Patience by Barbara Hofland (that summer book TXT) 📕

then a friend to sit with him; and on Harriett’s return from a visit in

the neighbourhood, he desired to see her. This interview appeared to be

attended with happy consequences; for upon her representation of the

beauties of the country, he declared that he would have a lodging

procured, and remove thither immediately—he proposed dressing, and

thought he could venture into the drawing-room.

With joy and tenderness, even sincere gratitude to him for this

exertion, Dora made every arrangement that could tend to his

accommodation; she took care to place poor Mrs. Judith and her dog out

of hearing, and so to contrive every circumstance, and combine every

motive for exertion, that he might be stimulated to use it. In another

day he was persuaded to take an airing; and as his pale and interesting

countenance naturally attracted attention, there was reason to believe

his vanity would be gratified by the pity he appeared to excite; nor was

that faculty dormant; but on his return he did not appear to wish for

any company beyond his own family, and Dora’s heart bounded with the

hope that the happiness she had so long desired would really be

hers—she should behold Stancliffe a happy and attached husband,

fulfilling his duties in society, but holding his home as the scene of

his dearest pleasures; his wife as the friend of his bosom.

Every airing, and indeed every hour, as might be expected, increased the

strength and renewed the appetite of the invalid, who not only abandoned

the idea of removal, but now expressed as great a desire for company as

he had lately shewn aversion; and although Dora had herself been so

reduced by her long confinement with him as to be little equal to

fatigue; yet her desire to see him resume his place in society, and to

seize the present moment for obliterating all the past, induced her to

exert herself to the utmost in preparing her household for a mode of

exertion to which it had been long unaccustomed. Frank was her constant

auxiliary; he daily read, and frequently answered, the letters of

business, dispatched all her cards of invitation, listened to Mrs.

Judith with the patience of Job, and played with his little nephew by

the hour. He was still a kind of alien from the apartment occupied by

Stancliffe, who had certainly not quite forgiven him for falsifying his

own prophesy, and presuming to live. Frank felt this, but never

commented upon it; yet he one day observed, “that his brother gave all

the love to Harriett which he ought to have divided between them.”

“Don’t be jealous, my dear boy,” said Dora; yet as she said so, a pang

resembling jealousy shot through her own heart, which compelled her to

see that the observations which followed were just, as Frank answered.

“I am not angry at Harriett, she is very good-tempered, and has done

us all good, for which I sincerely thank her; but I cannot help seeing

that Mr. Stancliffe, who never would allow any other person to influence

him the least in the world, obeys her as it were in every thing—it was

at her suggestion he left his bed, for her sake he went out an

airing, because she thought it dull, he invited company, and he

yields to every thing she says, except that of going into country

lodgings; and I really think that is because he knows that he then would

be parted from her, for she dislikes the country.”

The innocent but true expos� of her husband’s conduct and feelings,

wrung the heart of Dora, and again crushed her new-born hopes of happier

days; but she struggled to subdue her feelings, and trusted that the

volatility of her husband, if not a better motive, would (now he began

to enter into company) give a new turn to his mind. She revolved

numerous plans by which to wean him from an inclination she considered

as childish, rather than criminal, in its present state, but which could

not be checked too soon; and she felt an especial care to prevent

Harriett herself from perceiving it—whilst thus busied with various

cares, the sudden and increasing illness which seized her little boy,

soon absorbed all her thoughts in him.

It appeared that the child was seized with the measles under very

alarming symptoms; and as Harriett had never had the complaint, as soon

as this was announced, she declared an intention of setting out for

Preston immediately, being already engaged to pay a visit there, a

measure Dora considered very prudent; but when Stancliffe professed a

determination to accompany her thither, she could not forbear to insist

“that he could not possibly be equal to any such exertion.”

“Really,” said Harriett, “I think it would do him good; at the same

time, Dora, I know he ought not to leave you—I don’t know what to

say!”—

Neither did the anxious wife and sister; but sufficient had passed to

determine Stancliffe to abide by any object of his own wishes, and in a

very short time he was on the road with Harriett; and Dora, with her

suffering child on her lap, and the eternal questions and condolences of

Mrs. Judith in her ear, was compelled to forget ideal evils, in the

actual ones by which she was surrounded.

To her surprise, and undoubtedly her gratification, her husband returned

as soon as it was possible for a person in high health to have performed

the journey; and although she could not but feel hurt at the cold manner

in which he enquired after the child, and his total disregard of her,

yet she did not wonder that he should immediately go to bed, nor that,

with his former predilection for it, he should remain there the three

following days in a state of complete relapse as to his former humour

and indisposition.

