Patience by Barbara Hofland (that summer book TXT) 📕
When the parting was really over, it may be supposed each gave herself up for a time to the intense overwhelming sense of sorrow, such a separation must inevitably inflict. Mrs. Aylmer trembled for the future peace of her beloved charge; she revolted at the idea of those employments her mother seemed to point out for her, and not less at the new associates with whom she might be called to mix; and she justly blamed herself for suffering so handsome and attractive a girl as Dora to depart without adverting to th
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should keep his own accounts, or a volley of oaths accompanying a supply
so trifling as to be mockery to the mistress of such a house. Yet his
own common out-of-door’s expences plainly called for cash of which he
always appeared to have plenty, and therefore though he undoubtedly had
great difficulties in affairs of magnitude, it was evident that he did
not personally encounter those daily wants, those petty, but pressing
grievances, to which he constantly exposed his wife, and which are
undoubtedly a species of trial which subject their victim to
indignities, mortifications, and impositions, of such a nature as to
equalize her situation with that of the wife of the day-labourer, who
literally wants bread. He is unworthy the name of man in either
situation, who voluntarily subjects the woman he has bound himself to
protect to such misery.
In the present case, Mr. Stancliffe had not recourse to any of the above
methods of refusal:—after assuming the appearance of deep reverie for
some minutes, he said with that gentleness which never failed to affect
the heart of his wife,
“My dear Dora, you must want money for many things, certainly, nor can I
do without it—you must go over to old Blackwell again, and get
something out of him—he will not refuse you.”
Dora shook her head, with an air of doubt.
“I tell you he will not;—he will see you are again in the family way,
of course increasing my expences; he will be aware that Frank grows
bigger every day, and remember that this year I have no income for
either of you, and—but in short, I want a thousand pounds immediately,
and I will have it.”
“Let us go together, my love, and I have no doubt you will obtain it,
although it is certain there could not be a worse time for landed
property to produce it.”
“I will not go; I hate that man, and I won’t submit to his prosing
humbug, or answer his impertinent enquiries.”
“But I promised him, you know, that”—
“Promise! you promise, indeed! what is the promise of a married woman
worth, think you? he is lawyer enough to know that your promise of a
single shilling by no means ensures your powers of payment, and by the
same rule, that your actions and your petitions are equally under my
governance:—you must go, that is resolved; so you may ask the old woman
for a little money, and send William to take you a place in the coach
to”—
“Indeed, my dear, that will never do; for the last words Mr. Blackwell
said to me, were the hope that when I came next I should be in my own
carriage.”
An outrageous flood of abuse followed this declaration, though made in
the most humble manner, and for the express purpose of facilitating the
errand on which she was sent:—when the ebullition had exhausted its
rage, and the speaker’s strength, he then confessed that “it was
necessary to keep up appearances,” and even proposed, “Frank as her
companion in a post-chaise, as the roads were fine, and with her care
the journey might be as serviceable as amusing to him.”
Dora durst not venture on this step, though she felt the want of a
companion, and dreaded leaving behind one who would be unquestionably
considered her representative, in all cases where ill-humour sought a
vent, and required an object. Frank intreated her to keep up her
spirits, gave her his especial promise, “that he would watch the child,
and listen to Mrs. Judith, and take care of every thing;” adding, in a
whisper, “and if my guardian should send me another note, pray take it
yourself, dear Dora.”
Dora’s eyes filled with tears, not less of affection than memory, when
she recalled to mind how long it was since the poor boy had received any
pocket money, and how entirely his little store had been expended on her
and her child, to whom he had become attached so fondly, that she
doubted not he would supply her presence to it. She endeavoured, by
thinking on objects so precious, to beguile the way, and gain courage
for an interview which she dreaded, as considering her errand degrading
to her husband, and shrinking from the investigation connected with it,
and the first interview justified the presentiment which had oppressed
her.
“Either your husband is doing well, or ill, in the world,” said Mr.
Blackwell sternly, in reply to her application—“if well, he cannot
want money for the support of his family at a time when its claims are
very limited—if ill, it would be folly to throw away more money upon
a losing concern; I feel myself justified, therefore, in adopting the
course I gave you reason to expect I should, in case of a second
application, so irregular and unprecedented.”
“Our principal business is doing exceedingly well; the other, though
unproductive, is full of promise, and has ceased to require a farther
capital. I am really warranted in saying this.”
“Um—um—yet you evidently labour under an artificial poverty, as
distressing as the sad realities I see around me. I am sorry for it,
but I cannot relieve it; I have already done too much, since it has
answered no end.”
Dora started from her seat, her hands clenched, her eyes full of tears,
as her lips almost involuntarily exclaimed,
“Surely, dear Sir, you will give me something; I must not—that is, I
cannot”—
“Say rather, Mrs. Stancliffe, you dare not; for that is the word
struggling at your heart—you dare not go home again without money.”
