in all that is human. Even the best men and Avomen that live, are only withheld from evil by the poAver of Divine love." " 1 shall groAv Aviser, as I groAv older, and gain more experience, dear mother," replied Jane; 114 THE WITHERED HEART. " wiser in seeing duty, and stronger to bear suf fering." " Life is not all a day of golden sunshine," said Mrs. Enfield. " And it is well for us, perhaps, that it is not so. We might become too deeply in love with this world, and find, in its mere natural and fleeting life, too intense an enjoyment." Mrs. Hardy sighed again, but did not answer. " You must not expect too much of John," resumed the mother cautiously. " He is all right at heart, and loves you truly. Few men have such high moral purposes ; few, such noble aims. All the groundwork of his character is good. In the first starting there may be a little jarring in the machinery of your lives, ere they can move to gether in harmony ; and, for a season, there may be a painful want of accordant action. But all will run smoothly in good time-" " I will believe it, dear mother !" said Jane, in a voice, the low quiver of which struck a pang to the heart of Mrs. Enfield. " Time is the great restorer of harmonies." " It is, my child ; and also the great reconciler. Our path of life leads upwards, as well as onwards. At every step we rise a little higher, and our vision gains an ampler circle. What is but dimly perceived to-day stands out to-morrow clearly shaped, and seen in relation to all that surrounds it. Objects, now so much in shadow that they CtOTJDS AND SUN -GLEAMS. 115 seem -mlv hideous deformities, may, in a little while, as we ascend and get a sunnier aspect, appear to us, as they really are, forms of truest beauty." Mrs. Enfield paused ; but her daughter made no response to the sentiments just uttered. In a little v\hile, other subjects of conversation less embarrassing in their nature were introduced, and Mrs. Il.trdy acquired a more cheerful tone of feel ing. Il was late in the afternoon when her mother left, witL the parting injunction to be sure to come down with her husband after tea. CHAPTER IX. Cimung fours. Vong le ponves. et le routes; Anssi, iiicni Dicii. a votis m'addrenet Tar te moyen seul Kyavez De m'oster hors de ma deatresse. * * Last hastez-vous, car plus n'cn pHs." MARGLEBUE D'ANGOCLIJU Thon art aWe, thon art willing; I unto Thee my prayer address: Tliini alone the means foreknowing Whereby to save from this distress. * * Quick 1 lend thy strength ; for mine ' ^nt. .TftANSLATIGll. Tins 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 receiv ing her husband, as promised something better than silence, tears, and reproaches. She tried to forget his cruel conduct at dinner-time; for, when ever thought went back to that incident, her heart stood still for a moment, and then gave a EVENING HOURS. 117 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 coining 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 bed-room " 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. lie 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 ths eyes of her husband; ami she dared L2 118 THE WITHERED HEART. 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 un happy 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 dwell ing. After it was over, they went into the parlour. Mr. Hardy had on his slippers and dressing gown; 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, Jly 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 airs, and exerted herself to please him in EVENING HOURS. 119 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 pur posed 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 down to-night. 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 dis appointed." " 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 sue cessful. " Ah, but I don't mean to be excused." 120 THE WITHERED HEART. " 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 speuk 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 dressing gown. We men after a day's battle with the world, feel too com fortable 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 cir cumstance 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 EVENING HOURS. 121 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 disappoint ment 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 accusa tions 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. THE WITHERED HEART. " 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 hushancl 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 hear 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 Avith me." " And so I am." " Oh, John ! I cannot bear it 1" " 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 1? Your thoughts are far away from here. No book can interest you this evening." EVENING HOURS. " 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 a pettish 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 freaks 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 inclinings 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 to-night, I will send for a carriage. I have no desire to deprive you of any pleasure. As for myself, I do not wjsh 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, 124 THE WITHERED HEART. act and Avord 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 spirit 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 wdYd 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 foi nearly an hour, with her head resting on her bosom, silent and motionless as an effigy. How crushed, and weak, and hopeless she felt. Al] EVENING HOURS. 125 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 ascend ing, the thoughts of the husband were busy in accusations against his wife. She was the perverse wrong-doer, and he the sufferer. Her silence he called moodiness; its long continuance, her un yielding 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 strong as iron ! She will under stand 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, ironical 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 hopeful beginning" so his thoughts formed themselves into a meutal soliloquy, as his if 126 THE WITHERED HEART. head reclined on his pillow that night " this is a great deal more than I bargained for ! If this is wedded happiness, what a prospect for the future ! If this is wifely submission, and loving devotion, how have I misconceived the impoit of the words! It is plain that a struggle for supre macy 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 variant 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, in stead 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 posi tion 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 suffer ing on the pillow beside him, was praying in her EVENING HOURS. 