Patience, Barbara Hofland [readict books TXT] 📗

Williams was such a

fool as to put him into her arms whilst she went down stairs for some

milk; in consequence, the silly old soul, who has not strength to nurse

a kitten, pulled faces, and spluttered verses, till the child in terror

flounced, struggled, and fell out of her arms, and would inevitably have

been killed by going head foremost on the fender, had not Frank adroitly

interposed his arm, which saved the child, and was broken just below

the elbow.”

 

Dora sunk on the nearest chair.

 

“The arm is set, but in his case, you know, the accident must

inevitably be fatal—Mr. Eton, the surgeon, says not; he maintains,

that the arm receiving all the injury, and the boy remaining in perfect

composure, he will escape; but I am certain he will not, I expect

bleeding to come on every minute.”—

 

Stancliffe suddenly stopped, for his wife heard him not; the last word

which met her ears was “fatal,” when the idea of losing her beloved

brother at a moment when he had made himself more dear to her than ever,

completely overcame her, and she fainted away before her busy husband

had perceived her situation.

 

Dora was carried to bed, and soon became much worse than Frank, who bore

his injury with so much fortitude, that, contrary to all expectation, it

failed to produce an effect expected by every one, and feared by every

one, save Stancliffe, who unhappily gave rather unequivocal tokens of

being disappointed in the catastrophe he had so confidently predicted.

 

Poor Dora lost her expectations of being again a mother, and was reduced

to a degree of alarming weakness; but she had the satisfaction of

knowing that her husband was much in the house, and that in the

confusion and bustle incident to the distressing state of his family, he

found a succedaneum for that exciting society he had previously lived

amongst. Poor Mrs. Judy’s disaster was a perpetual theme on which he

rallied her without mercy; and such had been the effect of her accident

on the mind of the kind-hearted woman, that it had comparatively reduced

her to silence; and, to the sincere grief of Frank, she was perpetually

affected even to tears, by the taunts of her nephew, whose talents at

every description of scolding, from the scornful sneer, progressively to

the loud remonstrance and overwhelming torrent of reproach, were

scarcely rivalled, certainly not exceeded, by any female practitioner in

Europe.

 

Dora was soon aware that the contents of her purse had been silently

extracted during her illness, and she was sensible that her presence was

so much required in her family, that she hastened to descend to the

breakfast parlour, where Frank was delighted to receive the thanks and

embraces of a sister, whose gratitude for his preservation ascended on

high, and called down blessings on his head; nor could she delay seeing

the innocent cause of so much anxiety, poor Mrs. Judy, who screwed up

her large features into the most hideous contortions, as she approached

her, saying,

 

“Ah! now we three are met again,

In sorrow, misery, and pain.”

 

“You see, my dear Dolly, I’ll tell you how it was; I took the child, and

poor simple thing, it can stand well enough, but it can’t sit, and I

wanted it to sit on this arm, and I told it so—it has never read

Locke’s Associations, (for a very good reason, because it can’t read,)

but I will leave them to it in my will, splendidly bound, that it may

never do so again—poor dear creature, I hope it will live to forgive

me, and I hope you will, my good Frank, forgive me too.”

 

“I have done it, my dear Mrs. Judith, so don’t say a word about it, pray

don’t.”

 

“I believe you, my dear boy, and I’m very glad you are alive to do

it—though I do really believe in my heart, ‘twould have been better you

should have died, for if any body is fit for an angel, it is you; not

that I am like my grand-nephew, I don’t therefore wish you to be one,

not I, indeed.”

 

“Nor does Stancliffe, my dear ma’am, you quite mistake him—you don’t

understand him at all.”

 

“Oh! yes, yes, I do, my dear Dolly. I understand all about it; he wants

Frank’s estate, ‘tis as clear as the noon-day—also, he wants my little

matter of money, and he says to himself, ‘young may go, old must go;’

oh! you don’t know what penetration I have; but Miss Sally told me that;

she says, says she, ‘your grand-nephew is a Stancliffe all over, as keen

as mustard, as hot as pepper.’”—

 

Poor Mrs. Judy’s comparisons were cut short by the unannounced arrival

of a lady, who entering hastily, ran towards Dora, but ere she reached

her, started back as if alarmed by her pale looks and her wrapping

habiliments.

 

But in another moment, and the arms of Dora were bound about her neck,

calling her “mother, friend, protectress,” and weeping in such an

agitation of joy, as in her weak state to be almost alarming. When Mrs.

Aylmer reflected on this scene, it became more so to her really

maternal heart, than it was in the first moment, for although much might

be allowed to her recent illness, and the surprise of the meeting, yet

the emotion of poor Dora went beyond any which a happy wife was likely

to display, even on the occasion of meeting a much-loved and long-parted

parent.

