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 SIR MICHAEL SADLER 
 
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 yr?o 
 
 PATIENCE. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " ][ think dear Miss Hemingford cannot be 
 well to-night, she looks sometimes pale, and 
 sometimes flushed, and has walked up and 
 down that espalier walk this half hour — what 
 can be the matter with her, Mrs. Aylmer?" 
 
 The lady to whom this enquiry was ad- 
 dressed, well knew that it was made from the 
 kindest motives ; she therefore replied, — 
 
 " Dora and myself, Mrs. Longden, are alike 
 in a state of great anxiety, on the subject of 
 a letter we expect to-night from lier parents, to 
 whom I have written, requesting their permis- 
 sion to take her with ine to the south of France, 
 to which place, you know, I am ordered, for 
 the benefit of mv health." 
 
 e
 
 2 PATIENCE. 
 
 " If you could entertain a doubt of their 
 ready acquiescence, you might well be anxious ; 
 but surely it is impossible they could think of 
 removing her from you at that time, when your 
 health requires the care of an affectionate and 
 grateful daughter V 
 
 " I hope they will not, — yet some of 
 their late letters have indicated such an in- 
 tention ; and so material a change in my resi- 
 dence may have a tendency to confirm a wa- 
 vering resolution." 
 
 " In my opinion," replied the good neigh- 
 bour, " they will act most ungratefully towards 
 vou, and cruelly towards her, if they divide 
 you ;" — " you have reared her from infancy, 
 — nursed her from a sickly plant, into a bloom- 
 ing flower, and — " 
 
 Mrs. Longden spoke warmly, for she was 
 really moved ; but perceiving that her auditor, 
 who was but. slowly recovering from a severe 
 illness, became too much affected, she checked 
 herself, and after a pause, added in a soothing 
 tone — 
 
 " To be sure, if you are obliged to part, 
 you will have the advantage of being with the 
 Sydenhams, who are the best people in the 
 world ; — and she, poor girl, will, I hope,
 
 l'A'l I I'.NCK. 3 
 
 bear the trial well ; she is of such a sweet 
 temper, such a patient disposition." 
 
 " Dora is, indeed, of a sweet temper, Mrs. 
 Longden, and has great patience, considering 
 that her sensibility is so acute as to render 
 equanimity difficult. She is gentle, loving-, 
 full of kindness, and so utterly devoid of self- 
 ishness, that she may be said to live in, and 
 for, her fellow-creatures ; she will, therefore, 
 doubtless, exercise self-controul for the sake 
 of others, and whatever she may feel, will not 
 complain." 
 
 " There is a principle of Patience," conti- 
 nued Mrs. Aylmer, in a subdued and solemn 
 voice, "founded on more awful and affecting 
 views,— the patience of a Christian,— -the 
 submissive resignation of a humble soul, which 
 receives sorrow, injustice, and offence, as thci 
 chastisements of a heavenly Father; — this 
 higher, purer, gospel-planted patience, 1 hope 
 my Dora is not devoid of; but the quiet tenor 
 of our lives has not hitherto called it into ac- 
 tion : — should she enter the world without 
 me by her side, I fear she may too soon be 
 called upon to practise it." 
 
 At this moment the subject of her remarks 
 entered the room, to invite them to walk in
 
 4 PATIENCE. 
 
 the garden, and see the setting sun throw his 
 parting rays upon the rippling Usk, on whose 
 banks they dwelt; but Mrs. Longden, aware 
 that the moments were now precious, took 
 leave. Mrs. Aylmer, after due wrapping up, 
 accepted her young friend's arm, less to partake 
 of pleasure than to evade solicitude. 
 
 As it was a period full of tender recollec- 
 tions, and awakened feelings to these friends, 
 one of whom was still a handsome, though 
 delicate woman in middle life; the other a tall, 
 slender, half-formed girl, in her eighteenth 
 year, with much about her that indicated the 
 seclusion of a country girl, combined with the 
 mind and manners of a gentlewoman — the 
 promise of future elegance, in addition to 
 existing beauty : we will take the present time 
 for introducing them more intimately to om 
 readers.
 
 5 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 Mr. Hemingford was a merchant in Liver- 
 pool, and married in his thirtieth year, a very 
 pretty girl under twenty. Circumstances had 
 made her the intimate acquaintance of Mrs. 
 Aylmer, who was a few years her senior, and 
 who was married at the same time to a cler- 
 gyman to whom she had been long engaged. 
 
 The first couple resembled thousands beside 
 them; they were very fond of each other during 
 the honey moon, and pretty well afterward.-,. 
 — The gentleman pushed his fortune in the 
 counting-house, the lady exhibited the fruits 
 of his industry in her drawing-room. The 
 second couple were o,' a very distinct charac- 
 ter, their affection was a bond of union that 
 controulcd and attuned every motion of their 
 spirits, and they lived but for each other, and 
 those to whom their duty attached them. 
 
 In the second year of his married life, Mr. 
 Aylmer was cut off by a short illness, con- 
 tracted by visiting a sick parishioner ; he left 
 
 b 3
 
 O PATIENCE. 
 
 a widow, on whose distress it is unnecessary 
 to dilate, since it would be impossible to de- 
 scribe, with only one little girl. 
 
 In a few months, the child died also ; and 
 she was shortly afterwards summoned to attend 
 the death-bed of her only relative, who, in 
 leaving her his property, restored her to that 
 place in society the early death of her husband 
 had deprived her of, and brought her again to 
 Liverpool. 
 
 Mr. Hemingford aided her in settling her 
 affairs, and his wife received her with much 
 pleasure and kindness : — she was now the 
 mother of three girls ; but the widow perceiv- 
 ed with pain, that notwithstanding her mater- 
 nal character, she was still a laughing, giddy 
 creature, whose greatest pleasure arose from 
 wheedling or cheating her husband out of 
 some childish amusement, or expensive bauble. 
 He was become morose, and ungracious in 
 his manners, and foolishly allowed himself to 
 be exceedingly mortified that his wife had not 
 given him a boy, observing, " that his eldest 
 girl was certainly a very fine child, and almost 
 as good as a boy ; but the second was a poor 
 creature, and the youngest he considered as 
 nothing at all."
 
