Patience - Barbara Hofland (red novels txt) 📗

business of her life; and it would be unjust to deny her the praise of

due proficiency in her studies. They had, however, had the farther

effect of transplanting the cares of life, and the pressure of time,

from her own face to that of her husband; since it was evident that Mr.

Hemingford looked much older than he really was, and that, contrary to

custom, the difference in their age, which appeared slight on their

marriage, was now become remarkable.

As soon as Dora sate down, her mother turned from her to describe, by

the aid of a corner of the table cloth, a new trimming to her guest; and

Mr. Hemingford exclaimed, as if in surprise, and displeasure, “Dolly,

what makes you out of mourning?” “Dear me, Mr. Hemingford, how can you

ask such a question? don’t you remember we agreed to say nothing to her

about—why, my dear, what was Mr. Stancliffe to her? you forget yourself

strangely.” “I did; you are right, but she must have a black gown now

she is here.”

“Lend her one of yours, my dear Catharine, and try to make her look

decent, poor thing:—but one could not expect she should be like you,”

said the mother, in a coaxing, tone to her eldest daughter.

Catharine rose with an air of haughty nonchalance, which rather

indicated condescension than obedience; she was tall, handsome, and

fully aware of her advantages, having been flattered from her cradle by

the mother:—it was in vain that Dora sought to render her sensible of

the love which she had ever cherished for her, or indeed to enter into

conversation with her on any terms. Cold answers, and supercilious

looks, seemed to throw her affections back upon herself, and she felt

more forlorn than she had done on the preceding day, for then she had

something for which to hope:—ah! how different was the world on which

she had entered, from that which she had left! how solitary was the gay

and busy town, when compared with the silent vale, and the lofty

mountains, which sheltered the only companion she had ever known.

Indeed it soon appeared, that although Mrs. Hemingford was a gay woman,

and continually engaged either in visiting, receiving, or preparing for

company, it was no part of her plan to admit Dora either to sharing her

enjoyments, or partaking even the exercise necessary for her health; for

it was not until the succeeding Sunday that she was able to leave the

house. She then accompanied her father and Louisa to church, it is true;

but alas! the Sunday was nearly as much without religion, as the week

had been without comfort. The morning was all bustle, the evening all

dulness—her mother talked about nothing but flounces, and glass dishes;

her father about keeping his ledger, and writing foreign

letters:—books were never spoken of; all reference to the day, the

sermon, the subjects connected with religion, were carefully avoided.

Poor Dora remembered her late beloved pastor, her Sunday scholars, her

dear associates, and above all, her beloved maternal friend, and her

heart sunk within her.

Frank alone kept up her spirits, which were not merely chilled by an

ungenial atmosphere, in which her heart could not expand, but also by

constant active unkindness on the part of her sisters, perfect apathy

from her mother, who was indeed a thing without a heart, and moroseness

in her father, which was yet least oppressive, because it evidently

proceeded in a great measure from some unknown cause of uneasiness which

preyed on his constitution, and affected his temper. These parties all

by turns quarrelled with each other; but in general the mother and her

daughters made a strong side against the father; but let matters go as

they might, in joy or sorrow, she was never treated as one of the

family:—naturally communicative, because full of sensibility and

frankness, with a highly cultivated mind and vivid fancy, she was

compelled to an unnatural silence, and every effort she made to prove

affection, was treated with contempt that chilled, or ill-humour that

wounded her. Services were exacted from her as if she had been the

general servant of the family, and it appeared a settled point that she

should undertake all the trouble of Frank’s education yet she was

frequently upbraided as one who considered herself superior to the rest

of her family, and arrogated to herself importance on the score of

fortune. These accusations were not only false and cruel, but mysterious

at times to Dora; but she soon forgot them in the quickly succeeding

vexation.

When she had been thus situated about a month, Dora was one evening

surprised by a visit from Arthur Sydenham, the eldest son of that family

with whom Mrs. Aylmer was now happily domesticated. Dora could not fail

to see him with pleasure which amounted to agitation; yet she had not

forgotten that Arthur was the only person in his family who had not

lamented her disappointment;—nor had she recollected the possibility

that as he was himself destined to remain in England, it was possible

that he might rejoice that they should continue near each other. For

Arthur, Dora had felt the most lively regard, almost affection, ever

since she remembered any thing;—she considered herself in the light of

a sister to him, and was in hopes that he had an equal regard for

her:—of a feeling beyond this she had no idea at this time; but poor

Arthur had. He had also a strong impression of the duties he owed to his

family, what was expected of him from an excellent father, and demanded

by his situation in life, as the eldest son of a younger brother.

