Patience - Barbara Hofland (red novels txt) 📗

possibly do with the money he gave her, an assurance that he

should keep his own accounts, or a volley of oaths accompanying a supply

so trifling as to be mockery to the mistress of such a house. Yet his

own common out-of-door’s expences plainly called for cash of which he

always appeared to have plenty, and therefore though he undoubtedly had

great difficulties in affairs of magnitude, it was evident that he did

not personally encounter those daily wants, those petty, but pressing

grievances, to which he constantly exposed his wife, and which are

undoubtedly a species of trial which subject their victim to

indignities, mortifications, and impositions, of such a nature as to

equalize her situation with that of the wife of the day-labourer, who

literally wants bread. He is unworthy the name of man in either

situation, who voluntarily subjects the woman he has bound himself to

protect to such misery.

 

In the present case, Mr. Stancliffe had not recourse to any of the above

methods of refusal:—after assuming the appearance of deep reverie for

some minutes, he said with that gentleness which never failed to affect

the heart of his wife,

 

“My dear Dora, you must want money for many things, certainly, nor can I

do without it—you must go over to old Blackwell again, and get

something out of him—he will not refuse you.”

 

Dora shook her head, with an air of doubt.

 

“I tell you he will not;—he will see you are again in the family way,

of course increasing my expences; he will be aware that Frank grows

bigger every day, and remember that this year I have no income for

either of you, and—but in short, I want a thousand pounds immediately,

and I will have it.”

 

“Let us go together, my love, and I have no doubt you will obtain it,

although it is certain there could not be a worse time for landed

property to produce it.”

 

“I will not go; I hate that man, and I won’t submit to his prosing

humbug, or answer his impertinent enquiries.”

 

“But I promised him, you know, that”—

 

“Promise! you promise, indeed! what is the promise of a married woman

worth, think you? he is lawyer enough to know that your promise of a

single shilling by no means ensures your powers of payment, and by the

same rule, that your actions and your petitions are equally under my

governance:—you must go, that is resolved; so you may ask the old woman

for a little money, and send William to take you a place in the coach

to”—

 

“Indeed, my dear, that will never do; for the last words Mr. Blackwell

said to me, were the hope that when I came next I should be in my own

carriage.”

 

An outrageous flood of abuse followed this declaration, though made in

the most humble manner, and for the express purpose of facilitating the

errand on which she was sent:—when the ebullition had exhausted its

rage, and the speaker’s strength, he then confessed that “it was

necessary to keep up appearances,” and even proposed, “Frank as her

companion in a post-chaise, as the roads were fine, and with her care

the journey might be as serviceable as amusing to him.”

 

Dora durst not venture on this step, though she felt the want of a

companion, and dreaded leaving behind one who would be unquestionably

considered her representative, in all cases where ill-humour sought a

vent, and required an object. Frank intreated her to keep up her

spirits, gave her his especial promise, “that he would watch the child,

and listen to Mrs. Judith, and take care of every thing;” adding, in a

whisper, “and if my guardian should send me another note, pray take it

yourself, dear Dora.”

 

Dora’s eyes filled with tears, not less of affection than memory, when

she recalled to mind how long it was since the poor boy had received any

pocket money, and how entirely his little store had been expended on her

and her child, to whom he had become attached so fondly, that she

doubted not he would supply her presence to it. She endeavoured, by

thinking on objects so precious, to beguile the way, and gain courage

for an interview which she dreaded, as considering her errand degrading

to her husband, and shrinking from the investigation connected with it,

and the first interview justified the presentiment which had oppressed

her.

 

“Either your husband is doing well, or ill, in the world,” said Mr.

Blackwell sternly, in reply to her application—“if well, he cannot

want money for the support of his family at a time when its claims are

very limited—if ill, it would be folly to throw away more money upon

a losing concern; I feel myself justified, therefore, in adopting the

course I gave you reason to expect I should, in case of a second

application, so irregular and unprecedented.”

 

“Our principal business is doing exceedingly well; the other, though

unproductive, is full of promise, and has ceased to require a farther

capital. I am really warranted in saying this.”

 

“Um—um—yet you evidently labour under an artificial poverty, as

distressing as the sad realities I see around me. I am sorry for it,

but I cannot relieve it; I have already done too much, since it has

answered no end.”

 

Dora started from her seat, her hands clenched, her eyes full of tears,

as her lips almost involuntarily exclaimed,

 

“Surely, dear Sir, you will give me something; I must not—that is, I

cannot”—

 

“Say rather, Mrs. Stancliffe, you dare not; for that is the word

struggling at your heart—you dare not go home again without money.”

 

“Oh, no! indeed, Sir, you mistake,” said Dora, a quick blush passing

over her pallid countenance, and receding as quickly, for she felt

faint, and threw off her shawl.