 PATIENCE. 7 
 
 Mrs. Hemingford, on the birth of her second 
 girl, had sought to remedy her unintentional 
 fault, by inviting a very distant relation of her 
 own to become its godmother, who was rich 
 and unconnected. The lady consented, on 
 condition of giving the child her own name, 
 to which the mother unhappily consented; for 
 as Mrs. Dorothy Downe happened to be a 
 person of singular manners, and very unplea- 
 sant to Mr. Hemingford, it was certainly a 
 pity that he should be thus continually re- 
 minded of her. The child was baptized by 
 both these names ; and although a third was 
 added, in order to reconcile the father, he per- 
 sisted in calling the child only " Dolly," to 
 provoke his wife, who thought proper to adopt 
 that of Dorothea, observing, " it was equally 
 proper and much prettier." 
 
 Whether it arose from the frequent disputes 
 of which she was the innocent cause, or the 
 preference constantly given to her elder sister, 
 we know not ; but it is certain that this child, 
 though in good health, looked pale, and that 
 she was timid, and silent, as if some interdict 
 had been passed upon her ; whilst a single 
 word, a look of kindness, was received by her 
 with such a bounding heart, and sparkling eye,
 
 8 PATIENCE. 
 
 as to render her not only more interesting, but 
 actually more beautiful, than her handsome 
 sister. 
 
 Mrs. Aylmer had been long accustomed to 
 a delicate child ; — her heart, though bowed 
 bv sorrow, was full of kindness ; and she soon 
 found the little neglected child the most at- 
 tractive person in her father's establishment, 
 although one which might be easily detached 
 from it without pain to either party. On this 
 subject she thought long, and weighed it duly; 
 but as the " little strong embrace" was wound 
 more closely round her heart every day, at 
 length she proposed taking the child, (whom 
 she had hitherto called Dora,) to the sea-side, 
 as a probable means of strengthening her. 
 
 The offer was joyfully accepted, and they 
 set out for Swansea ; but as Mrs. Aylmer had 
 an unfortunate freedom from all ties of rela- 
 tionship which might influence her choice oj 
 a home, she eventually fixed upon a residence 
 in the delightful village of Oickhowel, in 
 South Wales, which combined with every 
 beauty of situation, a small, but valuable circle 
 of society. 
 
 From this period, her name, her home, the 
 indefinable something, which had oppressed
 
 patience. 9 
 
 her infant spirits, were alike forgotten : — she 
 had not only the advantages of maternal ten- 
 derness continually exerted for her benefit, but 
 that unrestrained freedom which renders the 
 country a paradise to children. Green fields, 
 in which to run with the lambs ; gardens, in 
 which to plant flowers and gather them; 
 chickens to feed and to love ; — little children 
 to visit and help ; little companions to expect 
 and to play with; heart, hands, and mind, 
 were in daily exercise. 
 
 " Thus passed her time, a clear, unruffled 
 stream ;" by no means disturbed by messages 
 From home, towards which it was yet so much 
 the care of Mrs. Aylmer to direct her views, 
 and excite her affections, that there is no doubt 
 Dora felt a very sincere regard for her parents, 
 and a great desire to know and love her sis- 
 ters ; and she would have had that pleasure 
 in the course of the last fourteen years un- 
 doubtedly, if her mother had not intended, 
 from time to time, to visit Mrs. Aylmer. The 
 excuses she found it necessary to make woe 
 strong ones, as during this period she had 
 been the mother of seven more children, of 
 whom two only survived : six of them had 
 been boys, but it appeared that an uncommon
 
 10 PATIENCE. 
 
 delicacy had affected all her infants of this 
 sex ; and the one whom she still preserved, 
 was a subject of continual apprehension. 
 
 Such was the state of their correspondence, 
 when, in the long-protracted spring of 1814, 
 Mrs. Aylmer was seized by a severe illness, 
 which reduced her to the brink of the grave, 
 and left her so weak, that a residence for two 
 or three successive winters in the south of 
 France, was earnestly recommended to her. 
 It was the more easy for her to follow this ad- 
 vice, in consequence of one of her neighbours, 
 Mr. Sydenham, having resolved to remove 
 thither with the greatest part of his young 
 family, being desirous to procure for them the 
 advantages of education, without infringing 
 on that narrow income which rendered him a 
 resident in his present cheap retirement. Such 
 a change was contemplated by Dora and her 
 companions with that delight natural to the 
 young and curious ; for although all were 
 happy where they were, yet they all were at 
 an age when mere change has a charm to the 
 buoyant spirit, and enquiring mind. 
 
 The illness of Mrs. Aylmer had been the 
 first affliction her beloved charge had known : 
 — it had fallen like a shower on a thirsty land,
 
 PATIENCE. 1 1 
 
 giving temporary gloom, and sorrow, to be 
 repaid by fertilizing the soil, and calling forth 
 flowers and fruit, from the hidden seeds, and 
 deepty implanted lessons, of early days. Dora 
 rose, in this season of trial, from a fond, art- 
 less, ingenuous child, to a sensible, reflecting, 
 affectionate young woman ; who united to 
 perfect simplicity and sensibility, the mild for- 
 titude which rendered her love efficient in its 
 services, and gave to her attentions that value 
 rarely derived from any quality but experience 
 She became, indeed, not less the darling 
 daughter, than the beloved friend, of her pro- 
 tectress ; and when Mrs. Aylmer first venturi d 
 to leave her own house, which was for the 
 purpose of attending the table of our Lord, 
 thither Dora (for the first time) accompanied 
 her. Every woman of feeling who has had 
 the happiness of being led to the communion 
 table in early life, by a tender parent, or guar- 
 dian, will ever look back upon that hour as 
 the most awful, yet most endeared to memory, 
 of any in their existence. They will retrace 
 the humility and sincerity of their devotions ; 
 and the sense of being exalted by this open 
 profession of their faith, which, by rendering 
 them members of the Church of Christ, gave
 
 12 PATIENCE. 
 
 them a sense of being ennobled, and purified, 
 yet bound to obedience and submission, by 
 new duties, and stronger ties : — the sublime 
 gratitude, the holy rapture, the spiritual aspi- 
 rations of their souls in such moments, may 
 be obscured in future life, but never can be 
 obliterated. 
 