127 sliarp 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 along 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 wo. CHAPTER X. " Everywhere, 3ost what they will, snch crnel freaks are p!yM| Vnd hence tlie turmoil in this world of our*, The turmoil never ending, still beginning, flie wailing and the tears." ItocEKa. MR. HAH..Y awoke early the next morning, and while his wife still slept, meditated the questions of right, duty, prerogative, and the sources of domestic peace. His conclusions were simple confirmations of the night's purposes. All their present trouhle arose, in his view, from the fact, that his wife desired to have her own will in all things, a desire so unreasonable and so unrealizable, that the very fact of its existence filled him with astonishment. The pertinacity she had exhibited vexed him. The peculiar character of his manli ness gave him a feeling of contempt for woman's strength, and he felt piqued that so fragile, mild, and heretofore so gentle and yielding a woman, should be able to hold him in something like defiance. THE NON-ARRIVAL 129 Very coolly, and after grave deliberation, did Mr. Hardy decide upon his course of action towards his wife, at least for that day. If there was any failure on her part to meet him cheerfully, and to diffuse that sunlight in his home, which he had a right to expect from her presence, he would imme diately withdraw himself, and that in a way which she must feel to be a rebuke. " If she wish to play the game of endurance, she will find her match in me," he said resolutely to himself. Mrs. Hardy did not awake until after her husband had left the room. Perceiving that it Avas late, she hurriedly attired herself, so as to be ready to join him at the breakfast-table, when the bell rang. Her mind had become much calmer through the restoring power of sleep, and she had clearer views of her duty, and of the necessity of studying more carefully the tastes and peculiarities of hei husband, so as to adapt herself to them. " I must be more of a woman, and less of a child," she said ; " having stepped forth into the world, I must meet the world with a brave, enduring spirit. My husband cannot mean to do me wrong, he only misunderstands me. I am too sensitive. Hitherto, all my wishes have found so prompt a gratification, that I have learned to expect too much. Why should I not have disap pointments to bear as well as others? There a 130 THE WITHERED HEART. must be something wrong in my manner, or else John would not be so impatient with me." The breakfast-bell rung while Mrs. Hardy thus talked within herself; and she stepped forth quickly from her room, to join her husband as he descended the stairs. " Good morning !" she said, with a smile ; and bent forward towards him, expecting the usual kiss at meeting. -But her husband did not offer the desired salute. What a chill of disappointment came over her feelings ! She drew her hand within his arm, compelling herself to the act, and thus they entered the breakfast-room. Mr. Hardy looked serious, and showed no in clination to converse. Mrs. Hardy tried to appear at ease, and to seem cheerful. But the aspect of her husband's face troubled her ; and she felt the little artificial strength she had summoned up, gradually dying out. Suddenly all self-control departed, and, powerless to restrain them, tears began to flow down her cheeks. There was no sobbing, nor visible agitation of the body; no sign of inward pain except the silently falling drops of grief. At first, Mr. Hardy did not observe them, so perfectly were all other manifestations repressed; but, looking up in a few moments, and seeing them glittering upon her cheeks and filling her eyes, he let knife and fork drop from his hands, as THE NON-ARRIVAL. 131 if in indignant surprise. A little while he gazed sternly upon his weeping wife ; then, without uttering a word, he pushed back his chair, rose, and left the room. lie did not go upstairs nor linger in the parlours, but' took his hat from the stand in the passage, and immediately went out of the house. Mrs. Hardy's tears suddenly ceased to flow She tried to rise and follow her husband, but all strength had forsaken her limbs. She tried to call after him, but her vocal organs were paralyzed. And so she sat motionless for a little while, until the life-blood, which had receded under this new blow, came back again along its wonted currents, and the power of acting from the will was restored. Very quietly she arose, and, ivith slow steps, passed from the breakfast-room, and up into the sitting-room above. She had strength to go no farther. Two hours afterwards, she aroused her self from a state bordering on mental stupor ; and by a forced effort, compelled herself to go across to her own room, and there make some changes in her toilette, so as to be in a condition to see visitors should they call. Happily, she was spared the pain of meeting any one during {lie morning. As the time for her husband's return approached, Mrs. Hardy felt herself growing weaker and weaker, -and less able to keep back the tears that THE WITHERED HEART. dimmed her vision. At last, the little Frcncn clock on the mantel-piece struck the hour of two. Hurriedly did Mrs. Hardy start from her chair; anxiously she surveyed herself in the glass ; then bathed her eyes with cold water, hoping to remove from it the red traces of weeping. Yet even as she held the Avet towel to her face, tears mingled with the water by which she hoped to hide all evidence of their flow. " Vain ! vain !" she murmured ; " I am not impassive marble !" A few moments elapsed, and yet the dreaded sound of her husband's feet along the passage and on the stairs did not smite upon her ears. Gradually suspense changed to a new feeling. " He is late to-day," she said to herself, as she glanced towards the clock, and saw that, since the stroke of two, the minute-hand had moved forward, until it pointed to the second figure on the dial. A sudden fear that Mr. Hardy did not mean to come home before night-fall, chilled her heart. Could it be possible that, nursing his anger against her, he could act with such deliberate cruelty ? Five, ten, fifteen minutes more went by. The servant knocked lightly at the door Mrs. lliirdy answered in a tone of forced composure. "Please, ma'am," inquired the mail, "is Mr, Hardy coming home to dinner ?" THE NON-ARRIVAL. 133 "Yes," she answered. " It is nearly half-past two," said the man. "Something has detained him. Do not serve dinner until lie comes." At three o'clock, there was another rap at the door of her room. " Shall 1 bring up the dinner, ma'am ? I don't think Mr. Hardy is coming." " You can clear the table ; I do not wish for anything," replied Mrs. Hardy. " Shall I bring you a cup of tea?" " You may, if you please." " And a piece of toast ?" " Yes." These were brought, but not tasted. Mrs. Hardy consented to receive them, merely to gratify the servant, and to save appearances. During the afternoon, her mother came in. Jane met her with a more composed aspect than she had thought it possible to assume, though all traces of pain could not be hidden. " Why did you not come down last night ?" inquired Mrs. Knfield. " Your father was very much disappointed." " Mr. Hardy returned just enough fatigued with care and business to wish for a quiet evening at home," replied the daughter; "and I could not find it in my heart to urge him to go out with me." 134 THE WITHERED HEART. " Ah, I see how it is ; John is going to he one of your home-loving men," said Mrs. Enfield. " A nd I am glad of it. How much better than if he saw no attraction at home. In this, my child, you have great cause for thankfulness. I know many wives who would give worlds, did they possess them, if so they could endow their hus bands with home-loving qualities. This, depend upon it, Jane, is one of the prime virtues." Mrs. Hardy sighed faintly, but made no answer. " It is well," she thought within herself, " that my mother sees no deeper. May she remain ignorant, as now, of the fearful ordeal through which I am passing." " I am going to spend the afternoon with you, and your father will be here to tea. If you can not go to see him, he is coming to see you." " Oh, I am glad he is coining !" exclaimed Mrs. Hardy, light breaking over her face. " I was so unhappy last evening about disappointing him, that I cried myself to sleep." " That was foolish, my love ; and hardly fair to your husband, particularly as he preferred staying at home for the enjoyment of your company. Be very guarded on this point, Jane. Young hus bands never like to see clouds on their wives' faces. They look for sunshine, not sh-ulosvs and raindrops. You have known but little of disappointment in your short life ; and therefore it is hard to bear " THE NON-ARRIVAL. 