Patience, Barbara Hofland [readict books TXT] 📗

painful. When Dora

left the church, she felt strong and prepared for every trial; but as

she drew nearer home, the recollection of her lengthened absence, the

fear that it should prove the cause of anger and of sin in her husband,

the consciousness that not only his new-born virtues, but his life, hung

on a slender thread, and the solicitude she felt to preserve and cherish

both, filled her with anxiety; and although one moment she trusted her

prayers would be heard, the next she trembled for the consequences of

her conduct.

 

Such must ever be the feelings of a married woman so circumstanced, and

her dependance should be a matter of serious consideration to him who

holds in his power a responsibility so awful: to the great relief of

Dora, at present her little household were all in a tranquil state, her

husband received her without any comment, and after informing her that

he had taken some blanc mange, began again to turn over the leaves of a

large Bible, which lay on the table before the great chair in which he

now always sat.

 

“I have had two visits from my aunt during your absence, (for really the

time seemed very long;) poor woman, she is worse than ever, she repeated

the same words over each time, again and again—I must own they struck

me much, and I am looking in the Bible for them; I suppose they are

there, but I am not certain.”

 

“Do you recollect them, my dear?”

 

“I cannot forget them—she said perpetually, ‘tho’ woo’d, chastized, a

flagrant rebel still.’”

 

“They are in Young’s Night Thoughts—he speaks of man as disobedient to

his Creator, and says, he is,

 

‘Tho’ woo’d, chastized, a flagrant rebel still,

A rebel—to the thunders of his throne,

A rebel—to the pleadings of his love.’—

 

I will find you the passage.”

 

“Don’t trouble yourself—it has given me food for reflection—I am that

rebel, if ever man was, for I have rebelled alike against mercy and

judgment; goodness has not drawn me—suffering has not warned me—no one

has had more to be thankful for, and few, very few, have been less

grateful.”

 

Dora did not answer, for her heart was too full to speak—she could not,

she durst not, contradict this short, true statement, of his past

conduct; she knew that to “speak peace, when there is no peace,” is

cruelty in the garb of kindness; yet pity, commiseration, tenderness,

penetrated her heart for him, and had the precepts of her faith admitted

the idea, there was no pains she could not have endured, no action she

could not have performed, to render his penitence availing.

 

“What is the conclusion given to this passage?” said Stancliffe, after a

long pause—“yes! find it for me, Dora—yet I know not whether I am now

able, or whether reading or thinking will do me any good—how much I

have thought, how deeply I have lamented, God only knows; yet I fear I

am just what I was!”

 

“I will read the Gospels to you, my dear; it is only in the New

Testament that we can find rest to our souls, under the burthen of

conscious guilt.”

 

“I must read for myself,” was the reply, followed by profound silence;

and Dora feared to break in upon a salutary train of thought even by

good words—slow as was his progress, frequent as were the relapses of a

mind so blind to the higher duties, and so devoid of the sensibilities

of a Christian, it was yet to her a constant consolation that Stancliffe

had never sought to deaden the reproaches of his conscience by recurring

to the arguments of infidelity, or denying his responsibility at the

great tribunal which he evidently approached with just alarm, and an

increasing sense of his own unworthiness not only in deed but in

thought.

 

The time arrived at length when she might say, “behold, he

prayeth:”—need we say of such a wife, that she prayed with him, and for

him; that she watched over him with the fond broodings of the parent

bird over its half-fledged young, happy when at length her holy

solicitude prevailed upon him to conquer false shame, and lingering

pride, so far as to admit the visits of a clergyman in their

neighbourhood, who kindly entered his chamber as a friend, and exercised

the duties of a pastor day after day, during the succeeding winter.

 

Stancliffe, sensible that the actions of a repentant sinner are the

only sure criterion of his sincerity, was deeply troubled that the state

of his health prevented him from proving his humility, faith, and

virtuous intentions. Dora soothed him in this, by an assurance “that

submission to this infliction was in itself no little proof of obedience

in a mind so subject to all extremes;” she told him, “that patience

included a self-subjugation, which required the aid of many Christian

virtues, and in his state, humble endurance, and cheerful acquiescence,

was required in lieu of more active virtues.”

 

“But there are some things I must do, weak as I am—Dora! Dora! by all

your past unequalled patience, think what it is which I would do! which

I ought to do! speak for me to your own kind heart.”

 

“I blame myself much for not having done so before; but, alas! your

sufferings have at times been so great, I feared to awaken them—Alice

is a mother; she has been comfortably provided for, and has recovered

her health; Frank’s pocket-money, and my ornaments, provided the means.”

 

“And if I die, Dora, you will not suffer a poor wretch to lay not only

his birth, but the sins of his unprotected youth, to my long and

terrible account? Oh! if you knew how this thought haunts me”—

 

“I beseech you to be quite easy on this head—why did you suffer it to

haunt you, Everton?”