 Dora felt the holy emotions incident to this 
 delightful duty, this blessed privilege, with all 
 that intensity of interest, natural to one who 
 was more especially called upon for thank- 
 fulness ; and she was affected so much as 
 almost to overcome her friend. When these 
 high-wrought affections subsided, there was 
 still left a peculiar suavity of manners, a soli- 
 citude to do right, an activity in the exercise 
 of benevolent affections, and an oblivion to 
 petty injuries, which proved that if the rose 
 was fled, its odour remained ; and as the shin- 
 ing of the patriarch's face shewed " with whom 
 he had been," so did the conduct of Dora, 
 though assuming no peculiarity, shew that 
 she was adding to all that had appeared amia- 
 ble in her character, that which was virtuous, 
 pious, and solid. 
 
 She could not, however, fail to feci even 
 more anxiety on the subject of the expected
 
 PATIENCE, I ' 
 
 letter, than she thought right, in consequence 
 of some hints which had within the last three 
 months dropped from her mother on the sub- 
 ject of her absence. Often had Dora earnestly 
 desired to visit her family, (indeed she desired 
 it now ;) but the idea of leaving her friend at 
 a time when she so evidently required her at- 
 tention, and of renouncing the pleasures the 
 journey itself promised her, was a double sa- 
 crifice, from which she very naturally shrunk. 
 This necessary digression brings us again to 
 the expected letter, which, contrary to all prece- 
 dent, really arrived on the evening in question, 
 and put a decisive negative on the requested 
 permission to travel, softened, in the writer's 
 opinion, by an assurance that they had in- 
 tended to send for Dora for some time ; not 
 only that she might form an acquaintance with 
 her family, by a residence of a year or two, 
 but that she might be an assistant to her father, 
 seeintr she wrote an excellent hand, and had 
 doubtless been well instructed in the French 
 language by dear Mrs. Aylmer, whose know- 
 ledge of that tongue they well remembered. 
 She added, that Mr. Hemingford had very 
 indifferent health ; having had a great loss in 
 his partner, Mr. Stancliil'e, whose son was 
 
 c
 
 14 PATIExNCE 
 
 abroad, so that altogether he was at a loss for 
 a clever, dutiful child, and hoped Dora would 
 make it up to him for some time at least : — 
 perhaps they might send her abroad by and 
 by ; — there was no saying ; particular circum- 
 stances had arisen, but could not be explained. 
 Undoubtedly Mr. Sydenham's family would 
 supply the loss of Dorothea, for whom she 
 would send a proper escort as far as Glouces- 
 ter. She hoped if her dear, dear friend had it 
 in her power to send over a little Mecklin lace, 
 &c. she would not forget it, and was with love 
 to the child, &c. &c. 
 
 Never could a decision so important be 
 made, according to Mrs. Aylmer's conception 
 of it, more ungraciously ; — she saw that Mrs. 
 Hemingford rent asunder the habits and bonds 
 of two people who had grown side by side, 
 during almost the whole life of one party, 
 with as much ease as if she had torn a piece 
 of muslin in two ; and her heart recoiled from 
 trusting a daughter who felt only too much 
 with a mother who felt sadly too little. Yet 
 a second and a third reading convinced hei 
 that the mandate must be submitted to ; and 
 Dora, though her heart was too full to permit 
 her to speak, signified that she believed it to
 
 PATIENCE. 15 
 
 be her duty to comply with the requisition; 
 and she endeavoured to endure it firmly, and 
 even cheerfully, lest her sorrow should add to 
 the pain of her friend. 
 
 When the parting was really over, it may 
 be supposed each gave herself up for a time 
 to the intense overwhelming sense of sorrow , 
 such a separation must inevitably inflict. Mrs. 
 Aylmer trembled for the future peace of her 
 beloved charge ; she revolted at the idea of 
 those employments her mother seemed to point 
 out for her, and not less at the new associates 
 with whom she might be called to mix ; and 
 she justly blamed herself for suffering so hand- 
 some and attractive a girl as Dora to depart 
 without adverting to those offers which, in a 
 large town, might probably soon arise to her. 
 
 Dora, on her part, felt wretched at the idea 
 that her beloved friend should have need of 
 her little services and find them not ; but she 
 tried to cheer herself by the remembrance of 
 Eliza Sydenham's kindness, and when the first 
 gust of sorrow was past, endeavoured to sub- 
 due all repugnance, to consider cheerful obe- 
 dience as the test of her faith, the just submis- 
 sion to her heavenly Father, exacted by her 
 earthly parents, towards whom she looked
 
 \6 . PATIENCE. 
 
 with the more affection the nearer she ap« 
 proached them. 
 
 When at last she reached the place of her 
 birth, these emotions became almost too much 
 for her, and it is scarcely possible to describe 
 her jarring sensations, when the first words 
 that broke on her ear, was loud reproof to the 
 servant who attended her, from a tall, thin, 
 but gentlemanly looking person, whom she 
 justly concluded to be her father, and whose 
 pleasure, (if he had any,) in receiving her, was 
 not sufficient to balance the vexation he ex- 
 perienced in finding she had been detained an 
 hour beyond the time he had expected her. 
 
 Turning from the man, he at length address- 
 ed her, with — 
 
 " Well, Dolly, — you're sadly tired, I sup- 
 pose ; come along — your mother and Catharine 
 are gone to the play, but you shall have some 
 tea presently." 
 