135 " I never felt myself so weak as I now am. Life is all a new experience to me. But I shall grow wiser and stronger by and by. It Avas wrong in me to feel disappointed last night, when Mr. Hardy said he did not wish to go out, desiring r.ather to enjoy the rest and quiet of his own" home, after a wearying day's labour. It did seem to me that he was selfish in refusing to go ; and I am afraid I was not as amiable, in consequence, as I should have been." " That was wrong, very wrong, my child !" said Mrs. Enfield. " Perhaps it was ; and I have been sufficiently punished. But I will henceforth study self- denial, and a cheerful acquiescence in all my husband's wishes." " There ought to be no self-denial, Jane," replied Mrs. Enfield. "That word is cold and hard. Ought not your husband's wishes to be your pleasure ?" " Oh yes." " Then seek to make them such. If he, in the beginning of your wedded life, manifests what seems to you an undue regard for himself, and a forgetfulness of those loving attentions once GO abundantly bestowed, do not let this bring clouds over the clear horizon of your spirit to darken the sun of love. Still keep your sky clear, that the nun may shine. Love creates love. Seek hit 136 THE WITHERED HEART. pleasure, in all things : yield to his wishes in every particular ; and soon from the surface of his life, >vill be reflected back upon you affection's warmest beams. Thus you will bind him to you with a cord not to be broken, and all your after life will overflow with blessings." While Mrs. Enfield spoke, her daughter laid her face, as much for concealment as in weakness, upon her mother's bosom, llecovering in a little while the self-control she was losing, she lifted her head, and replied " I am neither very wise, nor very strong, mother. Some things look dark to me, and some things I have not yet gained strength to bear. But wisdom and strength vtill both come, I trust, in their own good time. I pray fur them daily." " Every new sphere of life brings a new ex perience," sid Mrs. Enfield, " and, in most cases, new trials. The change from maidenhood to wife- hood rarely, if ever, takes place without some jarring in the life-machinery, lint, if love be in the heart, all the new movements will soon acquire the most perfect accord. Brides' tears water the garden of love." " It may be so, mother. But do they not, sometimes, give fresh life to weeds as well as flowers?" " There should be no weeds in love's garden." was the smiling response THE NON- ARRIVAL. 137 rt Then it must not be planted in a human heart." Mrs. Hardy spoke in sober earnest. " You may be right, my child," remarked Mrs. Enfield in a graver voice. " Weeds will spring up in the human soul, as well as goodly plants. Be it our task to uproot the one, and cultivate the other. And now, dear, let us change the subject. How is my young housekeeper getting en in her new establishment ? Everything looks well, as far as I have seen. You are doing venders." " Don't praise too early, my good mamma. Everything is new, and in order. Wait a few months, and then see how mv housekeeping will speak fur itself. I have some doubt in regard to the heartiness of the commendation you will then give." A lighter and more cheerful tone of feeling now prevailed ; and the afternoon passed so plea santly to Mrs. Hardy, that she almost wondered at it, considering the unhappy state of affairs between her husband and herself. At the usual hour, Mr. Hardy returned home, and met his wife and mother-in-law in such a bland, frank, and gladsome way, that Mrs. Hardy felt her heart grow warmer in the sunshine of his presence. Mr. Enfield came in soon afterwards ; and Mr. Hardy, grasping his hand with impres sive cordiality, said in a familiar off-hand way 138 THE WITHERED HEART. " You didn't succeed in your design last evening." " What design ??' was naturally inquired. " That of making our home-light dim, in order that yuur's might burn the brighter ! Were you very much disappointed at not seeing us ?" " Yes; why didn't you come down?" " Home was too pleasant, and its magnetism too strong. Now, do you wish to know what I thought of your invitation to spend the even ing?" " W'hat did you think of it?" " That you were a very selfish man.'* " How so ?" " To covet my property ! " " Your property ?" "My enjoyment, then! For nearly twenty years, the presence of your daughter has daily been like a broad beam of sunshine in your dwell ing. She has set there, and risen in the fair horizon of rny home. And scarcely has the light begun to shine, ere you seek to remove it, that it may fall upon you again." " And do you greatly wonder, that in darkness I pine for the vanished light, or covet a few fleeting rays?" said Mr. Enfield, smiling, yet serious. " Perhaps I ought not to wonder. Nor should you be astonished if I feel too happy in these THE NON-ARRIVAL. . . 139 golden beams to wish them withdrawn for an instant." " We did not ask you to let us remove the light from your candlestick ; we only desired you to come to us in the light, and let us share for a brief season the mutual blessing. But like most young husbands, I see you are selfish, and too happy in your wedded life, to be able to sympa thize with the father and mother. I would not complain of this. Jane is the apple of our eyes. Make her happy, and we shall be happy. If you will not come to us, we will come to you. All the green things in our hearts would blanch to a sickly hue, if the radiant light of her presence were wholly remo* ed." " If her life is not crowned with happiness," said Mr. Hardy emphatically, " the fault shall not be mine." And he glanced with a tender expression tov/ards his young wife, who caught the look and treasured it like a precious thing in her heart. Very kind, gentle, and considerate towards his wife was Mr. Hardy during the whole evening ; and to the parents he was unusually attentive. Not a shadow flitted over his open, manly coun tenance; not a tone escaped him that left upon any one a depressing influence. His wife looked at him at times in wonder, as sober memory re called the incidents of the day. She had no/ 140 THE WITHERED HEART. inquired the reason of his failure to return at (turner- time, and he had made no allusion to the fact. Every time she thought of this her spirits sank, and her heart trembled. But with all the force of will that she could command, did she push aside unpleasant recollections of the past, and seek to rest in the more genial present. As Mr. and Mrs. Enfield walked home that night, the former said ," Things look brighter and more hopeful. There is something exceedingly agreeable about Mr. Hardy. I particularly like his kind, consi derate manner towards Jane. . He seemed very de sirous to make her feel happy. And yet, from some cause or other, she was not altogether at ease." " I am afraid," remarked Mrs. Enfield, " that she expects too much from her husband." " An error into which most young wives fall. But time will correct this. I cannot say that Mr. Hardy is my choice for our daughter's husband. I think he lacks refinement of feeling, and delicacy of perception. Still, he is a man of strong com mon sense, and sterling manly qualities." " And, above all, a home-loving man." " One of the chief essentials of domestic happi ness. Jane might have done a great deal worse." " Very true," answered Mrs. Enfield. " We have cause for thankfulness that she has done so well. I talked to her very seriously about her THE NON-ARRIVAL. 