Patience - Barbara Hofland (red novels txt) 📗
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left the church, she felt strong and prepared for every trial; but as
she drew nearer home, the recollection of her lengthened absence, the
fear that it should prove the cause of anger and of sin in her husband,
the consciousness that not only his new-born virtues, but his life, hung
on a slender thread, and the solicitude she felt to preserve and cherish
both, filled her with anxiety; and although one moment she trusted her
prayers would be heard, the next she trembled for the consequences of
her conduct.
Such must ever be the feelings of a married woman so circumstanced, and
her dependance should be a matter of serious consideration to him who
holds in his power a responsibility so awful: to the great relief of
Dora, at present her little household were all in a tranquil state, her
husband received her without any comment, and after informing her that
he had taken some blanc mange, began again to turn over the leaves of a
large Bible, which lay on the table before the great chair in which he
now always sat.
“I have had two visits from my aunt during your absence, (for really the
time seemed very long;) poor woman, she is worse than ever, she repeated
the same words over each time, again and again—I must own they struck
me much, and I am looking in the Bible for them; I suppose they are
there, but I am not certain.”
“Do you recollect them, my dear?”
“I cannot forget them—she said perpetually, ‘tho’ woo’d, chastized, a
flagrant rebel still.’”
“They are in Young’s Night Thoughts—he speaks of man as disobedient to
his Creator, and says, he is,
‘Tho’ woo’d, chastized, a flagrant rebel still,
A rebel—to the thunders of his throne,
A rebel—to the pleadings of his love.’—
I will find you the passage.”
“Don’t trouble yourself—it has given me food for reflection—I am that
rebel, if ever man was, for I have rebelled alike against mercy and
judgment; goodness has not drawn me—suffering has not warned me—no one
has had more to be thankful for, and few, very few, have been less
grateful.”
Dora did not answer, for her heart was too full to speak—she could not,
she durst not, contradict this short, true statement, of his past
conduct; she knew that to “speak peace, when there is no peace,” is
cruelty in the garb of kindness; yet pity, commiseration, tenderness,
penetrated her heart for him, and had the precepts of her faith admitted
the idea, there was no pains she could not have endured, no action she
could not have performed, to render his penitence availing.
“What is the conclusion given to this passage?” said Stancliffe, after a
long pause—“yes! find it for me, Dora—yet I know not whether I am now
able, or whether reading or thinking will do me any good—how much I
have thought, how deeply I have lamented, God only knows; yet I fear I
am just what I was!”
“I will read the Gospels to you, my dear; it is only in the New
Testament that we can find rest to our souls, under the burthen of
conscious guilt.”
“I must read for myself,” was the reply, followed by profound silence;
and Dora feared to break in upon a salutary train of thought even by
good words—slow as was his progress, frequent as were the relapses of a
mind so blind to the higher duties, and so devoid of the sensibilities
of a Christian, it was yet to her a constant consolation that Stancliffe
had never sought to deaden the reproaches of his conscience by recurring
to the arguments of infidelity, or denying his responsibility at the
great tribunal which he evidently approached with just alarm, and an
increasing sense of his own unworthiness not only in deed but in
thought.
The time arrived at length when she might say, “behold, he
prayeth:”—need we say of such a wife, that she prayed with him, and for
him; that she watched over him with the fond broodings of the parent
bird over its half-fledged young, happy when at length her holy
solicitude prevailed upon him to conquer false shame, and lingering
pride, so far as to admit the visits of a clergyman in their
neighbourhood, who kindly entered his chamber as a friend, and exercised
the duties of a pastor day after day, during the succeeding winter.
Stancliffe, sensible that the actions of a repentant sinner are the
only sure criterion of his sincerity, was deeply troubled that the state
of his health prevented him from proving his humility, faith, and
virtuous intentions. Dora soothed him in this, by an assurance “that
submission to this infliction was in itself no little proof of obedience
in a mind so subject to all extremes;” she told him, “that patience
included a self-subjugation, which required the aid of many Christian
virtues, and in his state, humble endurance, and cheerful acquiescence,
was required in lieu of more active virtues.”
“But there are some things I must do, weak as I am—Dora! Dora! by all
your past unequalled patience, think what it is which I would do! which
I ought to do! speak for me to your own kind heart.”
“I blame myself much for not having done so before; but, alas! your
sufferings have at times been so great, I feared to awaken them—Alice
is a mother; she has been comfortably provided for, and has recovered
her health; Frank’s pocket-money, and my ornaments, provided the means.”
“And if I die, Dora, you will not suffer a poor wretch to lay not only
his birth, but the sins of his unprotected youth, to my long and
terrible account? Oh! if you knew how this thought haunts me”—
“I beseech you to be quite easy on this head—why did you suffer it to
haunt you, Everton?”
