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

The vanity of

displaying those talents for business he had so long suffered to lie

dormant, unquestionably mingled with a resolution arising from better

motives, and together hurried him into a new species of error which was

of the most painful nature to poor Dora, as she continually foresaw that

when he became most worthy to live, it was probable he would die.

 

She judged but with too much certainty, for in addition to the extreme

weakness contracted by stretching his constitution beyond its powers, he

caught a cold by standing in the large warehouse, which, though slight,

fell with fatal effect on his attenuated frame, and though slow, was

soon sufficiently marked to alarm every person who witnessed its

effects, save the sufferer himself. All confinement was now become so

irksome to him, in consequence of the accession of spirits he had been

sensible of during the late bustle, that his ill-humour again returned;

alas! it was at the best “scaithed, not killed,” for very imperfect were

his ideas of religious self-controul; and every day, and almost every

hour, told Dora that all her work was to do over again, notwithstanding

all that had been suffered or gained.

 

CHAP. XIII.

 

Dora had the satisfaction about this time of seeing Harriett for an hour

or two previous to her setting out for Smyrna, having, by her father’s

direction, joined a respectable person going out as a governess. From

her she learned many particulars respecting Frank’s present state of

health and comforts of the most satisfactory nature, and she endeavoured

strongly to impress on the mind of Harriett such a belief of the

improvement in Stancliffe’s conduct, and such pity for his present

state, as might influence her report of him to her family. The utmost

she could obtain on this head, was a promise to say not a single word

which she could avoid, and Dora felt that with this she ought to be

satisfied, for silence was indeed a great kindness in a case where there

was so much obvious to condemnation. Little as she had known of

Harriett, yet the parting was very painful, for never had she felt so

much the want of a friend to whom she might look for consolation and

assistance, and to whom she could open her heart in perfect confidence

as to its feelings, without adverting personally to her situation. With

Frank alone could she enjoy this—with him, she could reason, or pray,

or weep; and, young as he was, so thoroughly could he enter into her

thoughts, and participate her wishes, and so deeply was his mind embued

with devout feelings and religious knowledge, that he might be said to

perform to her the patriarch’s office, and support the enfeebled hands

stretched out to beg for mercy on another.

 

Short as her absence had been, Stancliffe commented upon it with much

unkindness, but in a manner which implied such an entire dependance upon

her, as to move compassion rather than blame. He had lost his appetite

since his present confinement, more than at any former period, and it

was very difficult to procure any food that could tempt him to eat, yet

he perpetually urged the necessity of doing it, saying, he should never

otherwise recover his strength. As Dora had now only one servant,

besides a little damsel whose duty it was never to quit the apartment of

Mrs. Judith, their food was not always prepared with the attention

necessary to tempt the appetite of an invalid; and although Dora knew

little of the actual duties of a cook, she did her best to obviate these

evils, and became, by care and practice, so far a proficient, that

Stancliffe would not attempt to taste any thing but what she had

prepared. Yet rarely did it happen, that her utmost efforts succeeded;

and when she had satisfied herself the best, and entirely destroyed her

own appetite by bending over a hot fire, with that solicitude peculiar

to a learner, (conscious that a minute too much or too little, may ruin

all her labours) she had, nine times out of ten, the mortification of

seeing her dishes rejected with disgust, and hearing a pathetic

lamentation on the hardships a man experienced who was hungry and had

nothing to eat which he could possibly take.

 

This evil became one of a growing nature, and included another of great

importance in their present situation, that of expense. Stancliffe, laid

upon the sofa, recollected not only what dainties he used to like, but

the places where they might be purchased, and he never failed to send

for them; but aware also of the expense, busied himself no less in

contriving ways and means whereby the necessary expenditure of his

family might be curtailed. He urged Dora to such various duties, and

such a ceaseless round of employment to this end, that although she was

thankful that the loud and angry tone, and the oath which had formerly

shocked her, were discarded, she yet saw that selfishness held its old

place in the heart, and that he who thought nothing too much for

himself, thought every thing too much for her and the aged relative who

contributed to his support. He was truly penitent for grosser sins, and

sincere in his resolutions for the future, should his health be

restored; nor could she doubt that she now held the first place in his

heart, but even the first was a low seat in a region so devoted to

self-love, so blind to duty, so dead to the demands of gratitude and

affection.

 

Again Frank, though distant, became the sharer of her cares, and her

effectual assistant, for the commencement of the shooting season enabled

him to supply his sister pretty constantly with game; and the arrival of

Frank’s baskets, or even the expectation of them, broke agreeably on the

wearisome monotony of Stancliffe’s life, whilst his letters cheered the

heart of Dora. Even the old lady partook this pleasure; for at those

times the invalid was in good humour, admitted her visits, and listened

to her regular quotation from Thompson, beginning at the “whirring wing”

of the partridge, and ending no one knew where.