 As he spoke, he took her by the hand, and 
 kissed her cheek : timid as Dora was, and 
 struck as she had been by his first address, her 
 heart was moved ; she threw her arm round his 
 neck, and said tenderly, " dear, dear father." 
 
 Scarcely was she seated, when a shrill voice 
 was heard, saying, " 1 will go in, I will see my
 
 PATIENCE. 17 
 
 new sister ;" and immediately a pale, but very 
 pretty boy, in a flannel dressing gown, startled 
 Dora by appearing before her. 
 
 It was very evident, from the gentle manners 
 of the father to this his darling child, as well as 
 from his own stile of behaviour, that this child 
 was the indulged Idol of the family, lie look- 
 ed earnestly, yet kindly at Dora, asked her va- 
 rious questions, and at length said with an air 
 of patronage, very inconsistent with the de- 
 pendance indicated by his sickly looks, 
 
 " I shall love you, I am sure, very much, for 
 vou are not proud like Catharine, nor cross like 
 Louisa, and not tired of me as Mama is, — 
 have you brought me anything ?" 
 
 " I will give you some pretty books, and 
 some sea-shclis, in the morning, my dear." 
 
 " You are a good sister ; — they sha'nt 
 call you Welsh woman, nor Dolly Downe, nor 
 heiress, that they sha'nt." 
 
 Mr. Hemingford interposed now, to per- 
 suade him to go to bed, which was a little re- 
 sisted, in the usual stile of spoiled children ; but 
 when Dora joined in the intreaty, he complied. 
 
 " You had better follow his example, child, 
 for there is no saying when Mrs. Hemingford 
 will be at home," said the father, very soon, 
 
 c3
 
 18 PATIENCE. 
 
 and Dora obeyed, for she was exhausted less 
 by the fatigue she had undergone, than the 
 grief she had suffered ; the surprise, and pain, 
 she felt in finding her mother and sister so en- 
 gaged, was very great, and she wished to hide 
 it from her father. 
 
 Dora was greeted by Frank's voice on her 
 awaking : — she jumped out of bed, aware that 
 she had slept late, and expecting to see her 
 mother enter every moment ; but no such in- 
 terruption took place : at the door, the little 
 hand of Frank, (who had been long waiting 
 for her,) eagerly clasped hers, and a sense of 
 the sweetness of fraternal ties, soothed and 
 consoled her heart ; and she descended with 
 an open countenance and confiding mind. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Hemingford, their two daugh- 
 ters, and a visitant, were at breakfast, seated 
 round a table where Catharine presided ; and 
 as all the ladies were in black, Dora, on cast- 
 ing her eyes round, saw so little distinction in 
 their appearance, that she could not fix on any 
 one, whom she thought old enough to be her 
 mother: — the mistake was a happy one; it 
 procured a kind kiss from the lady in question, 
 but the salutes of the sisters were alike cold 
 and ceremonious.
 
 PATIENCE. 19 
 
 Mrs. Hemingford, notwithstanding the 
 births and burials which made up the history 
 of her life for the last twenty years, (which, 
 together with increased irritability in .her hus- 
 band's temper, arising from many misfortunes 
 and great cause for care and depression, might 
 have subjected her to anxiety and exertion,) 
 yet preserved her pretty face, and smart little 
 person, wonderfully unimpaired. She was suf- 
 ficiently en ban point to preserve her fair, 
 smooth skin, without a wrinkle ; and possess- 
 ed, in a singular degree, the voice of early life, 
 and a propensity to a kind of chuckling laugh, 
 which in her school days had gained her the 
 bve name of " giggling Kitty." Her dress 
 was precisely the same with that of her daugh- 
 ters, and was alike elegant and becoming : — 
 in fact, to adorn herself, her daughters, and 
 her house, had been the 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 transplant- 
 ing 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
 
 SO PATIENCE. 
 
 age, which appeared slight on their marriage, 
 was now become remarkable. 
 
 As soon as Dora sate down, her mother turn- 
 ed 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 Catha- 
 rine, 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 non- 
 chalance, which rather indicated condescen- 
 sion than obedience ; she was tall, handsome, 
 m\d 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
 
 PATIENCE. 21 
 
 cherished for her, or indeed to enter into con- 
 versation with her on any terms. Cold an- 
 swers, and supercilious looks, seemed to throw 
 her affections back upon herself, and she felt 
 more forlorn than she had done on the pre- 
 ceding 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 continu- 
 ally 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 ne- 
 cessary 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 d ill- 
 ness — her mother talked about nothing but 
 flounces, and glass dishes ; her father abo
 
 22 PATIENCE. 
 
 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 ge- 
 neral 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
 
 PATIENCE. 23 
 
 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 >he should un- 
 dertake 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
 
 24 PATIENCE. 
 
 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 sis- 
 ter 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 per- 
 mitted, enquiry after Mrs. Aylmer. She spoke 
 of meeting with his uncle, Sir Lloyd Syden- 
 ham, at Blackpool, enquired his destination, 
 his College, and almost his expectations from 
 his uncle, the baronet ; but she neither ad- 
 verted, nor permitted him to advert, to the pale 
 looks and altered air oi Dora, whom he per- 
 ceived to be indeed a stranger in her father's 
 house ; and whilst his heart ached, yet over- 
 flowed with tenderness towards her, he had 
 the additional sorrow of being impressed with
 
 PATIENCE. 2o 
 
 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 evi- 
 dent depression of spirits, that Dora was af- 
 fected 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, sud- 
 denly stopping, — " 1 will be like Dora, and that 
 will please her. I know if 1 am good, she 
 will be so happy, so I won't cry any more." 
 