 

“Why, indeed!—I ought to have known and trusted you—but mine, Dora,

has been a cold, selfish heart, and it cannot easily comprehend the

conduct and the feelings of a better—I see it all now—my parents

indulged me till I fancied all things should yield to my will; and as

far as I was able, it has been the business of my life to make

them—there lay the great evil—thence arose the pride, the sin, the

anger, the cruelty of my nature.”

 

At this period, poor Mrs. Judith was seized with a paralytic affection,

and after a few days’ confinement, sunk, without struggle or pain, into

the grave. Though her speech and her limbs were affected, she was

evidently sensible, and looked for Dora’s attendance in the most anxious

and affecting manner. Stancliffe evinced the sincerity of his repentance

at this time in a striking manner, for he entirely resigned Dora to the

sick room of his aunt, although her absolute necessity for his

happiness, and his personal comforts, had never been half so great, and

the presence of death in the house was in itself an affecting

circumstance. Mrs. Judith left no will, and of course her property

devolved to Stancliffe: his first observation upon the subject was, “we

will devise a legacy for her, Dora, to the Miss Lawrences.”

 

During Mrs. Judith’s illness, Mr. Sydenham came to Liverpool, and was

received with as much pleasure by Stancliffe as could be experienced by

one whose mind was so perpetually employed on the most awful subjects,

and harrassed by conflicts with his own feelings and propensities, which

much pain and weakness rendered him little able to bear. It is not on

the bed of death, amid the flutterings of a fevered pulse, the weariness

of aching limbs, trembling nerves, a confused brain, and an enfeebled

mind, that man should enter on the duties of examining his heart,

reforming its errors, and “preparing to meet his God:” one was “called

at the eleventh hour,” that no one might utterly despair, but only

one—therefore none should presume.

 

With Sydenham, Stancliffe held many long and affecting conversations,

when his rapidly increasing weakness permitted it; and in consequence of

his request, after Mrs. Judith’s funeral, that gentleman set out for

Frank. A desire to see him had been the single point in which Dora had

failed to indulge the invalid, judging that the interview would be too

affecting to them both, and perceiving also that Stancliffe’s weakness

now rendered him subject to slight delirium, which she exceedingly

dreaded to increase.

 

It was a satisfaction to Dora to see Frank, though very pale, yet much

stronger than he used to be, for the country had agreed with him; and

though he had thought much of his sister, the daily sight of her trials

had not pressed upon his spirits as they used to do, and he was aware

that her present afflictions were relieved greatly to her from the hope

which accompanied them. When he approached Stancliffe, to his painful

surprise, a faint hectic rose to the cheek of the patient, and he looked

disturbed and alarmed.

 

“Do you not know me, dear Everton? it is Frank, whom you wished for, and

expected to see; your brother Frank.”

 

“Then you are not dead! give me your hand!” Frank took that thin wasted

hand, and pressed it to his lips, and Stancliffe became soon more

composed, though he remained silent—by degrees resuming his memory, and

silently wiping away the tears that slowly filled his glistening eyes.

 

From this time he could not bear Frank out his sight, yet he urged both

him and Dora to relieve each other. Sydenham was again absent, but he

returned soon, accompanied by Mrs. Aylmer; after which, he was obliged

to set out to the continent with his father.

 

Dora was thankful for the presence of her friend, but apprehending that

her arrival might agitate the invalid, she would not have mentioned it

if Sydenham had not done it, in accounting for his own unwonted

desertion of the sick room, on taking leave of him.

 

“I am glad she is come—very glad,” said Stancliffe; “she is a good

woman, I had need have such about me—how many mercies are granted me,

who deserve only punishment—I do not understand this, it distresses and

alarms me.”

 

Frank endeavoured to soothe him; he spoke of the goodness of God, the

perfection of redeeming grace, the efficacy of repentance, and

faith:—there was an eager grasping of the mind after the hope thus

offered, but the wandering intellect, the deeply troubled conscience,

the pain-worn body, refused repose—the quick glancing, the troubled

tossing, the anxious sighing, told the sympathising comforter that his

labour was in vain.

 

“Mrs. Aylmer!—where is Mrs. Aylmer?” said the invalid, hastily.

 

She came immediately up-stairs, and approached him with that

compassionate air his present deplorable condition inspired.

 

“Forgive—forgive me for using Dora, your Dora, so ill—take her again

to your heart—your home—restore her—comfort her—do not lose sight of

her again.”

 

“I will not,” said Mrs. Aylmer, with solemn earnestness.

 

“But do not teach her to forget me—not quite forget me—no! my heart

cannot yield that—‘tis a selfish heart yet—very selfish—very hard,

even now—‘a rebel still.’”

 

“Do not say any more, my love, just now,” said Dora, putting her arm

under his head, to assist his breathing, which was short and difficult.

 

“Yes, yes, I must speak—I must conquer—dear Mrs. Aylmer—in

time—prevail on her to think of Sydenham—he is good and—I can say no

more—I have made my sacrifice, none of you can tell what it has cost

me.”

 

His head sunk on Dora’s shoulder, and she thought he had fainted; but in

another moment there was a convulsive motion of the whole body, and in a

thick altered voice he cried hastily, “Dora! Frank! where are you? pray

for