Patience, Barbara Hofland [readict books TXT] 📗

or reproach marked the conduct of every one towards her;

and she was, with all the openness of her nature, and the obliging

kindness of a disposition generous almost to a fault, compelled to feel

herself not only a stranger, but one in a state of implied warfare,

under all the circumstances incident to living in the land of her

enemies.

 

CHAP. III.

 

Mr. Everton Stancliffe, the young gentleman whose expected return had

been the evident cause of Mr. Hemingford’s illness, was the only son of

his late partner, who had been many years the head of the house, and the

friend of Mr. Hemingford in early life. The latter gentleman became a

partner with a much less capital than the established merchant, who from

the kindest motives advanced him money, and accepted from him an easy

interest; so that in the course of a few years he had every prospect of

discharging the debt.

 

But Mr. Hemingford married a wife who, although she appeared afraid of

him, at some moments of their existence, had yet an habit of

forgetting his anger, his commands, and his counsels, for hours and

days; and in point of fact, acted as if she were independent of him, and

never allowed care of any kind to annul her schemes, or cloud her brow.

In all his representations of his situation, or his complaints of those

misfortunes which arose to him (as to many others) from the state of

public affairs, from whence he deduced the necessity for carefulness,

his pretty wife generally answered, “that really she had no head for

business, she never wished to meddle with affairs above her

comprehension, and hated politics above all things.” Did the unfortunate

reasoner shift his ground, and explain to his lady, “the necessity for

people with large families being more economic than those with small

ones,” and give for example the state of his partner’s household in

distinction to his own, he was generally answered with an harangue to

this effect:—

 

“Dear me, Mr. Hemingford, what signifies talking, the more children

people have, the more servants they must have, the more things they must

buy, and the more bills they must run up—it’s all a plain case, and if

you haven’t luck this year, you’ll have so much more next—besides, my

father always said, one boy could spend the portion of many girls—you

may live to see Everton Stancliffe get through twice as much as we do,

so pray comfort yourself.”

 

“But how will that benefit us? what way can the injury of my best

friend’s property help me who am dependant upon him? I say dependant,

for I run behind hand every year?”

 

“Well, Mr. Hemingford, you must say what you like, for my part I have

nothing to say to it, he is your partner, not mine—but just because I

wanted a new set of curtains, (and I’ll be judged by any body whether

scarlet at this time of year is not much more suitable than blue,) then

you begin with losses, and miseries, and children, just as if it wasn’t

I that had the children, and all the trouble of every kind.”

 

In these exhibitions of another, but very common species of that

poor-soulism Miss Hawkins has so inimitably defined, it invariably

happened that the husband was wrought into an irritability which at

length became habitual, whilst the wife maintained an imperturbility

which she dignified with the name of good temper, but which was

altogether distinct from any other goodness than that which belongs to

the constitution, as it arose partly from weakness of mind, but still

more from indolence which would not see its duty, and selfishness which

would not renounce its enjoyments, and which soothed the suggestions of

conscience, by setting the husband’s ill-humour as a balance against

his unceasing industry, and his personal self-denial, from which she

inferred that she owed him nothing.

 

As yet it would unavoidably happen in a large commercial town, that even

the most wilfully blind see changes which compel them to think, and the

most childish are somewhat matured by time; so Mrs. Hemingford had

moments of alarm, and half hours of reflection and contrivance. One of

these fits of thought succeeded her husband’s information, but she soon

relieved her own spirits by determining that Everton Stancliffe should

marry Catharine, a plan which would, she observed, internally answer to

them all, as Catharine had a good spirit, and would set all to rights by

inducing her husband to renew his partnership with her father.

 

Mrs. Hemingford at this moment remembered that Everton had a good spirit

too—but then “he was very fond of pretty women;” “too fond,” said her

memory, but she put off that recollection by looking in the glass, and

owning “that beauty was very interesting:”—besides, “people changed

when they were married; he was clever, and handsome, and rich, and (most

probably) quite as good as other young men; in short, ‘twould be a

charming match.”

 

Mrs. Hemingford had never yet given her mind to match-making, being

indeed resolved to play young herself to the last moment; to which it

may be added, that Catharine had hitherto expressed much contempt for

all Liverpool young men, and was, in the mother’s opinion, always secure

of a good bargain, when she would condescend to accept it. Dora, she had

determined, should never marry; and Louisa was too young to think about

it.

 

Young Stancliffe, in consequence of many losses which had befallen his

father’s house, was sent by the firm to Smyrna, in order to establish a

new connection about three or four years before this period. He set out

when he became of age, and had been successful beyond their expectations

hitherto; it was therefore evidently a pity that he should return,

especially as he had now no parent to whom his presence was important,

and the activity of his partner was more likely to repair their numerous

losses in Europe than any efforts of his, since Mr. Hemingford’s

experience in this respect gave his services an advantage, and his

exertions were unceasing.