141 state of mind this afternoon. She has been making herself unhappy, I find, because Mr. Hardy preferred staying at home to coming down to our house last evening." " He might have gratified her ; I don't like to see young husbands putting on the selfish quite so soon. It comes early enough after the honey moon, in all cases." " I think there is some excuse for him, con sidering his peculiar character and feelings. He had set his heart upon a home, you know ; and gained it through slight opposition. Company intruded upon his first domestic evening, and we asked him to spend with us the hours of the second. We were, perhaps, a little thoughtless ; and should not wonder at his resistance. He wanted to enjoy the quiet of his own dwelling." " You are no doubt right," said Mr. Enfield. " I only desire their happiness. God grant them blessings in full measure." The face of Mr. Hardy as he parted with Mr and Mrs. Enfield at the door was full of smiles, and his voice as bland as summer. His wife stood by his side, and, as he turned from the door, after bidding them good night, she put her hand within his arm, and drew close to him. They walked along the passage, and ascended the stairs to the sitting-room, in silence. As they came into the stronger light, Mrs. Hardy looked up >9 142 THE WITHERED HEART. into his face, with a loving word just ready to leap from her tongue. She forced back all re membrance of the day's sad trials ; and cared now only for the affectionate smiles of her husband, in the warmth of which she had passed the even ing. A single glance caused her to recede a pace, and sent the bounding life-blood back upon her heart. His eyes were stern and cold; his brow disfigured by a frown ; his lips just parting with an angry curl. " Did you think I could forget ?" He spuke harshly. " John Hardy never forgets !" The stricken young wife staggered backward to a chair, and sank down upon it, weak as a little child. " John Hardy never forgets." He repeated the words in a slower and more emphatic voice. " Such things are not to be forgotten. It is no light thing to darken with clouds and vapours the clear sky of a man's home to rob him of the highest earthly good to assail him with rebuking words. And then, forsooth, to expect oblivion ou his part ! There may be men who will tamely bear all this ; but John Hardy is not one of them. He can be gentle as an infant, if met by loving acquiescence ; but is hard as the nether millstone under opposition ; and, as 1 have said before, the sooner you comprehend this, the better it will be for both of us " THE NON-ARRIVAL. 143 For a little while, surprise, grief terror, alike tended to render Jane Hardy utterly speechless her husband stood ereet, gazing down upon her crouching form. Then repressing, with some effort, his inclination to give utterance to yet more cut ting words, he turned away; and seating himself hy a centre-table, on which the gas-light was falling, took up a book, and attempted to get absorbed in its contents. He read on for a page or two, with only a dim comprehension of the subject, his thoughts really upon his wife, expectation looking each moment for some sign of feeling from her. But she remained silent and motionless. Five or ten minutes afterwards, he looked up again, to see if he could detect what he could regard as some sign of conscious endurance some giving way of the statue-like position. But the repose of that slender form was complete almost death like. He now arose, and with a firm step went from the sitting-room to the bed-room. Here he re mained for nearly ten minutes, momently in ex pectation of seeing his wife enter, or hearing her footsteps. But he waited in vain. He was perplexed and troubled. Did he repent and reproach himself for his harsh, cruel conduct towards his young wife, as he sat looking with troubled feelings, in that long silence, upon hex pale, suffering countenance ? Did the scales fall 144 THE WITHERED HEART. from his eyes? Was he able to see the truth even at a distance ? No ! no ! John Hardy was a man always " right with himself!" He took time to consider; and his conclusions were gene rally life-long convictions. He reasoned out his propositions, and the result was a law. After this, he could not but remain unchangeable. No, he did not repent, for he saw no cause for repent ance. What had he done ? Could any one, even his unhappy wife, point to a single act that was wrong in itself? He had only reacted upon her unreasonable action. He had simply stood still, refusing to be swept aside by the waves of a woman's impulses, as a thing of no consideration. If she were hurt in the collision, he was in no respect to blame. "No, no John Hardy is not responsible:" thus he talked with himself. " John Hardy is a man, and knows a man's rights and duties. He will never give up the one, nor shrink from the other. John Hardy is neither unjust, nor un reasonable. On this issue he will defy the world." And fortifying himself in this self-complacent notion, he resolved to let his wife wear herself out by her own " whims," as long as she might please. If she chose to be moody, he would not trouble himself at her silence. She could not fail to be unhappy, while the conversation was unrenewed THE NON-AKRITAL. 145 .nit the fault was her's, not his ! Tie had spoken last ; and he would patiently await her answer. To the sitting-room he again directed his steps, and there he acted out the determination lie had thus formed. But his silence was as unsuccessful as had been his words. Midnight came, and not a syllable had fallen from the lips of either. It was more than time to seek their nightly repose To light the candle, and place it in his wife's hand, was the only signal whereby he deigned W intimate his will. CHAPTER XT. again. " Henceforth be warn'd ; and know that Pride, Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness." WOKDSWOBTH. WHEN Mr. Hardy awoke the next morning, he discovered that Jane had already left her place by his side. He raised himself on his arm, and looked round the room, listening as he did so ; but he neither saw her form, nor heard any move ment in the adjoining chamber. Rising and dressing himself quickly, under an oppressive sense of evil, he went hastily from the bed-room to the parlour, where, to his relief, he found his wife engaged in setting things to rights. She turned her face toward him as he entered, and gave him a quiet glance of almost indifferent recognition. " Good morning !" he said. " Good morning !" How like the passioiiless echo of his own voice did her responsive greeting sound iu his ears. John Hardy was not the man ABSENT AGATW. 147 to humour or solicit ! No, no. He was made of different stuff from ordinary men. "Game to the last!" This was the coarse, half contemptuous, half angry mental ejaculation of the perfect model of a man ! " Game to the last ! Well, be it so ! There is one woman in the world who will have to bend or break." Turning from the apartment, he went back to his dressing-room, to complete his toilette, and did not come down again, until the bell rang for breakfast. He hastened to the dining-room, and found his wife already at the table. Looking at her now more intently, he noticed an expression never before seen on her counte nance ; and one, to the interpretation of which, no experience he had yet attained in the observa tion of mental workings gave any clue. He did not repeat his good-morning, and she made no remark. Her manner, he noticed, was quiet and very even. There was not the smallest evidence of any smouldering excitement beneath her calm exterior. Her eyes, usually so bright as to con stitute a marked feature of her countenance, had partially lost their fire, and the soul did not seem to look out of them upon the world of visible things with any degree of interest. She poured out his coffee, and helped him to one thing after another, with movements more like those of JUi automaton than of a living being. 