 D
 
 26 PATIENCE. 
 
 The heart of Catharine was touched, and 
 she resolved on a change in her conduct to- 
 wards Dora, to whom she was well aware they 
 were all indebted for great improvement in the 
 manners of the little spoiled, though good tem- 
 pered boy : — before she had time to speak on 
 the subject, Mr. Hemingford entered the room, 
 evidently so ill, or so unhappy, as to be inca- 
 pable 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 mo- 
 ment ; 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
 
 PATTENCE. 27 
 
 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 be- 
 came sensible, however, that the disease lav 
 principally on the mind of the patient, and 
 that he had received some shock in his busi- 
 ness which had produced all his complaints, 
 a situation which awakened her sincerest sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 On Mrs. llemingford'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. 
 W ho can I look to for help but her? is there 
 anv of you that would have sate bv 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 pre-
 
 28 PATIENCE. 
 
 pare, I say, for the arrival of Everton Stan- 
 cliffe." 
 
 " Everton Stancliffe !" exclaimed Mrs. He- 
 mingford, her colour forsaking her cheeks. 
 
 " Even so, Mrs. Hemingford ; and if an- 
 nouncing 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 embar- 
 rassed 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 ma- 
 terials 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 
 facilitv for the dread of littered rooms and ink 
 spots on the carpets, and concluded with wish- 
 ing " she had never come into the room, for it 
 had altogether given her the horrors." 
 
 The husband commanded her to go, in a
 
 PATIENCE. 2D 
 
 loud though tremulous voice ; but the first 
 impulse of auger was soon spent, and he turned 
 his head and shook his pillow to hide the ex- 
 pression 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 un- 
 kindness. 
 
 " Go to breakfast, child," was his next com- 
 mand, 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, 
 w Inch would enable thein to see company 
 their own way. 
 
 When Dora sate down, all were silent as if 
 in the presence of a spy ; for either mystery, 
 or reproach marked the conduct of every one 
 towards her ; and she was, with all the open- 
 ness of her nature, and the obliging kindness 
 of a disposition generous almost to a fault, 
 compelled to feel herself not only a stranger, 
 but one in a state of implied warfare, under all 
 i lie circumstances incident to living in the land 
 ol her enemies. 
 
 D S
 
 so 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 IVIr. Everton Stancliffe, the young gentleman 
 whose expected return had been the evident 
 cause of Mr. Hemingford's illness, was the 
 only son of his late partner, who had been 
 many years the head of the house, and the 
 friend of Mr. Hemingford in early life. The 
 latter gentleman became a partner with a much 
 less capital than the established merchant, 
 who from the kindest motives advanced him 
 money, and accepted from him an easy in- 
 terest ; so that in the course of a few years he 
 had every prospect of discharging the debt. 
 
 But Mr. Hemingford married a wife who, 
 although she appeared afraid of him, at some 
 moments of their existence, had yet an habit 
 of forgetting his anger, his commands, and 
 his counsels, for hours and days ; and in point 
 of fact, acted as if she were independent of 
 him, and never allowed care of any kind to 
 annul her schemes, or cloud her brow. In all 
 his representations of his situation, or his
 
 PATIENCE. 31 
 
 complaints of those misfortunes which arose 
 to him (as to many others) from the state of 
 public affairs, from whence he deduced the 
 necessity for carefulness, his pretty wife ge- 
 nerally answered, " that really she had no 
 head lor business, she never wished to meddle 
 with affairs above her comprehension, and 
 hated polities above all things." Did the un- 
 fortunate reasoner shift his ground, and explain 
 to his lady, " the necessity for people with 
 lartre families beiiiLr more economic than those 
 with small ones," and give for example the 
 state of his partner's household in distinction 
 to his own, he was generally answered with an 
 harangue to this effect : — 
 
 " Dear me, Mr. Hemingford, what signifies 
 talking, the more children people have, the 
 more servants they inus: have, the more things 
 they must bu\ T , and the more bills they must 
 run up— its all a plain case, and if you hav'nt 
 luck this year, you'll have so much more next 
 — besides, my father always said, one boy could 
 spend the portion of many girls— you may live 
 to see Everton Stancliffe get through twice as 
 much as we do, so pray comfort yourself." 
 
 " Rut how will that benefit us ? what way 
 can the injury of my best friend's property
 
 3^ PATIENCE. 
 
 help me who am dependant upon him ? I say 
 dependant, for I run behind hand every year V* 
 
 " Well, Mr. Hemingford, you must say 
 what you like, for my part J have nothing to 
 say to it, he is your partner, not mine — but 
 just because I wanted a new set of curtains, 
 (and I'll be judged by any body whether 
 scarlet at this time of year is not much more 
 suitable than blue,) then you begin with losses, 
 and miseries, and children, just as if it was'nt 
 I that had the children, and all the trouble of 
 every kind." 
 
 In these exhibitions of another, but very 
 common species of that poor-soulism Miss 
 Hawkins has so inimitably defined, it inva- 
 riably happened that the husband was wrought 
 into an irritability which at length became 
 habitual, whilst the wife maintained an imper- 
 turbility which she dignified with the name of 
 good temper, but which was altogether dis- 
 tinct from any other goodness than that uhich 
 belongs to the constitution, as it arose partly 
 from weakness of mind, but still more from 
 indolence which would not see its duty, and 
 selfishness which would not renounce its en- 
 joyments, and which soothed the suggestions 
 of conscience, by setting the husband's ill-
 
 PATIENCE. S3 
 
 humour as a balance against his unceasing 
 industry, and his personal self-denial, from 
 which she inferred that she owed him nothing. 
 
 As yet it would unavoidably happen in a 
 large commercial town, that even the most 
 wilfully blind see changes which compel them 
 to think, and the most childish are somewhat 
 matured by time ; so Mrs. Hemingford had 
 moments of alarm, and half hours of reflection 
 and contrivance. One of these fits of thought 
 succeeded her husband's information, but she 
 soon relieved her own spirits by determining 
 that Everton Stancliffe should marry Catha- 
 rine, a plan which would, she observed, inter- 
 nally answer to them a!!, as Catharine had a 
 good spirit, and would set all to rights by in- 
 ducing her husband to renew his partnership 
 with her father. 
 