“Oh, no! indeed, Sir, you mistake,” said Dora, a quick blush passing
over her pallid countenance, and receding as quickly, for she felt
faint, and threw off her shawl.
Mr. Blackwell cast his eye over her slight form and somewhat altered
shape—her flushed cheek and fevered lip, bespoke the inward struggle of
a heart resolved to hide its sorrow lest it should betray their author,
yet too deeply moved, and naturally too ingenuous to effect its purpose;
and his soul was touched with the tenderest, the sincerest pity—the
stern accents, the harsh features, ceased to appal her; and her late
alarm was turned into astonishment, on seeing the tears gush from his
eyes, and feeling that he had taken her hand, as he answered,
“My poor girl, you shall not be so circumstanced, nor will I wound you
farther by questions which could give me little information—I know more
than enough already, and will give you the money you ask, though it is
very inconvenient and improper.”
“God bless you!” exclaimed Dora, as her over-pressed heart took refuge
in tears that would not be forbidden to flow.
Mr. Blackwell had been surprised that he could feel so much; but he was
not less so on reviewing the transactions of the day on his pillow, when
he remembered the powers and attractions his guest had displayed, when
her anxiety being eased, and her agitation subsided, she had in
gratitude exerted herself to amuse him through the evening by
conversation, notwithstanding her past fatigue and recent solicitude. In
the warmth of her affectionate description of her brother, her delicate
endeavours to introduce her husband favourably, the playful good-humour
with which she touched on the peculiarities of Mrs. Judith, and the
lively regard with which she adverted to Mrs. Aylmer, she displayed to
him those treasures of the heart and the understanding, (those gems
which are woman’s only valuable treasures,) and which rendered her in
his opinion so attractive, as to leave the husband who could slight her,
much less misuse her, without excuse. The retirement in which he lived
had prevented him happily from hearing many reports; but he had been
displeased with the appearance made on her first visit, was alarmed by
the second, and determined the following spring to investigate further.
Not only the letter, but the spirit, of his guardianship demanded him to
attend to every thing connected with her happiness; and although love
diverted into new channels will not return to refresh the soil it has
deserted, nor can the unkind, or the vicious, be melted by reproof, or
reformed by admonition, yet power to check open misconduct ought to be
used wherever it exists; and since guilt is always cowardly, refractory
spirits may be shamed into quiescence, where they cannot be moulded into
goodness. We may neutralize the acid we cannot sweeten—such was
evidently his duty.
Though poor Dora only returned with the precise sum for which she had
been sent, yet her own consciousness of the difficulty she had inwardly
experienced in prosecuting her errand, the pain she had suffered, and
the gratitude she felt, induced her to believe that her husband could
not fail to accept the money with thankfulness and pleasure, that would
have the most beneficial effects on his mind and conduct. She persuaded
herself, that all which had of late been to blame in him had arisen from
uneasiness, which would now subside; and busied herself with various
plans by which Mrs. Judith should be amused without intruding on him,
and looked finally to the arrival of her beloved friend, as an event
which would not fail to place every thing on the happiest footing.
Thoughts, it is true, would intrude, which told her “that the first
visions of her heart were dispelled, that she had been deceived in her
estimate of Stancliffe’s character, that her views of happiness were
blighted, her affections misplaced, as well as trampled upon;” but these
thoughts were treated as intruders. Dora struggled against them, prayed
against them, and by turning her mind resolutely to consider the
blessings which she really possessed in her lovely child, and her
interesting brother, she succeeded in dispossessing them, and reached
her home in that happy frame of mind which disposed her to receive her
husband with ardent love, and meet her family with her usual kindness
and complacency.
CHAP. IX.
When Dora drove up to her own door, she became sensible that the house
was in great confusion, as there were lights in many rooms, and people
running about in all directions.
The fears of a mother are easily awakened, and as the little boy was at
that time cutting his teeth, Dora’s mind naturally adverted first to
him; and as soon as she gained admittance, her first enquiry was after
him.
“Oh, ma’am! he is quite safe, poor little lamb; but to be sure he has
had such a ‘scape, and for my part I thinks better he had gone poor
thing, than them as must go for his sake.”
Before this mysterious speech could be developed by the hearer,
Stancliffe appeared himself, to “curse the housemaid for her blabbing
tongue,” and with much less circumlocution, proceed to elucidate the
matter himself.
“Yes, truly, you find us in pretty confusion, for my part I left the
house as soon as I got up, and a fine hunt I find they had after me—did
you find old Blackwell at home?”
“I did—all is well there, but what is the matter up-stairs? what has
been the matter?”
“Why, as far as I can learn, all went on very comfortably yesterday; but
this morning, the old woman fancied herself dull, and insisted on going
into the nursery, and when there, would needs nurse Everton, who has
cried confoundedly, and in my opinion wants whipping.”—
“Good heaven! my dear! whip a babe cutting his teeth?”
“Well, what’s his teeth to me? however, that’s not the story; Mrs. Judy
takes it into her head that she could nurse him, and
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