 

Mr. Stancliffe entered just as Dora was about to retire, and endeavour

to compose her spirits; to her great satisfaction, he addressed the

stranger in the most suasive and agreeable manners he could

assume—those manners which about three years before had made an

impression on her heart yet too well remembered; but after thus

welcoming her, he suddenly addressed his own lady with—

 

“Dora, you must not give way to crying and weak nerves, you know Mr.

Eton says so, and especially not now, for you will have another stranger

here before to-morrow night, and one you are little prepared for—your

father.”

 

“Dear, dear papa!” cried Frank, jumping up with the natural expression

of joy and rapture. He was reproved by a frown of such withering

severity from Stancliffe, that the heart of Mrs. Aylmer sunk within her

at the sight of it, and scarcely could it revive when he added,—

 

“I am obliged to set out for London by the mail to-night, so you will

put me a few necessaries in the portmanteau, my dear.”

 

As Stancliffe spoke, he offered his arm to Dora, whose feeble steps

evidently needed support, and when they retired, he hastily explained to

her the necessity he was under of seeing Mr. Masterman, and pressing him

to advance him some money, as otherwise he could not meet his partner,

whose arrival was not less surprising than mal-a-propos.

 

“How do you know my father is coming?”

 

“Williamson spoke to him in the river this morning; he bade him say

nothing of the matter, as he would not leave the vessel till her cargo

was landed.”

 

“And is my mother with him?”

 

“No, he is alone—he said his great object was to see his boy; but I

have my doubts of that—you will be very careful in answering his

questions—he has the staff in his hand now, and will not fail to show

his power; our situations are completely reversed at this time.”

 

Whilst Stancliffe spoke, Dora was silently thanking God, that the poor

father had not thus late in life undertaken this long voyage to find his

darling son a corpse—something which escaped her on this head made her

husband revolve the subject also; but we will not venture to read

thoughts which the owner would at one time have shuddered to indulge.

 

Stancliffe leaving in some measure his fate in the hands of his wife,

was kind in his adieus to her, and courteous to the rest of the family,

being desirous to render Mrs. Aylmer his friend, and not less so of

erasing from the fading memory of his antient relative, the provoking

and unfeeling remarks he had showered upon her in the day of trouble.

The very tenderness of his parting kiss brought a new sorrow to the

heart of Dora; was he not going once more into the very bower of that

syren whom she considered the author of all his errors, and her own

misfortunes? might not her attractions become stronger than ever by the

allurements of dress, the aids of opportunity? must not his very wants

render him more interesting to the woman who was conscious of having

injured him? and would he not be compelled from that cause to shew

himself a humble, and therefore a captivating, suitor? The distraction

produced by such thoughts as these can be judged by those alone who have

been similarly situated, and know what that fever of the soul is, which

not merely trembles for the fidelity of a partner known to be frail, but

also for the moral conduct of an accountable being, for whose eternal

welfare they are intensely solicitous. Dora passed a night of such

agitation, that in her weak state it was wonderful how she could so far

conquer her feelings as to meet her friends with cheerfulness, and

prepare to receive the parent she dreaded yet desired to see.

 

As Mrs. Aylmer had never been fond of Mr. Hemingford, and considered

justly that she had been unhandsomely treated in Dora’s removal, she

determined on withdrawing to the house of another friend during his

stay, a resolution Dora could not oppose, although she feared that some

reports might reach her affecting the reputation of Stancliffe—thus on

every hand she was beset by difficulties. With an independence of spirit

which scorned deception, a firmness of integrity in religious principle,

that refused every shade of a lie, and a simple ingenuousness of nature

which forbade the power of dissimulation, she yet felt impelled by all

her received notions of a wife’s allegiance, and all the remains of

lingering love to the only man who had ever awakened that feeling in her

bosom, to hide his faults, extenuate his foibles, and preserve, or

restore him, in the good opinion of her friends.

 

Mrs. Aylmer’s good bye kiss was still on her cheek when Mr. Hemingford

drove to the door, and in another moment found himself in the arms of

Frank, on whom his eyes seemed to spend not only their powers of sight,

but the soul that shone through them; he was become thin, and brown, and

almost dried up by trouble and climate; and it was a curious as well as

affecting sight, to see his gaunt withered form embracing the beautiful

strippling, who appeared too fair a flower for such a blighted root. It

was, however, soon evident to Dora, that her father’s health and spirits

were much better than they had been three years before; and she

endeavoured to rejoice that good had come out of evil.

 

“Well Dora,” said the father at last—“you have made a man of my boy,

for which, may God bless you; but I cannot say to your husband, he has

made a woman of my girl, for you look thinner and more chitty-faced

than when I left you.”

 

“I am only just out of my bed, Sir—we have had a very sickly family,

but I shall soon be better.”

 

“Where is Everton?”

 

“In London”—“he was obliged to go.”

 

“‘Tis all very right, he has hitherto gone much too seldom—when will he

be at home?”

 

“Oh,” cried Frank, with a joyous accent, “not this long time;