 JVJis. Hemimjford at this moment rcmem- 
 bered that Everton had a good spirit too — but 
 then " he was very fond of pretty women ;" 
 " too fond," said her memory, but she put off 
 that recollection by looking in the glass, and 
 ownins: " that beautv was very interesting :" 
 —besides, " people changed when they were 
 married ; he was clever, and handsome, and 
 rich, and (most probably) quite as good as
 
 34 PATIENCE. 
 
 other young men ; in short, 'twould be a 
 charming match." 
 
 Mrs. Hemingford had never yet given her 
 mind to match-making, being indeed resolved 
 to play young herself to the last moment ; to 
 which it may be added, that Catharine had 
 hitherto expressed much contempt for all 
 Liverpool young men, and was, in the mother's 
 opinion, always secure of a good bargain, 
 when she would condescend to accept it. Dora, 
 she had determined, should never marry ; and 
 Louisa was too young to think about it. 
 
 Young Stancliffe, in consequence of many 
 losses which had befallen his father's house, 
 was sent by the firm to Smyrna, in order to 
 establish a new connection about three or four 
 years before this period. He set out when he 
 became of age, and had been successful be} r ond 
 their expectations hitherto ; it was therefore 
 evidently a pity that he should return, especially 
 as he had now no parent to whom his presence 
 was important, and the activity of his partner 
 was more likely to repair their numerous losses 
 in Europe than any efforts of his, since Mr. 
 Hemingford's experience in this respect gave 
 his services an advantage, and his exertions
 
 PATIENCE. 3o 
 
 Yet, alas! these losses, and the corroding 
 nature of interest money, together with the 
 unrestrained expenditure of his lady, had re- 
 duced Mr. Hemingford's property so much, 
 that it might be termed merely nominal ; and 
 if Standi tie should refuse to renew a partner- 
 ship with him, (which was the great object of 
 his terror,) he was aware that he could not, at 
 the conclusion of the present term, which was 
 nearly at an end, command it elsewhere, from 
 a total deficiency of capital. His services, 
 his name, and even his probity, might evi- 
 dently- render him highly valuable, (poor as he 
 was,) to a partner resident abroad ; but di- 
 vided from the house where he had laboured 
 so long, reduced in constitution, and sinking 
 into years, he could never hope to be grafted 
 well on a new stock. From his late partner, 
 he was well aware he would never have been 
 divided ; but a young man would not make 
 the same allowances, nor could have the same 
 recollections, and it was an appalling prospect 
 for a man at fifty to shrink abashed before one 
 of five-and-twenty. 
 
 Mr. Heiningford, however, exerted himseh 
 in the best way he was able, to meet the evil 
 by a clear exposition, and narrow examination
 
 36 PATIENCE. 
 
 into his affairs, in which he engaged poor 
 Dora so incessantly, as to threaten the ruin 
 of her health, by perpetual writing and watch- 
 fulness. But as in the pursuit of this painful 
 duty, she became necessarily acquainted with 
 the state of his affairs, and of course with the 
 anxiety under which he laboured now, and 
 the Ions; solicitude which he had suffered for 
 years, every feeling became absorbed in pity, 
 and a desire to contribute to his relief. For 
 her, no task was too wearisome, no toil too 
 great ; and although it too frequently happened 
 that the work of many a wearisome hour was 
 committed to the flames as useless, and the 
 labours of many a long day called forth re- 
 proof, instead of approbation, yet one look at 
 the care-worn face, or whitening hair of her 
 father, never failed to check all resentment, 
 and subdue all impatience in her mind. A 
 single sentence of praise — or the words " Dora," 
 or " Child," did more than any, save a heart 
 so exercised, could conceive ; not only could 
 they soothe her sorrow, but inspire a spirit of 
 exertion, an ambition of tenderness and duty, 
 that seemed to give her powers before ttn- 
 known, and surprising alike to herself and her 
 employer. But neither her ceaseless exertions,
 
 PATIENCE. 37 
 
 nor her delicate looks, excited praise or atten- 
 tion from her mother and sisters. Frank alone 
 loved her; but he was already so much im- 
 proved, and a boy of so sweet and kindly a 
 temper, as to afford much on which she could 
 rest for comfort ; yet if she appeared to enjoy 
 it in the short periods of her intercourse with 
 her family, Louisa would accuse her of making 
 a division in the house. By degrees, how- 
 ever, all other interests and affairs, (below as 
 well as above,) were merged in the expected 
 arrival of young Stancliffe, who seemed at 
 length to affect the frivolous and speculating 
 mind of Mrs. Hemingford, as much as he had 
 long done that of her husband. 
 
 Happily the incessant labours of the latter, 
 (or rather those of his daughter under his con- 
 troul,) were finished a week or two before it 
 was possible for him to arrive ; and when that 
 event was announced as having taken place, 
 Mrs. Hemingford also was ready to exhibit her 
 handsome daughter, in all the habiliments of 
 fashion, if not the agremens of address ; and 
 since the work of conciliation could never be 
 begun too soon, and Mr. Hemingford was in- 
 deed an invalid, as his countenance and thin 
 spare form abundantly testified, she proposed 
 
 E
 
 38 PATIENCE. 
 
 herself to make the first friendly call upon 
 him, accompanied by Catharine. 
 
 Mr. Stancliffe lived a little way out of town, 
 in a pretty house built by his father, and which 
 had been put in preparation for his reception. 
 At this time Dora had renewed her lessons to 
 Frank, with whom she spent the greatest part 
 of her time in a small back parlour ; and 
 when the ladies were set out, she went thither 
 for the purpose of setting him a copy, and 
 became so absorbed in the task, that a gentle- 
 man had entered the room without being ob- 
 served by her, until he startled her by saying — 
 
 " Really you young ladies alter so much in 
 a few years, that I do not know whom I have 
 the pleasure of addressing, and am aware that 
 I ought to apologize for an intrusion I yet 
 cannot repent : — my little friend Frank, too, 
 is grown surprisingly — I used to call him pet 
 Frank." 
 
 " My name is Dora, Sir ; 1 am so much a 
 stranger as to be little known to my father's 
 friends." 
 
