Patience, Barbara Hofland [readict books TXT] 📗

resolution to keep my foolish thoughts to myself—never can a wife be

too careful in concealing the errors of her husband, much more should

she conceal her suspicions.”

The first time Dora dined down stairs, Mr. and Mrs. Masterman were

present. She did not feel quite her usual cordiality towards the former;

but he admired her little boy, and she forgave him:—he talked much of

the business into which he was entering, and shewed his hopes, his

difficulties, and expectations, with an openness, candour, and

simplicity, which marked at once his honesty, enthusiasm, and false

estimation of circumstances common to projectors. Dora trembled for him,

and was extremely uneasy for her husband, whose usual quick-sightedness

seemed to fail him on this occasion, as he listened to the golden dreams

of Masterman with considerable approbation; but his manners were still

indicative of uneasiness, and his first pleasant look was assumed at the

moment of her departure to the nursery.

Stancliffe was new to deception, and he was indeed at this time unhappy;

his proud and fiery spirit was curbed by that cowardice which is

inevitably connected with guilt in young offenders—his mind was busy

and uneasy, dissatisfied with himself and all around him, yet unable to

seize an occasion of venting his vexation, lest he should betray the

guilty secret that preyed upon his heart.

The following day, he thus addressed the wife whose love and confidence

were at this time so tormenting to him, as to render his request less a

desire than a demand.

“You are now well, I think a journey could not hurt you?”

“It will not hurt me, my love, if the child can bear it.”

“Pshaw! the child—I suppose that is to be made a reason for every

thing—but you may take it with you into Cheshire. I wish you to visit

Mr. Blackwell, and persuade him to advance me two or three thousand

pounds.”

“He is a stern man, you know, my love, and will ask a thousand

questions.”

“I know it, which is the reason I send you, instead of going myself,

for I am aware that I should fly out and ruin all—you must tell him the

prosperous state of our business, which you understand sufficiently to

prove; and say, that he may repay himself by withholding the income he

now allows us, or settle the matter as he pleases; but I must have the

money.”

“Cannot I write all this, my dear?”

“No—your personal appearance, and even that of your boy, are a species

of security to him—had you both died, (which appeared likely enough a

fortnight ago,) all would have gone to Frank—such is the d—d way in

which old women make wills.”

The cold, heartless way in which Stancliffe adverted to her death,

struck Dora as careless even to cruelty; but she resolved not again to

condemn him causelessly, and she sought in the readiness of her

obedience, to embrace a disagreeable journey, on a disagreeable errand,

to earn that approbation, and win that kindness, so dear to her heart,

and so necessary to her happiness.

A nurse, a babe, a young wife, were very extraordinary visitants at

Blackwell hall, and excited no small degree of astonishment in the

antient housekeeper, and venerable butler; but there are few hearts so

dead to the early and sweet sympathies of our common nature, as not to

behold them with pleasure. Mr. Blackwell received Dora after his first

exclamation of surprise, with a courteous, but sincere welcome, and

handed her into his house with an air of fatherly protection, which

soothed the agitation of her spirits, and somewhat compensated for the

fears which had harrassed her during her journey, which being more than

fifty miles, had also been too much for her in her present

convalescence.

Every person, and every thing, under the roof, were soon put into

requisition, for the accommodation of the guests, and for the first time

in her life Dora was treated as a gentlewoman of importance. Mr.

Blackwell soon learnt that she arrived as a suitor to him for money; but

he neither by word or look, indicated any thing repellent, although he

placed an interdict on all business till the following day, intreating

only “that she would command his house in such a way as might most

conduce to her health and comfort.”

Poor Dora had unlimited permission to lengthen her visit from a husband

who had conceived that her commission would be one of difficulty, and

who was also glad to be delivered from the burden of her presence, to

which he could not in the present state of his mind accustom himself.

Although wearied and somewhat indisposed on the following day, she had

the satisfaction of writing to Stancliffe the consent of Mr. Blackwell

to advance him two thousand pounds on the terms proposed, to mention his

hospitable reception, and heartily wish that he were present to partake

it, that being the only circumstance wanting to her happiness.

The change of scene was rendered extremely beneficial to Dora, in

consequence of the airings Mr. Blackwell took her over the estates of

her late godmother, anxious to shew the improvements he had made by

enclosures, fences, and buildings, which although they had necessarily

encroached considerably on the present produce, would fully justify his

expenditure. He also took her to the house occupied by Mrs. Dorothy,

which though smaller than his own, was well calculated for a country

gentleman’s establishment, and was kept by its present occupants in a

state of great neatness and thorough repair, and beautifully situated in

the midst of an old fashioned garden, enriched by avenues and terraces,

from whence it looked on a wide-spread smiling country. The eyes of Dora

swam in tears, (but not of sorrow,) as she thought of the happiness to

be enjoyed in such a place, far from the cares and the fictitious

splendour of cities, with leisure for the duties and the pleasures of

her early life, the friend of that life for her guide and companion, and

her husband turning his mind to objects of useful and rural occupation,

the friend of the poor, the admiration of the rich, the example to all.