148 THE WITHERED HEART. " Why don't you eat something, Jane T 1 asked Mr. Hardy, breaking through the ice of silence and reserve. " I have no appetite now.'' She answered in a voice that betrayed not the smallest sign of feeling " Are you not well ?" " I feel very well." There was not the slightest change in tone or manner. Mr. Hardy g;ized steadily into her face, but she did not give back a single glance. Her eyes were not averted, nor her face turned aside. She seemed to be looking at her husband ; but it was plain that his form made no distinct image of itself on the retina. As Mr. Hardy could see no possible connexion between anything that he had done, and the existence of a state of mind necessary to produce the external demeanour manifested by his wife, he felt wholly justified in the conclusion, that only one-half of all her apparen* suffering was real, and that this real suffering was but the writhing of pride and disappointed self-will. So there was not found in his heart the first motion towards a relenting spirit. He pitied her weak ness and her suffering ; but his mind was clear as to his own duty in the case. For him to yield was impossible. He sipped his coffee and tried to eat, but the motionless form of his wife, sitting directly before him, soon had the effect of taking away all appe- ABSENT AGAIN. 149 hte. Several times cutting words formed them selves into sentences on his tongue, and were kept back from utterance only through the prudent restraint of sober second thought. At last he arose from the table, and was leaving the room without a word, when his wife calledto him by name " John." The tone was free from impulse, as the gentlest summer-breeze. Mr. Hardy paused, and turned towards his wife. " Shall you he home at dinner-time ?" There was neither weakness nor passion in her voice. "' Yes, if you will promise me one thing." " Name it." Still her tones were surprisingly ven. " To meet your husband with a smiling coun tenance." " I am not well skilled at dissembling, John," was the reply, calmly :;nd coldly made. " If there is darkness in my heart there cannot be light on my countenance." She had risen from her place at the table, and now she moved to her husband's side, and passed with him from the room, walking on with a firm step. " I give yon credit for being an arch-dissem bler," was his unfeeling answer. " Time will probably correct your error.*' Mrs, Hardy said no more than this. 150 THE WITHERED HEART. ''You are very calm, very cool, very self-pos sessed !" There was a slight sneer in the voice. No response was made, and there followed a brief silence. Mr. Hardy took up his hat, and moved onwards. " John." There was a power in that passionless tone that instantly arrested his steps. He turned partly round. " Shall you be home at dinner-time ?" " I rhink not." " Say you will, or you will not. Uncertainty disturbs the mind, and suspense is painful." " I will not." Mr. Hardy's face flushed to the temples, and his voice had in it a sharp tone of anger. He stood, almost glaring at his wife. But she, evincing no emotion, said, " Very well ;'* and receding a pace or two, as if pushed back by an invisible hand, turned slowly around, and going with noiseless footsteps up the stairs, vanished like a spirit from his sight. Not long afterwards she rang the bell, and said to tne servant " Mr. Hardy is not coming home to dinner; so you can tell the cook not to make any -preparation for him. If any one calls and asks fur me, say that I am not well, and caiinot be seen. You may bring me a cup of tea about twelve or one o'clock." ABSENT AGAIN. 151 After sitting in a dreamy attitude for a con siderable time, she went into her room, laid her self down, and, closing her eyes, hid her face in a pillow. As moveless as a sleeper she remained, until disturbed by the knock of the servant, who came with the tea she had directed him to bring. She received through the partly opened door the small tray, on which were tea, toast, and a delicate piece of boiled fowl ; and said " I Avill ring for you, when I wish the tray removed." In about twenty minutes the bell was rung, and the tray passed to the servant. There was scarcely a visible diminution in the quantity of food it had at first contained. When Mr. Hardy came home a little before nightfall, he found his wife sitting in the parlour. She had dressed herself with exquisite taste, and, though pale, and with an expression of sadness on her young face, looked as beautiful in his eyes as she had ever appeared. All day long he had been writing bitter things against her, and meditating new schemes of torture for breaking down her indomitable will, that seemed to grow stronger under every measure of opposition ; and he had returned to the scene of contest with renewed strength. The sight of her changed, wan face, and slender form an image of frailty, not enclur- race, rebuked his harsh purpose, and softened him THE WITHERED HEART. towards her. As she rose to meet him, and madfc a feeble effort to smile, he said, kindly '" I hope you feel better this evening, dear ?" " My head does not ache so intensely " she it-plied. "Has it ached all day?" " Yes. It began soon after I arose this morning, *nd the pain has pierced my temples as if an arrow were imbedded in it." "It does not ache so much now?" said Mr. Hardy, in a kind, inquiring voice. " No ; the pain is gradually subsiding." " I am sorry you have been ill all day." It was on his lips to remark farther, that, had he known she was ill, he would not have re mained away until evening. But he withheld this little concession, lest she might regard it as indi cative of a yielding temper, and find in it a warrant for longer resistance. Mrs. Hardy did not make any response; and her husband was not in a state of mind tha* encouraged pleasant conversation. Almost ol necessity, therefore, reserve, silence, and a cold demeanour supervened. There was one thing about his wife which more than annoyed Mr. Hardy. It troubled him. This was her passionless exterior ; the same impene- trableness that he failed to break through in the morning, although he had thrust against it ABSENT AGAIN. 153 sharply. At the tea-table he often and intently looked into her calm face, and absent dreamy eyes, seeking to penetrate their mystery; but the riddle remained unread. Strongly as he resisted it, (he conviction that a change, beyond the con trol of her will, had taken place in the character of her feelings, steadily forced itself upon him. She seemed a creature void of emotion ; a mere breathing, moving effigy of the lovely being he had, a little while before, clasped to his bosom with infinite joy. Ah, if John Hardy's perceptions had been somewhat clearer if he had possessed the faculty of thinking out of himself if he could have com prehended what really existed in the mind of his wife, all might not have been lost. Loving consideration, manifested in true loving acts words and tones, with a heart of manly tender ness in them, these would, in time, have melted away the icy coldness which nothing else could remove. But alas for John Hardy, and his beautiful, true-hearted, but wronged and suffering wife! The defect in his character was radical. To have done this, he must have ceased to be the John Hardy whose name he was so fond of repeating with pride and pleasure. After tea the meal had been taken in silence they went to the sitting-room, walking side by I 154 THE WITHERED HEART. side, but not arm in arm, each feeling repelled rather than attracted. " I have an engagement this evening,'* said Mr. Hardy, " Have you ? " This was all the response made by his wife. She evinced neither surprise nor regret. " Yes, and I may not be home till late." Mr. Hardy fully expected that this would touch the right chord. But he was mistaken. His wife remained impassive. There was no warmer flush on her cheeks ; no lighting up of her calm eyes ; no single word of remonstrance or acquiescence. He stood, for a little Avhile, half irresolute, puzzled, and disappointed ' A.S you are not well, you had better not sit up for me. I may be out till twelve o'clock." Mrs. Hardy looked at him steadily, but without the slightest change of countenance. " Did you hear what I said ? " Mr. Hardy was disturbed, and he showed the weakness. "Certainly. Why not?" How icy were both tone and manner. " Good evening!" The young husband turned away abruptly. It was, as he nad intimated, nearly twelve o'clock when he returned. The last hoxir, for the sake of keeping his word, had been spent in n wearisome walk up and down many streets. H" ABSENT AGAIN. 