 

Yet it was observed with mingled feelings of satisfaction, and sorrowful

sympathy, by Dora, that after the first pleasure was past on the receipt

of these presents, Stancliffe usually sunk into deep thought, and by

degrees he happily became more anxious about the donor than his gift,

and the first enquiry was after the letters of Frank—this was succeeded

by the wonder of “how he looks? what he is reading? and whether that

stately old square-toes made him really comfortable?”

 

“It is evident that he does,” Dora would answer, “from the facility with

which he is enabled to prove kindness to us:—poor fellow! how happy

does it make him to do these things, and if he had money, how gladly

would he send that also.”

 

Money was unhappily an object which Dora was compelled to desire, as the

reward given to her husband’s short though efficient services, together

with the payment of Mrs. Judith’s annuity, was long since expended, and

although she continued to receive a salary from Mr. Hazlehurst for

certain writing which she could do in her own house, yet her utmost

economy could not enable her to meet the extraordinary expences incurred

by her husband. Every day increased the pressure on her spirits, and her

health was much affected, yet she struggled incessantly to appear

cheerful, and prevent the settled dejection which now oppressed

Stancliffe, from becoming habitual, and to preserve the old lady in her

usual state of childish enjoyment and supposed importance.

 

Long and melancholy was the winter thus passed; there were no letters

from her father to relieve their pecuniary necessities, no change

occurred to diversify the scene, no friend looked in to cheer them, and

books, those silent but most precious companions, could be rarely

adopted; for poor Dora’s time, when not devoted to the active cares

demanded by her decided invalid, and her elderly charge, was given to

writing tedious translations, which frequently puzzled but never amused

her; and although Stancliffe had generally a book near him, he was

really too poorly, or his mind too much occupied, to derive amusement

from it, or the power of abstracting himself. “Read this to me, Dora,

immediately”—“finish those letters for Hazlehurst”—“warm me this

jelly”—“I wish you would go to the fish-market, directly; every thing I

like will be gone, if you are not quick:” such were the requisitions

which alone varied an existence which it is certain was too busy for

ennu� on her part. When, completely overpowered with toil or anxiety,

she was compelled to take a short respite, Stancliffe always appeared in

much alarm, and shewed her at this period more of that kind attention so

endearing to the heart of woman, than he had done since her bridal

days—it was ever received with thankfulness; but unhappily the eyes of

Dora were opened to her husband’s character, and the general motives

which actuated him; and she feared the value of her life and her

services, not his love or gratitude, were most probably operating in

moments like these. How such fear affects a warm and tender heart,

conscious that it has merited the returns of love, and feeling itself

still capable of full forgiveness of the past, and free confidence for

the future, may be estimated, but can never be described—many a heart

is wrung by it, but few have spoken of the sensation. Dora strove

against these agonizing thoughts, she remembered that there is no state

of mind so dark, but it may be enlightened, so vile, but it may be

purified, so cold and dull, but it may be warmed and quickened.

 

One Sunday morning, when the invalid appeared something better than

usual, she ventured to propose going to church, to which, contrary to

long precedent, he cheerfully assented. As Dora crept along the most

unfrequented streets, almost with the downcast air of a guilty thing,

envying every woman she passed, who leaned on the arm of a husband or

brother, and walked in peace and happiness to partake the blessings of

social worship, she was led to look back to those happy sabbaths of her

early days at Crickhowel, when the sunshine that lighted up the paradise

around her was reflected from the calm devotion, the untroubled peace,

that made a paradise in her bosom. It was the sacrament day, and she

resolved again to partake of that bread and that cup, which might

strengthen her to pass through the “vale of tears” before her; but the

contemplation of this hallowed refreshment brought so strongly to her

mind the recollection of those sublime emotions which affected her the

first time she approached the table of our Lord, that she felt

astonished to think that within seven years any person could be so

altered as she felt herself to be. “A long life seems to have passed

over me,” said Dora to herself; “and the apathy of age, the exhaustion

of the soul, is come upon me—I will, and I can lament my sins, and

listen in humility to exhortation; but to rejoice even in the glad

tidings of salvation is no longer in my power—I may smile in the face

to man, but I cannot lift up my heart in the triumph of holy joy to

God—the last tear of holy rapture has visited my eyes thus early.”

 

Dora was mistaken.

 

We will not presume to speak farther of those aspirations of the

Christian’s soul which in worship, whether private or public, unites the

creature in some measure to the Creator, and gives it a foretaste of

that immortality which has always the blessed effect of rendering our

severest duties easy, and our sharpest sorrows less