“I must have patience,” said Dora internally, “I must take the apostle’s

advice to ‘labour and not faint,’ and never to be ‘wearied in well

doing.’”

Dora spent the Sunday following with her kind entertainer, and at church

renewed the engagements and holy resolutions of her soul, so lately

injured by sorrow, and worldly anxieties. Her heart was at once purified

and lightened of its load of care, and the freedom she enjoyed from all

present pressure, gave her spirits that elasticity they needed, restored

her health, and bestowed strength to run her arduous race anew.

CHAP. VII.

Mr. Blackwell himself conveyed Dora and her attendant in his own coach

the first two stages of her journey. On parting, he regretted much that

her husband had not given her the meeting, but added, “I suppose the

same painful necessity which induced him to send you alone operates

still; he deserves to get rich, for he makes, in my opinion, great

sacrifices to that end; but pray, my dear young lady, exert your utmost

influence to guard him from extending his concerns too far, that is the

error of all Liverpool men, and indeed the error of the age: tell him

also, to exchange the hunters he is too busy to exercise, for a

carriage, in which his wife and child may really receive benefit, as

well as himself.”

Dora well knew that she dared not deliver the latter part of this

friendly message, but she meditated all the rest of the way on those

circumstances connected with the former; and considering it her absolute

duty to speak on the subject, determined to do it even at the risk of

that anger which was the object of her greatest earthly fear, and which

nothing of less importance than the welfare of her husband could induce

her to venture upon.

“But he will not be angry with me now,” said Dora, as the carriage

drove to the door, and she folded her child in her arms; and the

conclusion would have been deemed a just one by all who saw her, for

never had she been so lovely—never had her countenance beamed with so

sweet an expression, nor that exquisite complection, which had first

attracted his eye, shone with such pearly whiteness, such glowing roses.

Stancliffe was just going out at the moment when she alighted, and he

not only started at the sight of her, but the colour sprang to his

cheek—“he loves me,” said Dora, and her heart beat with delight, as she

seized his arm and hastened into the house.

“I did not expect you this hour; I was stepping up to Masterman’s, he

will be waiting for me.”

“The idea, perhaps she will be waiting,” darted through the heart of

Dora; but she repelled it, and said gaily, “well, my love, let him wait

a little while, he is too gallant to take you from a lady—besides, you

have no idea how the child is improved, every day makes him more like

you, look at him.”

Stancliffe looked at his boy, and even kissed him, but his eyes reverted

more frequently to the mother, and he said again and again to himself,

“how well she looks! how handsome she is!” he even sate down, as if to

partake her tea, but the striking of the clock reminded him of his

engagement, and he rushed out of the house without speaking.

Hour after hour passed, and he returned not—ah! who can tell, save her

who has thus waited, and thus counted the lapse of time, how heavily it

passed to poor Dora at a period when her spirits were excited by

circumstances, and overflowing with love and joy—when she had the power

too of presenting her beloved husband with a certain property, and of

describing that which awaited them, and which was more desirable than

any thing of which she had formed an idea. It is certain there are many

injuries more tangible than unkindness and neglect, but there are none

which are felt more acutely, or which the wounded spirit bewails more

bitterly; and though we are all apt to complain the most of those

slights inflicted upon us in the hour of sorrow, and think ourselves

justified in registering them as worthy of resentment, yet we feel them

severely also on other occasions, for the joy which a beloved connection

refuses to share is from such a cause turned into sorrow.

Poor Frank was unwell, and had retired before her arrival, and she would

not permit him to be disturbed—she could not read or work, and several

times she resolved to wrap herself up and step to Mr. Masterman’s

herself, but she dreaded exciting an idea that she was suspicious or of

shewing that like her husband she could not live without constant

intercourse with them—her reverie was dissolved by the entrance of Mr.

M. who merely called to give the servant a newspaper, but hearing she

was arrived, stopped for a moment to welcome her home.

“Have you then not been at home?” said Dora, in surprise and inward

alarm.

“Not for some hours—I had an engagement, and not expecting you so soon,

desired Stancliffe would come and play chess with Mrs. M.; you know I

never leave her for an evening without providing her with some

amusement, they are both great players, and do vastly well together.”

Whilst he spoke, Stancliffe returned home, and after he was gone, Dora

observed, “that she was so much a stranger to