155 did not come in, as might be supposed, in the best possible humour with either himself or his wife. Not a little to his surprise, he found her almost in the very place where he had left her sitting nearly five hours before. She was engaged on a fine piece of needlework. " Why, Jane ! " he said fretfully; " I supposed you were asleep hours ago ! " " You were mistaken. I have not felt sleepy." " Come," said Mr. Hardy; "it is nearly twelve o'clock." " I will follow you presently." " Come now." " I have waited your time, John ; and now you will have to wait mine." There was no quicker movement of the voice no sign of feeling 110 averting of the counte nance. Mr. Hardy turned away quickly, and Avent to the bed-room. It was nearly a whole hour before . Mrs. Hardy followed him. She found her hus band asleep, and was careful not to awaken him. Silently she moved about the room, and silently laid herself upon the bed. Wearied nature soon brought to her sad spirit a sweet oblivion, looking up all her senses until the advent of another day. CHAPTER XII. 0f l|re |imtcp00it. " [All] artery, coarse, and harsh expression Shows love to be a mere profession ; 1'roves that the heart is none of liis. Or soon expels him if it is." COWPEE. FROM this time forth, daily and weekly, did Mr. Hardy look for some change in his wife's frigid exterior ; but he looked in vain. She was calm, cold, dreamy, passionless, at least to him. Ever prompt in all her household duties, she left no room whatever for blame ; and when his fretted self-will overleaped itself into impatience, and when in his blindness he thrust sharply at her feelings, the point of his weapon seemed instantly to lose its temper, for it made no perceptible wound. When her parents or friends came to see them, she put on a different and warmer exterior, though not the bright one of old ; and when she went abroad into company, she appeared to take a quiet interest in persons and things, though not so much so as in by-gone times. lint, upon bet husband, she never smiled, at home or abroad END OF THE HONEYMOON. 157 To him, she was always the samp, at all times, under all circumstances, and in all places. And so the honeymoon, and many other moons, passed. The new life, to which both had looked as full of the heart's deepest joy as warm with golden sunshine, and rich in all delights gave no more beauty nor fragrance than an arctic summer. Around the word " home" had clustered, in Mr. Hardy's mind, a world of felicities. It had involved his highest earthly ideal. Wife, children, home ! How often had these words found an utterance in his heart, and an echo on his lips. Possessing these, he felt that he could defy the Avorld. But the home which had been gained by Mr. Hardy, under the too eager impulses of a strong self- will, failed even from the beginning to realize the high ideal he had so fondly cherished. The sun he had commanded to shine, and to fill every chamber of his dwelling with light and warmth, failed to do his bidding; and the hand he had swept almost imperiously across the heavens, only disturbed the atmosphere, and made the clouds thicker and. darker, instead of removing them. He had caged a beautiful singing bird, but its song ceased from the moment the gilded doors of its prison were closed. Under the effort to be cheerful, and to make her husband's home all that he could desire, Mrs. 158 THE WITHERED HEART. Hardy, during the early periods of their new life, still maintained a calm and quiet exterior, and ministered in all ways possible to his comfort. But how poor a substitute was duty for love ! there was no heart in it all. It was soon whispered about, that the young wife was not happy. Everybody was surprised, and inquiries as to the cause passed from lip to lip. All kinds of suggestions were made; and '.his approximation to the truth was reached, that " She did not want to begin housekeeping !" Of course, the general sentiment was against her. She was called selfish, indolent, unreason able not worthy of so good a partner. Wives blamed, and ambitious maidens envied her; while her husband received a world of sympathy. As for Mr. Hardy the man whose resolute purposes had, hitherto, overridden all that came between himself and a cherished end, he found, in the growing impassiveness of his wife, whom even sharp words could not spur into reaction, a new barrier, the strongest and strangest which had yet upreared itself in his path. He could meet and overcome circumstances, bending them to his will ; but, when he came to the heart of a woman, and sought almost impiously to regulate its beat, and govern its impulses, he found the task alto gether the most difficult he had ever assumed. But still he saw no cause to change his estimate END OF THE HONEYMOON. 159 of his wife's character. To him, the belief that she was but struggling on for the victory, was as fixed as an axiom ; and, while he believed this, to yield and conciliate was impossible. " Break or bend," was still his stern motto in the case. But how to break, had become the puzzling ques tion. All at once the writhing heart had ceased to struggle in his grasp. Again and again the iron fingers contracted suddenly, or in a steadily accumulating pressure, until all the man's vigorous strength, increased by passion, was applied even to the point of exhaustion. And yet, not the feeblest quiver of pain was observable. " Is the woman alive or dead ! " he would some times exclaim after one of these cruel efforts to find the region of vitality. A few months more, and Mrs. Hardy's states of feeling became singularly variable. She would pass hours, and sometimes almost days, weeping and grieving like a disappointed child, answer ing no inquiries, and taking no food. Then she would fall into the saddest abstraction, which nothing could overcome. Afterwards would come A quiet devotion to the duties of her household, Tin ough all these varying aspects of mind, Mr. Hardy was unchanged in his interpretation of Uicir meaning; the pride of manhood, as he call* r her babe, what love, duty, and the best information she could obtain prompted her to do. If what he proposed which was too rarely the case agreed with her own views of right, the thing was done; if it did not agree therewith, it was not done: and Mr. Hardy talked and scolded in vain. It was the same in regard to her IT other, who under Mr Hardy's plausible THE FIRST-BOEN. 169 representations, sometimes came over to his side. If Jane saw with them, well ; if not, she never followed their suggestions or commands. Very mildly, though often firmly, did Mr. Hardy talk to his wife, when Mrs. Enfield was present, about her way of taking care of the little Helen. But when they were alone, he was far frjm being as gentle in manner, or as choice in his selection of words. " Will you listen to reason, Jane ?" How very imperative the tone in which he would thus address her, on finding that she would neither discuss a question touching the mode of dressing, feeding, or managing the babe, nor in any way modify her own nursery-discipline. Or he would say, in his