Patience by Barbara Hofland (ebook offline reader .TXT) 📖

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Title: Patience, a Tale

Author: Hofland, Barbara (1770-1844)

Illustrator: Burney, Edward Francisco (1760-1848)

Date of first publication: 1824

Edition used as base for this ebook:

London: Arthur Hall, Virtue and Co., [January 1856:

date of publisher’s catalogue bound in with the book]

Date first posted: 3 September 2010

Date last updated: 3 September 2010

Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #607

 

This ebook was produced by:

David Edwards, woodie4

& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team

at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

 

This file was produced from images generously made

available by the Internet Archive/American Libraries

 

PATIENCE.

 

[Illustration: _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 into his cheek—“he loves me,” said Dora_. Page 99]

 

PATIENCE.

 

A TALE

 

BY

 

Mrs. Hofland.

 

AUTHOR OF

 

_Africa Described. Integrity. Decision.

Moderation. Reflection. Self-Denial.

Clergyman’s Widow. &c. &c._

 

“Let Patience have her perfect work.”

 

St. PAUL.

 

A New Edition.

 

LONDON.

ARTHUR HALL, VIRTUE & C^o

25, PATERNOSTER ROW.

 

PATIENCE.

 

A TALE.

 

CHAPTER I.

 

“I think dear Miss Hemingford cannot be well to-night, she looks

sometimes pale, and sometimes flushed, and has walked up and down that

espalier walk this half hour—what can be the matter with her, Mrs.

Aylmer?”

 

The lady to whom this enquiry was addressed, well knew that it was made

from the kindest motives; she therefore replied,—

 

“Dora and myself, Mrs. Longden, are alike in a state of great anxiety,

on the subject of a letter we expect to-night from her parents, to whom

I have written, requesting their permission to take her with me to the

south of France, to which place, you know, I am ordered, for the benefit

of my health.”

 

“If you could entertain a doubt of their ready acquiescence, you might

well be anxious; but surely it is impossible they could think of

removing her from you at that time, when your health requires the care

of an affectionate and grateful daughter?”

 

“I hope they will not,—yet some of their late letters have indicated

such an intention; and so material a change in my residence may have a

tendency to confirm a wavering resolution.”

 

“In my opinion,” replied the good neighbour, “they will act most

ungratefully towards you, and cruelly towards her, if they divide

you;—you have reared her from infancy,—nursed her from a sickly

plant, into a blooming flower, and—”

 

Mrs. Longden spoke warmly, for she was really moved; but perceiving that

her auditor, who was but slowly recovering from a severe illness, became

too much affected, she checked herself, and after a pause, added in a

soothing tone—

 

“To be sure, if you are obliged to part, you will have the advantage of

being with the Sydenhams, who are the best people in the world;—and

she, poor girl, will, I hope, bear the trial well; she is of such a

sweet temper, such a patient disposition.”

 

“Dora is, indeed, of a sweet temper, Mrs. Longden, and has great

patience, considering that her sensibility is so acute as to render

equanimity difficult. She is gentle, loving, full of kindness, and so

utterly devoid of selfishness, that she may be said to live in, and for,

her fellow-creatures; she will, therefore, doubtless, exercise

self-controul for the sake of others, and whatever she may feel, will

not complain.”

 

“There is a principle of Patience,” continued Mrs. Aylmer, in a subdued

and solemn voice, “founded on more awful and affecting views,—the

patience of a Christian,—the submissive resignation of a humble soul,

which receives sorrow, injustice, and offence, as the chastisements of a

heavenly Father;—this higher, purer, gospel-planted patience, I hope my

Dora is not devoid of; but the quiet tenor of our lives has not hitherto

called it into action:—should she enter the world without me by her

side, I fear she may too soon be called upon to practise it.”

 

At this moment the subject of her remarks entered the room, to invite

them to walk in the garden, and see the setting sun throw his parting

rays upon the rippling Usk, on whose banks they dwelt; but Mrs. Longden,

aware that the moments were now precious, took leave. Mrs. Aylmer, after

due wrapping up, accepted her young friend’s arm, less to partake of

pleasure than to evade solicitude.

 

As it was a period full of tender recollections, and awakened feelings

to these friends, one of whom was still a handsome, though delicate

woman in middle life; the other a tall, slender, half-formed girl, in

her eighteenth year, with much about her that indicated the seclusion of

a country girl, combined with the mind and manners of a

gentlewoman—the promise of future elegance, in addition to existing

beauty: we will take the present time for introducing them more

intimately to our readers.

 

CHAP. II.