 " Then to you, ma'am, it is necessary, even 
 in this house, to introduce Everton Stancliffe," 
 said the gentleman, with an air of graceful 
 suavity, at once friendly and polite. Dora
 
 PATIENCE. 39 
 
 felt her long cherished fears subside in a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 " 1 was a pet once," said Frank, with bust- 
 ling deprecating anxiety; "but indeed, Sir, 
 i am not so now, for Dora has made me good, 
 because she is good herself, and quite different 
 to sisters — and she can play delightfully, 
 though they never allow her to touch the harp ; 
 and they call her Dolly, and sing songs about 
 her." 
 
 " Frank !" said Dora authoritatively, and 
 Frank was silent; but his glistening eyes still 
 spoke her praise, whilst her own were timidly 
 cast down, and her cheeks covered with the 
 quick succeeding blushes that praise had 
 elicited. 
 
 Mr. Stancliffe thought he had never seen 
 any thing half so beautiful as Dora ; for he 
 was the more struck with the charm of a fine 
 complection, from being accustomed so long- 
 to the yellow hues of the Asiatic. Before poor 
 Mrs. llcmingford returned home to exhibit his 
 lestined bride, he " was gone whole ages in 
 Jove" with that daughter whom she had pre- 
 determined should never marry. 
 
 The consequences may be easily foreseen ; 
 new anger at the innocent cause of this mis-
 
 40 PATIENCE. 
 
 chief, manifested by every species of unkind- 
 ness, not only from the females of the family, 
 but frequently from her father also, whose 
 wishes were thwarted, and whose schemes were 
 crossed, rendered her life so wretched, that she 
 was naturally drawn to look with more than 
 common regard on the only person who ap- 
 proached her with approbation on his lip, and 
 kindness in his eye : and had Stancliife been 
 much less handsome and agreeable than he 
 really was, under such circumstances he could 
 hardly have failed to make an impression. 
 
 Dora was too artless to disguise her feelings 
 from people evidently interested in them, be- 
 yond what the state of the case warranted ; and 
 as soon as Mrs. Hemingford perceived that 
 she was, to use her own phrase, " growing 
 worse every day," she suddenly proposed send- 
 ing her immediately to Mrs. Aylmer, a reso- 
 lution poor Dora now heard with as much pain, 
 as she would formerly have hailed it with gra- 
 titude and delight. 
 
 Yet happy, thrice happy, would it have been 
 for her if this determination could have been 
 acted upon ; but most unfortunately, even 
 whilst they were in consultation on the subject, 
 a letter arrived from Mrs. Aylmer, saying, that
 
 l'ATi !■' N I E. 41 
 
 Ending hitherto little advantage, she h.-id been 
 induced to go further south, and was then set- 
 ting out for Italy, from whence she would write 
 as soon as she was settled ; but intrcated her 
 clear Dora not to distress herself, if her future 
 movements should prove for some time a bar 
 to their correspondence. 
 
 The vexation experienced by Mrs. Heming- 
 ford on this occasion, overcame the small por- 
 tion of prudence she was mistress of; and she 
 lamented the circumstance so loudly, that it 
 caught the lover's ears, who was by no means 
 deficient either in penetration or resolution — 
 dreading some other scheme, and aware by 
 this time of every thing hoped or feared by the 
 lather, he determined to secure Dora by a 
 speedy marriage ; and since her ardent desire 
 to consult Mrs. Aylmer was now necessarilv 
 over-ruled, he considered that the parents 
 might be easily managed. 
 
 Whatever the conversation was which now 
 took place between the partners, two portions 
 of it only transpired ; the first, " that their 
 articles of partnership were to be renewed for 
 seven years ;" the second, " that Dorothy was 
 to be married on the same day when the agree- 
 ment was signed ;" and the union, of late so 
 
 k'6
 
 42 PATIENCE. 
 
 abhorred, was now pushed with an avidity 
 utterly repugnant to the delicacy of Dora, and 
 decidedly subversive of that long and intimate 
 acquaintance with each other's principles, 
 tempers, opinions, and habits, which ought to 
 form the basis of a connection, in which hap- 
 piness and misery, time and eternity, are alike 
 involved.
 
 43 
 
 CHAP IV. 
 
 Dora spent the first week of her marriage at 
 Buxton, and in its beautiful vicinity renewed 
 the pleasure she was wont to find in the wild 
 romantic scenery of Wales. Stanclifle ad- 
 mired it also, but it was rather with the sym- 
 pathy of a lover, than from natural taste ; and 
 when he proposed returning to their own house, 
 Dora gladly relinquished her temporary amuse- 
 ments. 
 
 The day after their arrival at home, a gen- 
 tleman of somewhat stately appearance and 
 precise address, called at the house, and en- 
 quired pointedly for its mistress — on deliver- 
 ing the message, the servant seemed so im- 
 pressed with the importance of this person, 
 that he conveyed his sense of it to the young 
 couple, and they entered the drawing-room to 
 receive the stranger together. 
 
 For some moments he fixed on Dora a scru- 
 tinizing eye, which by degrees relaxed in its 
 expression, as he addressed her with the en- 
 quiry of —
 
 44 PATIENCE. 
 
 " Pray, young lady, is your name Dorothy 
 Downe Rose Hemingford V 
 
 " That was my name, Sir, but I am married 
 now." 
 
 " Married— um — married ! and without 
 once consulting, or even informing me." 
 
 " You, Sir !" said Dora with surprise. 
 
 " You, Sir !" exclaimed Stancliffe, fiercely, 
 
 " Yes, me, Sir ;" returned the interrogator, 
 with a look of calm contempt, which subdued 
 the rising anger of the husband by the as- 
 tonishment it produced. — " My name is Black- 
 well, Sir ; I am the sole trustee of the will of 
 Mrs. Dorothy Downe, and of course a person 
 of some importance to this lady, Sir ; and de- 
 pend upon it if I find her settlement is not 
 equal to her expectations, I shall exert the full 
 power with which that will invests me." 
 