At this time the little object of poor Dora’s unceasing care expired in

her arms, and even the apathy of the father was aroused. Stancliffe left

his bed, and insisted with authority, if not with kindness, that “since

all was over, his wife should take care of herself.” He sent for a

nurse, whom he ordered never to leave her, “for he was certain she was

ill;” and he spoke as if he considered her illness in the light of an

injury to himself; he was evidently in a state of considerable mental

inquietude and agitation, but it neither could be occasioned by sorrow

for his child, nor sympathy with its mother; for he was well aware that

a few kind words would have been more consolatory to her than any

medical aid, yet he withheld them, and indeed never approached her

chamber. He buried the child as soon as was consistent with decency, and

then set out for those country lodgings he had previously refused,

leaving Dora to follow him when she should be able.

The coldness and unfeeling stoicism assumed by Stancliffe at this time

of severe suffering, gave a shock to the spirits and the affections of

Dora, such as she had never experienced before, and rendered an

indisposition which was merely the effect of grief and fatigue, and

which would soon have yielded to the usual remedies, serious and

lasting. Stancliffe was himself a very unhappy man, and his present

unkindness was the result of pride, mortification, and fear:—he had, in

fact, insulted Harriett, quarrelled with her, and in his own

apprehension, made a family breach which never would be healed; and

expecting that Dora would be informed of this by every post, he shrunk

from seeing her. As it is always the nature of guilt to be cowardly, his

conscience construed every thing into offence and reproach, and he fled

from his own house, as he had previously done from general society, lest

he should be annoyed by reproach he was conscious of meriting, though by

no means in the habit of experiencing.

Loathing his own society, which was now unrelieved, as formerly, by a

wife always endeavouring to amuse him, and reproved by every memorial of

her regard for him for deserting her until she had, by using the

reproach he dreaded, given him a pretext for such desertion, Stancliffe

determined to try some means of diverting his chagrin by change of

scene. The death of his child had been a trouble to him less for the

love he felt for it, than the idea of losing one hold upon its mother’s

property; he had unfortunately from its very birth, considered it

somewhat in the light of a rival; yet he had also the idea (of course)

that it ensured him succession, and since it was gone, he was extremely

anxious for Dora’s life, (at least, until she became of age,) also for

poor Frank’s death during his minority, and he determined to pay an

incognito visit to that property which he hoped to call his own

hereafter, through this two-fold medium.

As Stancliffe had no servant with him, and went out a great deal on

horseback, staying away a day or two at a time, it was easy to carry his

design into execution. He avoided the side on which the estates of his

trustee laid; but, desirous of making many enquiries concerning him, he

stopped at a little farmhouse, where he bargained for oats for his

horse, and made sufficient acquaintance to answer his purpose.

The head of this family was a widow with several children; they had all

heard that the future landlord of Mrs. Downe’s estate was a handsome,

sickly young gentleman; and as Stancliffe during his long confinement

had contracted a very delicate appearance, (which was now aided by his

mourning dress,) and it was evident the strange gentleman knew a great

deal about the place, though “he seemed to be mighty secret,” it was not

surprising that they concluded this very person was to be their future

landlord. Under this persuasion, together probably with that interest

the pleasing person and manners of Stancliffe naturally inspired, every

way of performing the agreeable their humble means allowed, were put in

requisition—the parlour was made tidy, tea and cakes were provided, and

most unhappily, the prettiest daughter of the three waited upon his

honour.

This young woman’s modest and almost fearful demeanour, which blended

with profound respect that pity and tenderness the strange gentleman’s

supposed illness excited, was extremely flattering to the vanity of

Stancliffe, and the more gratifying at a time when he was still smarting

from the contemptuous reproaches of one he now despised as a mere chit,

and apprehending the contempt of another, whom, however he might fly

from or neglect, he yet held in high esteem. He was also pleased with

her person, and the high glow of health in her countenance; and

perceiving that in the affability of his manners, and the contemplation

of his person, the fair rustic received as much pleasure as she gave, he

determined to renew his visit, precisely for the reasons that (as a wise

man) should have deterred him.

Stancliffe went again; but he then saw Alice clandestinely, and without

disclosing his real name, professed for her a passion which was met on

her part with fondness but modesty—she was ignorant, but not vicious;

and although ambition might be awakened in her mind, love was the

prevailing sentiment, and it was not difficult to prevail upon her to

remove to a situation where he could see her more frequently. When

Stancliffe had arranged this plan, he became excessively embarrassed

respecting its execution; and in order to hide the guilty secret which

no one suspected, returned suddenly to his own house, and applied

himself with new and extraordinary diligence to the proper management of

his business.

Dora was now