 

Mr. Hemingford was a merchant in Liverpool, and married in his thirtieth

year, a very pretty girl under twenty. Circumstances had made her the

intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Aylmer, who was a few years her senior,

and who was married at the same time to a clergyman to whom she had been

long engaged.

 

The first couple resembled thousands beside them; they were very fond of

each other during the honey moon, and pretty well afterwards.—The

gentleman pushed his fortune in the counting-house, the lady exhibited

the fruits of his industry in her drawing-room. The second couple were

of a very distinct character, their affection was a bond of union that

controuled and attuned every motion of their spirits, and they lived but

for each other, and those to whom their duty attached them.

 

In the second year of his married life, Mr. Aylmer was cut off by a

short illness, contracted by visiting a sick parishioner; he left a

widow, on whose distress it is unnecessary to dilate, since it would be

impossible to describe, with only one little girl.

 

In a few months, the child died also; and she was shortly afterwards

summoned to attend the death-bed of her only relative, who, in leaving

her his property, restored her to that place in society the early death

of her husband had deprived her of, and brought her again to Liverpool.

 

Mr. Hemingford aided her in settling her affairs, and his wife received

her with much pleasure and kindness:—she was now the mother of three

girls; but the widow perceived with pain, that notwithstanding her

maternal character, she was still a laughing, giddy creature, whose

greatest pleasure arose from wheedling or cheating her husband out of

some childish amusement, or expensive bauble. He was become morose, and

ungracious in his manners, and foolishly allowed himself to be

exceedingly mortified that his wife had not given him a boy, observing,

“that his eldest girl was certainly a very fine child, and almost as

good as a boy; but the second was a poor creature, and the youngest he

considered as nothing at all.”

 

Mrs. Hemingford, on the birth of her second girl, had sought to remedy

her unintentional fault, by inviting a very distant relation of her own

to become its godmother, who was rich and unconnected. The lady

consented, on condition of giving the child her own name, to which the

mother unhappily consented; for as Mrs. Dorothy Downe happened to be a

person of singular manners, and very unpleasant to Mr. Hemingford, it

was certainly a pity that he should be thus continually reminded of her.

The child was baptized by both these names; and although a third was

added, in order to reconcile the father, he persisted in calling the

child only “Dolly,” to provoke his wife, who thought proper to adopt

that of Dorothea, observing, “it was equally proper and much prettier.”

 

Whether it arose from the frequent disputes of which she was the

innocent cause, or the preference constantly given to her elder sister,

we know not; but it is certain that this child, though in good health,

looked pale, and that she was timid, and silent, as if some interdict

had been passed upon her; whilst a single word, a look of kindness, was

received by her with such a bounding heart, and sparkling eye, as to

render her not only more interesting, but actually more beautiful, than

her handsome sister.

 

Mrs. Aylmer had been long accustomed to a delicate child;—her heart,

though bowed by sorrow, was full of kindness; and she soon found the

little neglected child the most attractive person in her father’s

establishment, although one which might be easily detached from it

without pain to either party. On this subject she thought long, and

weighed it duly; but as the “little strong embrace” was wound more

closely round her heart every day, at length she proposed taking the

child, (whom she had hitherto called Dora,) to the sea-side, as a

probable means of strengthening her.

 

The offer was joyfully accepted, and they set out for Swansea; but as

Mrs. Aylmer had an unfortunate freedom from all ties of relationship

which might influence her choice of a home, she eventually fixed upon a

residence in the delightful village of Crickhowel, in South Wales, which

combined with every beauty of situation, a small, but valuable circle of

society.

 

From this period, her name, her home, the indefinable something, which

had oppressed her infant spirits, were alike forgotten:—she had not

only the advantages of maternal tenderness continually exerted for her

benefit, but that unrestrained freedom which renders the country a

paradise to children. Green fields, in which to run with the lambs;

gardens, in which to plant flowers and gather them; chickens to feed and

to love;—little children to visit and help; little companions to expect

and to play with; heart, hands, and mind, were in daily exercise.

 

“Thus passed her time, a clear, unruffled stream;” by no means disturbed

by messages from home, towards which it was yet so much the care of Mrs.

Aylmer to direct her views, and excite her affections, that there is no

doubt Dora felt a very sincere regard for her parents, and a great

desire to know and love her sisters; and she would have had that

pleasure in the course of the last fourteen years undoubtedly, if her

mother had not intended, from time to time, to visit Mrs. Aylmer. The

excuses she found it necessary to make were strong ones, as during this

period she had been the mother of seven more children, of whom two only

survived: six of them had been boys, but it appeared that an uncommon

delicacy had affected all her infants of this sex; and the one whom she

still preserved, was a subject of continual