impatience " I believe you would destroy the child's health rather than yield, in the slightest degree, to my wishes." Or " I will have none of this nonsense ! The child is mine as well as yours ; and my word, touching its welfare, must have weight !" But all this availed little. Mrs. Hardy believed that she understood the babe's true character and wants much better than the father, and in nothing did she yield. His unkind words she bore with patience, though often they fell heavily upon her heart. Up U) its third month, the child had been very 170 THE WITHERED HEART. healthy, not once requiring the attendance of a physician. On the subject of medicine, Mr. and Mrs. Hardy did not agree. In Mr. EnfieldV family, the homoeopathic treatment had beeiit adopted, and their daughter had been used to it from childhood up to womanhood. Mr. Hardy, on the contrary, scouted at the new treatment as based on a tissue of absurdities, and altogether at war with his favourite common-sense. He had no more faith in a trituration or a dilution, than in so much pure sugar or alcohol. In the choice of her own physician Mrs. Hardy firmly adhered to the medical faith in which she had been educated, and in the truth of which she had the strongest assurance. Mr. Hardy tried to reason with her on the subject ; but she offered no arguments in return, simply adhering to her pur pose. But, when it came to the question of a physician for the sick babe, the father was deter mined to have his own will, and an allopathist was called. Mrs. Hardy made no opposition beyond a simple pleading remonstrance. For her self she would have asked nothing ; yet, for her babe, she would have humbled herself at his feet, could that have availed anything. But she had learned to believe her husband's oft-repeated words, " John Hardy never changes." And so she was passive. The physician, a kind, gentlemanly, sympa- THE FIRST-BORN. 171 thizing man, came at the summons, and found the babe ill, and in immediate need of attention. He had never, seen Mrs. Hardy before, and was struck with her manner and appearance, but particularly witli the singular way in which she received him. "When he laid his hand upon the child, he could see that the mother shrank from him with a kind of dread, and that she was altogether ill at ease. Anxious to comprehend the meaning of this, he first sought by kind inquiries, and expressions of tender interest in the babe, to gain her confidence and he was in a measure successful. Then, after carefully noting all the symptoms, he spoke en couragingly, and predicted a speedy return to health. " You will not give her very strong medicine, Doctor ?" said Mrs. Hardy, with much anxiety in her tone. " No, madam," he answered promptly ; " infants cannot bear strong medicines." " Don't trouble yourself about that matter, child," remarked Mr. Hardy, affecting a lightness of manner which he did not feel. " The doctor understands the case and its requirements, and will, with due caution, do everything that is needed." The doctor now wrote a prescription which Mrs. Hardy read over eagerly, as soon as it was completed. She understood enough of it to be THE WITHERED HEART. aware that it was nauseous, and would have to be given every hour. " You had better send for the medicine at once," said the doctor, speaking to Mr. Hardy. " The sooner we make an attack upon this disease, the sooner we may hope to dislodge the enemy." " It shall he procured immediately," answered Mr. Hardy ; " I will myself call at the druggist's, and see that it is here in less than twenty minutes." At this moment, Mrs. Hardy's mind seemed to take a new interest in the case. She asked the doctor very particularly as to the character of the disease, and what parts of the body were most aff. cted by it. The questions were answered with all the minuteness she seemed to desire. As soon as the physician had left, Mr. Hardy's manner changed towards his wife, as it usually did after the departure of any visitor. " I will send home the medicine immediately," gaid he, preparing to leave, "and be sure to give it according to directions." Mrs. Hardy did not reply. Indeed she rarely made answer to any imperative requirement made by her husband. Mr. Hardy stood looking at her for a few mo ments, fretted, as he usually was, at the seeaning indifference of her manner, and tempted to utter some rebuke. He repressed the words that were on his tongue, however, and withdrew in silence THE FIRST-BORN. 173 The moment he left the room, a new purpose seemed to awaken in the mind of his wife. An intelligent change passed over her countenance; her whole form arose from its shrinking attitude, and she leaned her head, listening to the sound of his footsteps. When she heard the street-door close, she called the nurse, resigned the habe to her, went from the nursery to the bed-room, and commenced a hurried preparation to go out. By the time she was ready, a lad from the apothecary's came with the medicine. As soon as the preparation reached her hands, she thrust it into a drawer, with an expression of disgust on her countenance. Going back to the nursery, she said to the attendant who had little Helen in charge " Take good care of my precious one. I am going out ; but I shall be back in^less than half an hour." The nurse could not help remarking an unusual glow on Mrs. Hardy's face, and an unusual brightness in her eyes. From her own home, to the dwelling of the physician who had visited her father's family from earliest days which memory could recall, the young mother went with almost the fleetness of wind. Concealing all but the fact of her babe's illness, she gave the doctor so clear a statement of the case, that he could prescribe almost as intelligently as if the patient were before him. 174 THE WITHERED HEART. On giving her the required medicine, he said " Perhaps I had hetter call in, during the day, and see if the remedy takes the requisite effect." " No, Doctor," was answered. " I have reasons for not wishing you to call. Alter dinner I will come round again, and let you know what change has occurred in the symptoms. In the mean time, give me any hint you think needed in the observa tion of them.'* The doctor reflected a moment, and then gave the directions she asked. Hurrying home, her heart fluttering with fear lest her husband, from some instinctive knowledge of what she was doing, should have returned during her absence, she entered, with glowing cheeks, the room where she had left her babe. The nurse looked up with an anxious countenance. "Poor child!" she said almost tearfully. "Plow ill she is ! H uln't we better give her the medicine ; it must surely be come?" " Yes, it has been brought to me," remarked Mrs. Hardy, averting her face, so that its expression could betray nothing that was in her thoughts. " I will bring it in a moment." After bending do^n to look at her sick child, and kissing it, she went hastily to her room. Then taking the medicine prescribed by the visiting physician, she carried it to the nursery, and handing it to the attendant, said as she received the babe into her own arms THE FIRST-BORN. 175 'Mix this according to the directions, and bring it up when ready. It is to be given every hour." The nurse took the packet of medicine, remark ing lo herself, as she did so, that not many mothers would trust another to prepare medicine for a sick babe, and went down stairs to obey the orders. The moment she had left the room, Mrs. Hardy drew forth a little packet of powders, and hastily opening one of them, dropped its contents into her infant's mouth. It was no offensive dose, for the lips of the sick babe were instantly compressed, and then moved as if a sweet morsel were on its tongue. When the nurse returned, the mother was gazing anxiously on the child, yet with a new hope in her heart, born of her confidence in the attenuated remedies prescribed by the old family- physician. The attendant came forward, and stood before Mrs. Hardy, holding the cup of medi cine, in expectation that she would take a spoon ful of the sickening compound, and force it down the throat of the tender babe. Mrs. Hardy looked at its face for a few moments, and then said " Put the cup on the table ; I will not disturb her just now, she seems to be sleeping." " It is a good while since he doctor was here,' suggested the nurse, " and the baby is very ill Isn't it risking too much to delay any longer ?" 