 

Mr. Blackwell cast his eye over her slight form and somewhat altered

shape—her flushed cheek and fevered lip, bespoke the inward struggle of

a heart resolved to hide its sorrow lest it should betray their author,

yet too deeply moved, and naturally too ingenuous to effect its purpose;

and his soul was touched with the tenderest, the sincerest pity—the

stern accents, the harsh features, ceased to appal her; and her late

alarm was turned into astonishment, on seeing the tears gush from his

eyes, and feeling that he had taken her hand, as he answered,

 

“My poor girl, you shall not be so circumstanced, nor will I wound you

farther by questions which could give me little information—I know more

than enough already, and will give you the money you ask, though it is

very inconvenient and improper.”

 

“God bless you!” exclaimed Dora, as her over-pressed heart took refuge

in tears that would not be forbidden to flow.

 

Mr. Blackwell had been surprised that he could feel so much; but he was

not less so on reviewing the transactions of the day on his pillow, when

he remembered the powers and attractions his guest had displayed, when

her anxiety being eased, and her agitation subsided, she had in

gratitude exerted herself to amuse him through the evening by

conversation, notwithstanding her past fatigue and recent solicitude. In

the warmth of her affectionate description of her brother, her delicate

endeavours to introduce her husband favourably, the playful good-humour

with which she touched on the peculiarities of Mrs. Judith, and the

lively regard with which she adverted to Mrs. Aylmer, she displayed to

him those treasures of the heart and the understanding, (those gems

which are woman’s only valuable treasures,) and which rendered her in

his opinion so attractive, as to leave the husband who could slight her,

much less misuse her, without excuse. The retirement in which he lived

had prevented him happily from hearing many reports; but he had been

displeased with the appearance made on her first visit, was alarmed by

the second, and determined the following spring to investigate further.

Not only the letter, but the spirit, of his guardianship demanded him to

attend to every thing connected with her happiness; and although love

diverted into new channels will not return to refresh the soil it has

deserted, nor can the unkind, or the vicious, be melted by reproof, or

reformed by admonition, yet power to check open misconduct ought to be

used wherever it exists; and since guilt is always cowardly, refractory

spirits may be shamed into quiescence, where they cannot be moulded into

goodness. We may neutralize the acid we cannot sweeten—such was

evidently his duty.

 

Though poor Dora only returned with the precise sum for which she had

been sent, yet her own consciousness of the difficulty she had inwardly

experienced in prosecuting her errand, the pain she had suffered, and

the gratitude she felt, induced her to believe that her husband could

not fail to accept the money with thankfulness and pleasure, that would

have the most beneficial effects on his mind and conduct. She persuaded

herself, that all which had of late been to blame in him had arisen from

uneasiness, which would now subside; and busied herself with various

plans by which Mrs. Judith should be amused without intruding on him,

and looked finally to the arrival of her beloved friend, as an event

which would not fail to place every thing on the happiest footing.

 

Thoughts, it is true, would intrude, which told her “that the first

visions of her heart were dispelled, that she had been deceived in her

estimate of Stancliffe’s character, that her views of happiness were

blighted, her affections misplaced, as well as trampled upon;” but these

thoughts were treated as intruders. Dora struggled against them, prayed

against them, and by turning her mind resolutely to consider the

blessings which she really possessed in her lovely child, and her

interesting brother, she succeeded in dispossessing them, and reached

her home in that happy frame of mind which disposed her to receive her

husband with ardent love, and meet her family with her usual kindness

and complacency.

 

CHAP. IX.

 

When Dora drove up to her own door, she became sensible that the house

was in great confusion, as there were lights in many rooms, and people

running about in all directions.

 

The fears of a mother are easily awakened, and as the little boy was at

that time cutting his teeth, Dora’s mind naturally adverted first to

him; and as soon as she gained admittance, her first enquiry was after

him.

 

“Oh, ma’am! he is quite safe, poor little lamb; but to be sure he has

had such a ‘scape, and for my part I thinks better he had gone poor

thing, than them as must go for his sake.”

 

Before this mysterious speech could be developed by the hearer,

Stancliffe appeared himself, to “curse the housemaid for her blabbing

tongue,” and with much less circumlocution, proceed to elucidate the

matter himself.

 

“Yes, truly, you find us in pretty confusion, for my part I left the

house as soon as I got up, and a fine hunt I find they had after me—did

you find old Blackwell at home?”

 

“I did—all is well there, but what is the matter up-stairs? what has

been the matter?”

 

“Why, as far as I can learn, all went on very comfortably yesterday; but

this morning, the old woman fancied herself dull, and insisted on going

into the nursery, and when there, would needs nurse Everton, who has

cried confoundedly, and in my opinion wants whipping.”—

 

“Good heaven! my dear! whip a babe cutting his teeth?”

 

“Well, what’s his teeth to me? however, that’s not the story; Mrs. Judy

takes it into her head that she could nurse him, and