“Why, indeed!—I ought to have known and trusted you—but mine, Dora,
has been a cold, selfish heart, and it cannot easily comprehend the
conduct and the feelings of a better—I see it all now—my parents
indulged me till I fancied all things should yield to my will; and as
far as I was able, it has been the business of my life to make
them—there lay the great evil—thence arose the pride, the sin, the
anger, the cruelty of my nature.”
At this period, poor Mrs. Judith was seized with a paralytic affection,
and after a few days’ confinement, sunk, without struggle or pain, into
the grave. Though her speech and her limbs were affected, she was
evidently sensible, and looked for Dora’s attendance in the most anxious
and affecting manner. Stancliffe evinced the sincerity of his repentance
at this time in a striking manner, for he entirely resigned Dora to the
sick room of his aunt, although her absolute necessity for his
happiness, and his personal comforts, had never been half so great, and
the presence of death in the house was in itself an affecting
circumstance. Mrs. Judith left no will, and of course her property
devolved to Stancliffe: his first observation upon the subject was, “we
will devise a legacy for her, Dora, to the Miss Lawrences.”
During Mrs. Judith’s illness, Mr. Sydenham came to Liverpool, and was
received with as much pleasure by Stancliffe as could be experienced by
one whose mind was so perpetually employed on the most awful subjects,
and harrassed by conflicts with his own feelings and propensities, which
much pain and weakness rendered him little able to bear. It is not on
the bed of death, amid the flutterings of a fevered pulse, the weariness
of aching limbs, trembling nerves, a confused brain, and an enfeebled
mind, that man should enter on the duties of examining his heart,
reforming its errors, and “preparing to meet his God:” one was “called
at the eleventh hour,” that no one might utterly despair, but only
one—therefore none should presume.
With Sydenham, Stancliffe held many long and affecting conversations,
when his rapidly increasing weakness permitted it; and in consequence of
his request, after Mrs. Judith’s funeral, that gentleman set out for
Frank. A desire to see him had been the single point in which Dora had
failed to indulge the invalid, judging that the interview would be too
affecting to them both, and perceiving also that Stancliffe’s weakness
now rendered him subject to slight delirium, which she exceedingly
dreaded to increase.
It was a satisfaction to Dora to see Frank, though very pale, yet much
stronger than he used to be, for the country had agreed with him; and
though he had thought much of his sister, the daily sight of her trials
had not pressed upon his spirits as they used to do, and he was aware
that her present afflictions were relieved greatly to her from the hope
which accompanied them. When he approached Stancliffe, to his painful
surprise, a faint hectic rose to the cheek of the patient, and he looked
disturbed and alarmed.
“Do you not know me, dear Everton? it is Frank, whom you wished for, and
expected to see; your brother Frank.”
“Then you are not dead! give me your hand!” Frank took that thin wasted
hand, and pressed it to his lips, and Stancliffe became soon more
composed, though he remained silent—by degrees resuming his memory, and
silently wiping away the tears that slowly filled his glistening eyes.
From this time he could not bear Frank out his sight, yet he urged both
him and Dora to relieve each other. Sydenham was again absent, but he
returned soon, accompanied by Mrs. Aylmer; after which, he was obliged
to set out to the continent with his father.
Dora was thankful for the presence of her friend, but apprehending that
her arrival might agitate the invalid, she would not have mentioned it
if Sydenham had not done it, in accounting for his own unwonted
desertion of the sick room, on taking leave of him.
“I am glad she is come—very glad,” said Stancliffe; “she is a good
woman, I had need have such about me—how many mercies are granted me,
who deserve only punishment—I do not understand this, it distresses and
alarms me.”
Frank endeavoured to soothe him; he spoke of the goodness of God, the
perfection of redeeming grace, the efficacy of repentance, and
faith:—there was an eager grasping of the mind after the hope thus
offered, but the wandering intellect, the deeply troubled conscience,
the pain-worn body, refused repose—the quick glancing, the troubled
tossing, the anxious sighing, told the sympathising comforter that his
labour was in vain.
“Mrs. Aylmer!—where is Mrs. Aylmer?” said the invalid, hastily.
She came immediately up-stairs, and approached him with that
compassionate air his present deplorable condition inspired.
“Forgive—forgive me for using Dora, your Dora, so ill—take her again
to your heart—your home—restore her—comfort her—do not lose sight of
her again.”
“I will not,” said Mrs. Aylmer, with solemn earnestness.
“But do not teach her to forget me—not quite forget me—no! my heart
cannot yield that—‘tis a selfish heart yet—very selfish—very hard,
even now—‘a rebel still.’”
“Do not say any more, my love, just now,” said Dora, putting her arm
under his head, to assist his breathing, which was short and difficult.
“Yes, yes, I must speak—I must conquer—dear Mrs. Aylmer—in
time—prevail on her to think of Sydenham—he is good and—I can say no
more—I have made my sacrifice, none of you can tell what it has cost
me.”
His head sunk on Dora’s shoulder, and she thought he had fainted; but in
another moment there was a convulsive motion of the whole body, and in a
thick altered voice he cried hastily, “Dora! Frank! where are you? pray
for
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