176 THE WITHERED HEART. t( I "will not disturb her at present," replied Mrs. Hardy firmly. " She is asleep, and sleep is a great restorative." " You can go down stairs," she added, after a little while. " When I want you, I will ring." The nurse wondering at what seemed to her such singular conduct, obeyed the suggestion, and left the apartment. Not once was the babe out of its mother's arms from that time until Mr. Hardy's return at two o'clock. Every half hour during that period, she had given a powder, and now had the infinite satisfaction of seeing a marked improvement so marked, that the father, as he bent anxiously over his first-born, felt a heavy weight of care taken from his bosom. " Dr. -Fairfax is a man of great skill," said he " His prescription is doing wonders. You may rest in the fullest assurance that all is safe in his hands. A very different state of things would now exist, had I been weak enough to yield to your prejudice, in favour of the silliest medical practice that ever deceived the people. Instead of this healthy change, our precious babe would now, in all probability, have been far out of the reach of human aid." Mrs. Hardy offered no reply, but kept her face bent so low over the babe in her lap, that its expression was hidden from the eyes of hei husband. THE FIRST-BORN. When the doctor called soon afterwards, hft found a most encouraging change. The fever had entirely suhsided, and every other symptom of disease was visibly abated.. He congratulated the mother on the favourable turn things had taken, consequent on the curative action of the medicine prescribed. Mrs. Hardy did not respond very warmly to this, nor did she seem at her ease. Naturally free from guile, and truthful from principle, this, almost the first instance of her life in which she had acted with duplicity, disturbed the quiet of her self-repose. She had deceived the doctor, and done what he would regard as a professional insult. And this being so, she could not assume towards him the pleased, familiar, confiding air his manner invited ; but rather treated him with greater coldness and reserve than in the morning. The doctor was altogether at a loss to understand her. He had heard something said as to her being " peculiar ;" and he was inclined to think that there might be some truth in the report. " How much of the medicine is left ?" he in quired, looking towards the mantel-piece, where the cup, in which it had been mixed, was standing. "It is all gone," was answered. " I knocked over the cup a little while ago, and spilled every drop. But baby is so much better that I hardlj think a new supply will be needed." 02 178 THE WITHERED HEART. " I will repeat the prescription, making a slight change. You can send for it, and give a dose every three hours, instead of every hour, as at first.'* The doctor departed, musing within himself on the peculiarity of Mrs. Hardy's conduct, and wondering what it could mean. " There is some thing hehind all this," he said within himself " something hidden below the surface, and out of the reach, at present, of my plummet-line. I must dive into the mystery." Mrs. Hardy, while rejoicing over the escape and speedy convalescence of her babe, and feeling conscience-clear, so far as duty to her tender offspring was concerned, experienced a new sense of inward pain. A stern necessity, as she deemed it, had required her to do violence to one of the instinctive virtues of her nature. Truth was born with her, and truthfulness of conduct had ever marked her deportment from childhood up wards. But, in this thing, she had deceived her husband, and deceived an honourable, kind, and gentlemanly physician. How painful was the self-abasement, that assumed a morbid condition, and which increased the longer her thoughts dwelt on the recent hurried scene through which she had passed ! During the aftenioon, Mrs. Hardy made another visit to the homoeopathic physician, and received THE FIRST-BORN. 179 an additional supply of powders. When hei husband returned in the evening, and found the habe so much better that all fear on its account was entirely removed, his satisfaction was great, and he expressed his pleasure in the wannest manner* Mrs. Hardy seemed scai'cely cheerful, and did not respond in a way that to him was satisfactory. Even greater than. his was her re joicing ; but her pain of mind was great also, and shadowed her countenance. She had, in the per formance of what she regarded as a mother's sacred duty, done violence to one of the higher instincts of her nature and such violence is always followed by suffering. " 1 am half inclined to believe that you are sorry the child is better," said Mr. Hardy, abruptly. (He always spoke severely to her now. The entire absence of any sign of feeling when he thus spoke with harshness, led him into the erroneous idea that she had lost the sensibility of former years, and that it needed a deep probe and a firm hand to find the region of pain. Most faithfully did he act up to this conviction.) "Why so?" inquired Mrs. Hardy, lifting her quiet eyes to his face, and speaking in a voice that betrayed no emotion. " Because the fact proves the value of the old and true system of medicine, and for ever silences your cavilling objections." 180 THE WITHERED HEART There was no change on the countenance of Mrs. Hardy, whose eyes dropped to the face of the babe that lay close to her bosom. But it was a mistake that she did not feel the unkindness of her husband's remark. She would have caved less, if she had not deceived him. That fact rested like a mountain upon her heart, and made deeper the shadows that never lifted therefrom their sombre curtains fur a moment. At this point in the sad history of her inner life, sickening doubts began to intrude themselves upon her mind : doubts as to the wisdom and goodness of that Divine Provme.ice which she had been taught, from her childhood up, to regard as personal, and as extending even to the minutest particulars of life. Truth she loved and revered ; a fact in her mental organization, which may serve to show how deeply she must have suffered under the false charge of " acting a part,'' so often alleged against her by her husband. The new trial into which she was brought by the sickness of her babe, with the seeming necessity that rested upon her of doing what was in contravention of her husband's wishes, and that with a secrecy which to her involved duplicity, enabled some evil spirit to throw into her mind a flood of doubts and wild questionings, and painfully to bewilder her hitherto clear perceptions. Mr. Hardy having gained a triumph, as he THE FIRST-BORN. 181 imagined, over his wife, and compelled her to have an old-school physician to attend to their sick Iwhe, did not show himself a very generous conqueror; but kept referring to the fact over and over again, and in a way that was far from being agreeable. Mm. Hardy did not reply to him in any case. But he saw that her countenance, when she fell into her usual state of abstraction, was more shadowed than usual; and he inter preted the meaning of this to suit his own false estimate of her feelings. CHAPTER XIV. jjehn's