Mrs. Hemingford expressed great pleasure in seeing him, talked

incessantly of French silks and flowers, but scarcely made, or

permitted, enquiry after Mrs. Aylmer. She spoke of meeting with his

uncle, Sir Lloyd Sydenham, at Blackpool, enquired his destination, his

College, and almost his expectations from his uncle, the baronet; but

she neither adverted, nor permitted him to advert, to the pale looks and

altered air of Dora, whom he perceived to be indeed a stranger in her

father’s house; and whilst his heart ached, yet overflowed with

tenderness towards her, he had the additional sorrow of being impressed

with the full persuasion, that his uncle would never consent to any

near connection with such a person as Mrs. Hemingford.

Arthur Sydenham departed under such evident depression of spirits, that

Dora was affected by it; and her sisters, mistaking the cause, sneered

at her, even before he was out of hearing, so indelicately, as to awaken

the indignation of poor Frank, who was rewarded for his interference by

a box on the ear, the first blow he had ever received in his life; it

was therefore no wonder that he screamed aloud, and that even Mrs.

Hemingford was withdrawn from her eager contemplation of the little

parcel Mr. Sydenham had conveyed to Dora.

“Dear me, Catharine, what have you done? why did you strike the child?

when you don’t know but a blow may be his death, and are aware what a

loss it would be to the family:—don’t cry, Frank, my love.—God bless

me, if his father were to hear him, we should all be ruined.”

“But he shan’t hear me,” said Frank, suddenly stopping,—“I will be like

Dora, and that will please her. I know if I am good, she will be so

happy, so I won’t cry any more.”

The heart of Catharine was touched, and she resolved on a change in her

conduct towards Dora, to whom she was well aware they were all indebted

for great improvement in the manners of the little spoiled, though good

tempered boy:—before she had time to speak on the subject, Mr.

Hemingford entered the room, evidently so ill, or so unhappy, as to be

incapable of noticing the red cheek, or eyes, even of his darling.

Thoughtless as his wife had ever been, and self-willed as were his

daughters, yet they were aware of his value to themselves at least, and

in great alarm they now crowded around him, asking various questions he

was incapable of answering, and offering cordials he had not the power

to swallow:—the apothecary was sent for, the patient put to bed, and

the whole house a scene of confusion.

By degrees this alarm subsided, and the parties observing to each other,

“that he was only taken the same as he had been before,” appeared to

dismiss the case as one of no moment; and Mrs. Hemingford turned over

the patient to Dora, on the supposition that she must have become a good

nurse—that she could sit up with her father, and take the cook to wait

upon her, and do every thing very well.

Dora entered on this office willingly, but fearfully, for she was aware

of the deficiency of her knowledge, and the importance of the charge. In

the course of the night, she became sensible, however, that the disease

lay principally on the mind of the patient, and that he had received

some shock in his business which had produced all his complaints, a

situation which awakened her sincerest sympathy.

On Mrs. Hemingford’s appearance she very naturally enquired into the

circumstances which had overwhelmed him so much, but at the same time

observed, “that Dora could leave the room.”

“Nonsense,” exclaimed the sick man, “she is a good girl, and may, and

must be trusted. Who can I look to for help but her? is there any of you

that would have sate by me all night as she has done?—no, no, she shall

know every thing.”

“Not every thing, Mr. Hemingford, not every thing, surely!”

“Well, well,—I know what I am about; my present business is to

prepare—to prepare, I say, for the arrival of Everton Stancliffe.”

“Everton Stancliffe!” exclaimed Mrs. Hemingford, her colour forsaking

her cheeks.

“Even so, Mrs. Hemingford; and if announcing his return half kills a

man, I leave you to judge the effect of his appearance:—however, I must

do the best I can—I have been thinking the whole night about it, and

have made up my mind how to act; he will find an embarrassed partner,

but not embarrassed accounts:—all my sins, or rather yours, shall be

self-evident, and he must then act as he pleases.”

Whilst Mr. Hemingford spoke, a clerk he had previously sent for entered

the room with many large books under his arm, and the materials for

writing in his hands, a sight which instantly put to flight all Mrs.

Hemingford’s late terrors; for although they were of no less serious

import than the dread of poverty and disgrace, she exchanged them with

wondrous facility for the dread of littered rooms and ink spots on the

carpets, and concluded with wishing “she had never come into the room,

for it had altogether given her the horrors.”

The husband commanded her to go, in a loud though tremulous voice; but

the first impulse of anger was soon spent, and he turned his head and

shook his pillow to hide the expression of deep sorrow and bitter

vexation, which he felt upon his countenance, for no habit can render

the wounded heart familiar with the disappointment of thoughtless

unkindness.

“Go to breakfast, child,” was his next command, and Dora obeyed; but her

heart was penetrated with pity for her father, which did not subside the

sooner, when she found her mother assuring Catharine and Louisa, in the

easiest manner imaginable, that their father had established himself for

a week or two, which would enable them to see company their own way.

When Dora sate down, all were silent as if in the presence of a spy; for

either mystery,