Patience by Barbara Hofland (that summer book TXT) 📕

antient hall he lived in, and one who seemed to hold the trust as a

hardship, was not likely to interfere in any way so long as he was let

alone; and this idea unhappily combining with the desire of secrecy

expressed in the will, and his own necessities, which urged him to make

a property of his alienated child, altogether led to the conduct thus

adopted—a conduct in which his family readily concurred, from the

stimulus of envy in the daughters, and a sense of necessity in the

expensive mother.

At the time when young Stancliffe suddenly made his appearance, and as

suddenly became the admirer of that daughter whom they had decreed to a

life of celibacy, Mr. and Mrs. Hemingford were not more vexed with an

occurrence which thwarted all their plans, than ashamed of the part they

had acted, and fearful of the discovery which was inevitable; well aware

that the excuse of compliance with the will of Mrs. Downe, though it

might operate in their favour with poor Dora, would not do so in the

eyes of either young Stancliffe or any other person who might address

her—they considered whether it would be possible to secure her from

future admirers, in case her present attachment was broken; and after

due deliberation, came to the conclusion, that as her marriage with some

one was inevitable, it would be better to take place with him by whom

they could be most benefitted, and whose future wealth would be in some

measure useful to them; nor had they the courage to meet those evils

which a breach with Stancliffe must inevitably draw upon them. Of course

they consented reluctantly to the marriage; and in the confusion arising

from conscious disingenuousness, neglected that power of making a good

bargain which the state of their daughter’s fortune fully warranted, and

left the future to chance.

In fact, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hemingford were cunning, much less

systematically dishonest. In the endeavour to make a property of their

daughter, they had reasoned themselves in the first place, into an idea

that it was only right, one so disproportionately endowed, should

contribute to the support of her family; and from accustoming themselves

to consider her too fortunate, they were led to the sin of really

rendering her unfortunate, by making her unhappy; but they had by no

means the power of carrying any regular design against her, or any other

person, into execution. They contracted a sense of guilt on their

consciences, subjected themselves justly to suspicion from their

disingenuous conduct, and lost all due influence over a young man whom

they knew to be headstrong, and had proved to be unfeeling, without

doing themselves or their child any good, or gaining those advantages

which were in their power. In fact, Mr. Hemingford had too much

integrity for his own intentions; he became confused and embarrassed,

when his dread of poverty forced upon him sinister intentions, and

exhibited a melancholy proof that the fear of want will derange the

clearest intellect, and warp the most upright views; therefore it is

alike wisdom, and virtue, to guard against it.

The following morning Mrs. Hemingford and Catharine, (whose pride, but

by no means her affections, had been somewhat wounded by Stancliffe’s

preference of Dora,) made their appearance early, being alike eager to

arrange the parties, and partake the gaieties, of a marriage they had so

lately considered an irreparable misfortune. Mrs. Hemingford brought

with her a reticule full of letters from her husband for his partner to

look over, observing, “she understood most of them were from Smyrna.”

Stancliffe took them with a silent sneer on his countenance, so

different from his usually free and polite carriage, as to communicate a

pang even to her thoughtless mind; but it fell with much more effect on

that of poor Dora, who, after all, felt that she was her mother, and

could not bear to consider her an object of contempt to her husband;—in

order to open the late occurrence in a pleasanter way than he seemed

likely to do, she observed,—

“We were surprised yesterday by the visit of a Mr. Blackwell.”

“Indeed! what sort of a person is he? I have never seen him—but I

suppose he is quite an oddity? hi, hi, hi.”

“Not so odd, madam, as some of our acquaintance, who bottle up heiresses

in garrets and counting-houses, and leave it to chance whether they fly

out to cobblers, or are saved in pity by gentlemen,” said Stancliffe.

“So—h!” said Mrs. Hemingford, with a long drawn breath, which with

difficulty she prevented being the prelude to hysteric tears, though

little subject to emotion of so powerful a character, “Soh! so!—then I

suppose he has been telling you what he ordered us to keep a profound

secret; that’s some people’s consistency—well! I’m very glad it’s all

out, for I’m sure it has been at the point of my tongue a thousand

times.”

“And mine too,” said Catharine warmly, and truly.

“I don’t doubt it, for little Frank told me you called Dora ‘heiress’

often in derision; but we both fancied it applied to her expectations

from Mrs. Aylmer—the fact is, that the insincerity, and cruelty of

conduct observed towards Dora, is utterly inexcusable, and could be

adopted only for the purpose of robbing and”—

“Robbing!!” exclaimed Catharine in a rage.

“Yes, Catharine, robbing her, and cajoling me—she has been in the

most distressing situation amongst you, and”—

“Has been!—you mean she is; for no man of feeling would so speak to

her mother; but Everton Stancliffe’s temper is no secret to any

one—if she had a thousand pounds for every twenty she will ever see,

she would still be a miserable woman with such a man as you.”