 

Yet, alas! these losses, and the corroding nature of interest money,

together with the unrestrained expenditure of his lady, had reduced Mr.

Hemingford’s property so much, that it might be termed merely nominal;

and if Stancliffe should refuse to renew a partnership with him, (which

was the great object of his terror,) he was aware that he could not, at

the conclusion of the present term, which was nearly at an end, command

it elsewhere, from a total deficiency of capital. His services, his

name, and even his probity, might evidently render him highly valuable,

(poor as he was,) to a partner resident abroad; but divided from the

house where he had laboured so long, reduced in constitution, and

sinking into years, he could never hope to be grafted well on a new

stock. From his late partner, he was well aware he would never have been

divided; but a young man would not make the same allowances, nor could

have the same recollections, and it was an appalling prospect for a man

at fifty to shrink abashed before one of five-and-twenty.

 

Mr. Hemingford, however, exerted himself in the best way he was able, to

meet the evil by a clear exposition, and narrow examination into his

affairs, in which he engaged poor Dora so incessantly, as to threaten

the ruin of her health, by perpetual writing and watchfulness. But as in

the pursuit of this painful duty, she became necessarily acquainted with

the state of his affairs, and of course with the anxiety under which he

laboured now, and the long solicitude which he had suffered for years,

every feeling became absorbed in pity, and a desire to contribute to his

relief. For her, no task was too wearisome, no toil too great; and

although it too frequently happened that the work of many a wearisome

hour was committed to the flames as useless, and the labours of many a

long day called forth reproof, instead of approbation, yet one look at

the care-worn face, or whitening hair of her father, never failed to

check all resentment, and subdue all impatience in her mind. A single

sentence of praise—or the words “Dora,” or “Child,” did more than any,

save a heart so exercised, could conceive; not only could they soothe

her sorrow, but inspire a spirit of exertion, an ambition of tenderness

and duty, that seemed to give her powers before unknown, and surprising

alike to herself and her employer. But neither her ceaseless exertions,

nor her delicate looks, excited praise or attention from her mother and

sisters. Frank alone loved her; but he was already so much improved, and

a boy of so sweet and kindly a temper, as to afford much on which she

could rest for comfort; yet if she appeared to enjoy it in the short

periods of her intercourse with her family, Louisa would accuse her of

making a division in the house. By degrees, however, all other interests

and affairs, (below as well as above,) were merged in the expected

arrival of young Stancliffe, who seemed at length to affect the

frivolous and speculating mind of Mrs. Hemingford, as much as he had

long done that of her husband.

 

Happily the incessant labours of the latter, (or rather those of his

daughter under his controul,) were finished a week or two before it was

possible for him to arrive; and when that event was announced as having

taken place, Mrs. Hemingford also was ready to exhibit her handsome

daughter, in all the habiliments of fashion, if not the agremens of

address; and since the work of conciliation could never be begun too

soon, and Mr. Hemingford was indeed an invalid, as his countenance and

thin spare form abundantly testified, she proposed herself to make the

first friendly call upon him, accompanied by Catharine.

 

Mr. Stancliffe lived a little way out of town, in a pretty house built

by his father, and which had been put in preparation for his reception.

At this time Dora had renewed her lessons to Frank, with whom she spent

the greatest part of her time in a small back parlour; and when the

ladies were set out, she went thither for the purpose of setting him a

copy, and became so absorbed in the task, that a gentleman had entered

the room without being observed by her, until he startled her by

saying—

 

“Really you young ladies alter so much in a few years, that I do not

know whom I have the pleasure of addressing, and am aware that I ought

to apologize for an intrusion I yet cannot repent:—my little friend

Frank, too, is grown surprisingly—I used to call him pet Frank.”

 

“My name is Dora, Sir; I am so much a stranger as to be little known to

my father’s friends.”

 

“Then to you, ma’am, it is necessary, even in this house, to introduce

Everton Stancliffe,” said the gentleman, with an air of graceful

suavity, at once friendly and polite. Dora felt her long cherished

fears subside in a moment.

 

“I was a pet once,” said Frank, with bustling deprecating anxiety; “but

indeed, Sir, I am not so now, for Dora has made me good, because she is

good herself, and quite different to sisters—and she can play

delightfully, though they never allow her to touch the harp; and they

call her Dolly, and sing songs about her.”

 

“Frank!” said Dora authoritatively, and Frank was silent; but his

glistening eyes still spoke her praise, whilst her own were timidly cast

down, and her cheeks covered with the quick succeeding blushes that

praise had elicited.

 

Mr. Stancliffe thought he had never seen any thing half so beautiful as

Dora; for he was