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

oldest and best friend,

one whom as a child he had loved “and borne on his back a thousand

times,” thus situated, without being penetrated with the sincerest pity;

and the sight of his tall commanding form, the flash of his eye, as he

stepped forward to rescue the victim, inspired silence and awe. After

driving to his inn, he procured a surgeon, by whom Stancliffe was bled,

and consigned to a low regimen, during which time his papers were

examined, and the securities not yet turned into cash preserved; and Mr.

Hemingford not knowing the real situation of his affairs, therefore

concluded that he had been the mere loser of loose cash taken from home

for his expences.

 

Even under this persuasion, Mr. Hemingford felt it his duty to impress

upon Stancliffe’s mind the utter ruin of character and property his

conduct must lead to, and press him to promise, and legally bind

himself, to abstain for ever from such pursuits; and under the

consciousness that he had actually thrown away almost three thousand

pounds, the sum he had originally advanced to Mr. Masterman, he became

so depressed as to yield unquestioning assent to every proposition.

Using the pretext of illness for declining all conversation not

immediately necessary, he yet agreed to travel as soon as Mr. Hemingford

was ready, and they proceeded homeward accordingly, both parties

probably relieved by the presence of Harriett, whose many enquiries, and

artless exhibition of pleasure, relieved the tedium of their journey.

 

From the time Stancliffe had established himself in his own bed, his

harrassed mind began to take repose, it was the sanctum where he

admitted no intruder,—the solitude, where “a ministering angel”

supplied his wants, endured his rebukes, or soothed his

self-upbraidings, assisted his plans of improvement, and revived his

hopes for the future.

 

Mr. Hemingford, too busy to waste time in fruitless messages, and

unheeded expostulation, took his old station in the counting-house,

busied in preparing himself to return with a large cargo, happy in that

he could, from time to time, gaze on the face of his son, assign him

some easy task, and remark with delighted admiration, on his

improvement. His evening hours were claimed by many old friends, and the

company of Harriet was so frequently sought by the companions of her

childhood, that Dora was enabled to give every moment of her time to her

husband, her child, and Mrs. Judy; but as each required or desired it

all, she had constant uneasiness in the distribution.

 

At length all things were ready for Mr. Hemingford’s departure, and Dora

hoped that her invalid husband would exert himself to bid him farewell;

but this he positively refused, although he sent a kind message, and a

proposal of exchanging situations with him the following year, provided

his health permitted it.

 

“That is out of the question,” replied the father, “for a constitution

was never yet found, which could resist the system of slow but certain

suicide, he has adopted:—but when I am gone, he will be better, I

trust; and since we have destroyed our worst enemy, all things may come

round. I have heard much, and seen a good deal too, of what time and

patience may do, so I hope you won’t despair, Dora;—only remember this,

that when I am gone, you must see after things—my sleeping partner

must have an active representative; at the end of my term you will have

a double release, so keep up your spirits.”

 

Mr. Hemingford uttered this farewel exhortation in the hearing of Mrs.

Aylmer; and when he was set out, accompanied by his youngest children,

who hung round him to the last moment, Dora, wiping her eyes, looked

wistfully in the face of her best friend, and said,

 

“I am willing to do all in my power, but surely Stancliffe will soon be

better!—it is hope alone which can enable me to increase my duties.”

 

“But, my dear child, you must not live on hope, for it will only lead to

disappointment; remember constantly, that though duty and prudence

prescribe the best means of securing earthly happiness, and that

forsaking their dictates never fails to produce misery—yet this is not

the Christian’s rest; it is the scene of his trial, not of his

reward—in early life, hope is indeed the natural stimulus for all

exertion; and patient expectation of good will enable us to endure much

evil—but those who “continue in well-doing and faint not,” because they

receive all trials as preparatives for another state of being—who hold

them as purifiers, and receive them not as from man, but God, are less

liable to the agony of disappointment, and the weariness, the soul

sickness, which arises from hope deferred.

 

“Ah!” exclaimed Dora, “but how can my heart ascend to heaven and

expatiate on its future happiness so long as it takes not my husband in

its flight? I am compelled to live in hope, that I may enjoy the

blessings of faith, for are we not one? must we not be one for

ever?”

 

“That must depend on himself, not you—the ties of marriage are sacred

and strong, but not indissoluble, even in this world; still less can

they be carried into another—to deem them eternal, to look to their

re-union, is indeed the greatest, sweetest, contemplation of the

bereaved heart; but if it is denied, we must not murmur, since we know

it can be abundantly supplied to us.”