Stancliffe gazed on Catharine with looks indicative of rage and fury,

that were absolutely ferocious, and so terrified Dora, that although

she rose as if to supplicate him for mercy on them all, she sunk back

pale and almost fainting on her seat; whilst he, though generally a man

of fluency in speech, appeared unable to utter reply, from the passion,

which shook him almost to phrenzy.

“At all events you have much to be thankful for,” said Mrs.

Hemingford; “we are the losers every way—and even supposing we had done

wrong, which it is certain we did not, yet it is all in your favour, Mr.

Stancliffe:—if Dora had remained in Wales, (which was what Mr.

Blackwell very much wished for,) undoubtedly she would have married

young Sydenham, (and been lady Sydenham some time,) so that at any rate

you have reason to be thankful.”

Dora opened her half closed eyes, and gazed at her mother with an air of

astonishment, which recalled her husband to his senses, by presenting

him with a new and painful subject of surmise; but the quick and rapid

glances of his brilliant eyes still continued to infuse terror, as,

gathering his letters together in haste, he waived the subject for the

present, by saying—

“These letters are, (as you said, ma’am,) of the utmost importance—if

I mistake not, they will lead some of us a longer journey than

agreeable—but you, Miss Hemingford, are amazingly well calculated for

playing eastern princess—your beauty will become an Haram.”

“What can he mean?” said Mrs. Hemingford, as Stancliffe left the room,

and immediately afterwards the house—“he cannot surely think of sending

your father to travel at his time of life! well, however, I am glad he

is gone; but I am very sorry old Blackwell has been, for I certainly did

expect to get the next half year’s income for Dora, and so I ought,

because of her wedding things—but come, child, pray don’t sit there as

if you were frightened to death—women an’t so soon killed, take my word

for it; come, let us go up stairs and see what pretty things you have

brought from Buxton.”

Dora obeyed; but she could not, like her thoughtless mother, recover

from the shock she had received, nor readily forgive Catharine for

offending her husband to such a degree as to render him the being she

had described; and she was really glad when they departed, for she

sought for solitude in which to commune with her own heart, to

prostrate herself at the throne of Mercy, and intreat divine aid and

guidance in the new and difficult path which she perceived to be before

her. Believing the great duty of woman to consist in the practice of

forbearance, meekness, and humble endurance, the prayer of her heart was

that in her “Patience might have its perfect work.”

When Stancliffe returned, he was gloomy, dispirited, and evidently

either angry or ashamed; sensations which alike tend to make a man

appear sullen when the former is suppressed, and the latter unavowed.

Dora concluded that he had seen her father, and she naturally wished to

know what had passed between them, and made every possible excuse in her

mind for the ill-humour her husband was still affected by, but she did

not venture to ask any questions.

At length Everton began to make eager enquiries respecting Arthur

Sydenham—his person, manners, situation, expectations, and intimacy

with her, all passed in review—the answers of Dora were all dictated by

that simple truth which left no pretext for anger, and no shadow of

doubt on the score of that jealousy her mother’s declaration had

temporarily awakened. Stancliffe was not a man subject to feeling this

passion much; for his personal vanity was considerable, and had a

natural tendency to render his errors rather those of self-confidence

than of suspicion:—he was also apparently conscious of the nature of

his own faults, for their conversation ended by an assurance “that the

kindness and patience she had evinced towards him at a time when he was

terribly annoyed, should never be forgotten by him:”—he lamented with

much feeling the errors of his early education, which had nurtured the

faults it ought to have corrected, from which he had become irritable

when opposed, but maintained, “that gentleness never failed to disarm

him.” To this Dora replied by an assurance given with firmness and

solemnity, “that she would always endeavour to subdue all anger in

herself, and consider his vexations as flying storms, which it was her

duty to bear:”—she would have added her hope, “that he would endeavour

to gain that self-conquest so necessary for both,” but such was the

generosity and delicacy of her nature, that she would not, in the moment

of humiliation, utter one word on the subject beyond what was

necessary—she could neither at this period doubt the power nor the

will of her beloved, to rectify his errors, and of course render her as

happy as she could desire.

But though Stancliffe thus professed to be merely a petulant man, whose

passions subjected him to the ebullitions of rage, blameably indulged,

but speedily removed; it soon appeared that he added to this, _abiding

resentment_; and although Mrs. Hemingford had truly observed, “that he

had little to complain of, in finding his wife rich when he had expected

her to be unportioned,” he yet continued to dilate on the secrecy,

insincerity, and intentional fraud, of his wife’s family, in a manner

which was extremely painful to her, and drew upon them those

animadversions from others to which no one ought to expose their

connections:—if Dora ventured to excuse them, he reproached her for it,

as arguing affectation, “since it was not in the nature of things that

she could love them,” or accused her of ingratitude to himself, who had

proved the sincerity of his regard, by taking her without a portion.

Had he said “the violence of