 

“True; but surely we should struggle hard and long, ere we resigned the

hope to snatch from perdition, to win to virtue, one so closely bound:

seventy times seven should the erring brother be forgiven and ‘drawn

with the cords of love.’—To man belongs the glory and the reward, of

turning many to righteousness; but since woman can only move in the

narrow circle of her own family, she ought to make up in perseverance

what she wants in extent; and since the use of remonstrance and

exhortation are denied, she should preach by example, and by

forbearance, submission, and godly sincerity, so impress her husband’s

mind, that he may be led to seek the same fold and the same shepherd

with herself.”

 

“It is certainly right that every woman should so endeavour, and so act,

Dora; for I consider it a positive fact, that woman will never attain

the blessings you speak of by any other means; but since man ought to be

her guide, as he is her head, in general there is little reason to

expect that he who is neither led by love, nor bound by duty, will be

moved much by example he never studies, and with which he has no

sympathy—but it is certain we should ‘pray and faint not;’ therefore go

on, my love, and may your reward be abundant.”

 

CHAP. XI.

 

After Mr. Hemingford had set out, and that pressure of business had

subsided, which he had caused, Mrs. Aylmer hoped to enjoy a little of

the society of Dora, which she had yet caught only by starts; for as

after the strictest enquiry from his medical attendant, she found that

Mr. Stancliffe had no complaint to which a name could be given, she

concluded that he would leave his chamber now the person had departed

whose presence from personal dislike or other cause had annoyed him.

This circumstance not taking place, and Dora being so closely confined,

from her attendance on him, as to render all easy intercourse

impracticable, she took her departure for Crickhowel, but had not

decided on remaining there. Although unenlightened on the particular

state of her beloved young friend’s actual situation, she unavoidably

saw so much of suffering in it, as to render her uncertain whether it

was best to fix her residence near her or not.

 

At the name of Crickhowel the eyes of Dora filled with tears, she

eagerly wished “she could see it once more;” and she began to speak of

her youthful companions, her happy occupations—suddenly stopping, she

exclaimed, “I must not dare to think on these subjects, they would

lead me out of the path in which I am called to walk; but yet I would

not be quite forgotten by those who used to love me—the Sydenhams’.”

 

“They will continue to love you, Dora,—some of them”—Mrs. Aylmer had

nearly dropt the words “too well;” but she did not, and changing the

conversation, she accepted from Dora, (poor as she was,) various little

presents for her old neighbours and Sunday scholars, and forced upon her

with a parental command, a present in money which she but too evidently

had occasion for, and would have accepted with more ease, if she had not

been conscious of wanting it, and felt that in that want, was a reproach

to him on whom she could not endure that blame should rest.

 

Bitter as was the pang of parting, yet Dora believed that Stancliffe

would exert himself when a person was gone, whom he always appeared to

consider in the light of a parent or future benefactor, whom he feared

to offend, lest his interest should suffer, but was too proud to

conciliate from a false conception of her character, which was full of

kindness and indulgence. In this respect, however, Dora found herself

mistaken; Stancliffe turned a deaf ear alike to her suggestions and

those of his medical attendant, who pressed him to remove to country

lodgings, use gentle exercise, and step by degrees back again into the

world which he had now quitted for the space of three long months—the

victim in fact of shame, sullenness, and self-reproach, aided by

indolence and that tyranny of temper, which found great powers of

self-indulgence in a situation which forbade the approach of all who

were not in a state of servitude or dependance.

 

It will be easily supposed that in this situation Stancliffe soon

completely lost his appetite, that he became pale, emaciated, and

nervous; and that excluding himself from the usual topics of

conversation and subjects of interest, he was naturally thrown upon

recollections of the most painful kind, which in his present

disposition, failed to awaken the sorrows of a penitent heart, but

renewed perpetually the irritation of temper which in his state of

self-subjugated health, was seriously injurious to him. When his wife

had parted from her father and her friend, he then told her fully all

his losses by play, the “ill usage and the ill luck” which had attended

him, and in “fighting all his battles o’er again,” frequently worked

himself into a state of agitation so terrible, as to render him an

object of the sincerest pity to a heart so tender as that of Dora. At

such moments, she would weep over, embrace him, re-assure him by every

motive which could suggest consolation, or awaken hope; and there were

times when he appeared moved by her tenderness, and aware that

notwithstanding what he termed his misfortunes, no man could have

escaped with lighter punishment for heavy sins. He well knew that in a

great commercial town like that which he inhabited, the conduct of any

individual occupies but short attention, that the house of which he was

the first partner was in high credit, and flourishing circumstances, and

that as he had had no open breach with his partner on his late visit,

but on the contrary they had travelled together in friendly and family

compact, there appeared always a power of stepping out of his nominal

sick room without attracting attention, or exciting observation. But in

vain did his own mind suggest, or Dora in the gentlest manner display

these advantages; he allowed them, but from caprice, indolence,

irresolution, which were now indeed aided by bodily weakness, he

continued in his chamber.

 

One point at length Dora gained, which was that of admitting