 " I am an entire stranger to all you speak 
 of," replied Stancliffe, truly, looking at the 
 same time to Dora. " And I am sure I am," 
 said she. 
 
 " Then, Sir," said Mr. Blackwell, " send 
 your carriage for Mr. Hemingford imme- 
 diately." 
 
 " 1 can send my servant," said Stancliffe, 
 significantly.
 
 PATIENCK. 45 
 
 " Hold ! perhaps I had better look a little 
 farther into this affair without him : — may I 
 ask what fortune you received with your 
 wife?" 
 
 " None — but I may be said to have given 
 one, since I agreed to take her father into 
 partnership again, and have, in fact, renewed 
 the bond which existed between us." 
 
 "And he made no mention of her pro- 
 perty ?" 
 
 " None — he spoke much of her expectations, 
 which I understood as applying to the lady 
 with whom she has resided, and of which 1 
 thought nothing, because I found she was a 
 good looking widow, travelling on the Conti- 
 nent, of course very likely to find a husband." 
 
 " Um — um — urn," was for some minutes 
 the reply of the stranger ; but after due de- 
 liberation, he said, " Then this young lady 
 has no settlement?" 
 
 " She has not from me, certainly : — but if 
 it should turn out that she has property — and 
 if the matter could be done — I should not ob- 
 ject"— 
 
 " Sir, she has property, — considerable pro- 
 perty, after she arrives at the age of twenty- 
 five; till which time, both principal and interest
 
 4() PATIENCE. 
 
 are solely at my disposal. If her brother dies 
 before the age of twenty-one, she becomes 
 sole inheritrix ; if she dies childless before 
 twenty-five, he is her heir ; but in any case, 
 the property she may hold, from Mrs. Downe, 
 is subject exclusively to her own controul ; 
 for the old lady, as a single woman, was a 
 mighty stickler for the rights of the sex, and 
 determined that no husband should usurp 
 power over her estate ; of course a settlement 
 is little called for, but under particular circum- 
 stances might have been desirable." 
 
 " Oh ! I want no settlements," said Dora, 
 eagerly pressing the hand of her beloved hus- 
 band, with eyes that told him how she rejoiced 
 in being enabled to give him a fortune ; yet 
 her mind could not forbear to glance a pain- 
 fully retrospective view on the conduct of her 
 parents, and their mysterious silence. 
 
 " Pray, Sir," said Stancliffe, " did Mrs. 
 Downe leave her whole property to Dora and 
 Frank ?" 
 
 " No, Sir, she left many small legacies be- 
 sides." 
 
 " Did she die worth much, Sir ?" 
 
 " That question depends upon what is deem- 
 ed much ; if you mean to ask hoiv much she
 
 PATIENCE. 4? 
 
 died worth, 1 answer that at the proper time, 
 
 I must abide by my accounts — you will of 
 course see the will, and learn that during the 
 minority of the parties, my power is absolute 
 in every point." 
 
 " Then you allow no income during that 
 time .'" 
 
 " My allowance depends on my pleasure ; 
 [ have hitherto paid that young lady three 
 hundred pounds per annum, and did propose 
 increasing it to five, when she became of age, 
 i. e. twenty-one." 
 
 It was now evident to Dora, why she had 
 been sent for to her father's house — why, when 
 there, she was shut out of society, and more 
 especially, why she gave offence in becoming 
 the chosen of her husband ; since it was cer- 
 tain, that if they had been compelled to relin- 
 quish business, whilst they retained Frank 
 and her with them, they would be enabled to 
 live genteelly ; but her heart naturally revolted 
 against the unkindness, and selfishness, which 
 had actuated their conduct towards her ; and 
 she was especially hurt with the secresy 
 which had been observed in an affair of so 
 much importance towards a person so remark- 
 ably open and ingenuous as herself: — this
 
 48 PATIENCE. 
 
 observation was the only one which escaped 
 her in the way of blame. 
 
 Mr Blackwell reprobated this conduct 
 strongly ; but he said it was certain, " that 
 even in her will, Mrs. Dorothv had herself 
 expressed a desire that the young people 
 should not be acquainted with theii' aflairs till 
 they had arrived at years of discretion," which 
 furnished some excuse for them, although it 
 might truly be said, " that if their daughter 
 was not discreet enough to know her expec- 
 tations, she certainly was very unfit for the 
 awful situation in which she had taken upon 
 herself duties of the highest responsibility." 
 
 Dora heard of this clause with the greatest 
 pleasure, because it formed an excuse for the 
 conduct of those she yet earnestly desired 
 to love and honour ; but in the eyes of Ever- 
 ton it formed not the shadow of apology ; 
 and long after the stranger had departed, he 
 continued to inveigh against her parents so 
 bitterly, and point out so many ways in which 
 he was determined to mortify or injure them, 
 in return for what he with great justice termed 
 their unwarrantable conduct, that poor Dora 
 became so alarmed and wretched, that all the 
 value of her new found wealth vanished from
 
 PATIENCE. 4<J 
 
 her eyes, and she felt only as if entering on 
 a scene of anxiety and disquietude for which 
 her spirits were utterly unprepared and in- 
 adequate.
 
 5U 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 NlR. Blackwell, the trustee of Mrs. Dorothy 
 Downe, was now a country gentleman, but 
 had formerly been a practitioner of the law 
 in the metropolis ; on which account, added to 
 his well known integrity, his retired habits, 
 competent fortune, and bachelor state, she 
 had justly considered him a fit person to ex- 
 ecute a delicate and singular trust : for it was 
 a remarkable fact, that she disliked both the 
 parents of the children to whom she bequeathed 
 her handsome fortune, and of the children 
 themselves it might be said, " that she knew 
 nothing of the one, and it was her firm belief 
 the other would not live." 
 
 Her predilection in favour of Dorothy arose 
 partly, perhaps, because she bore her name ; 
 but principally, as she frequently declared, 
 that, being educated at a distance from 
 her family, there was reason to suppose she 
 might escape their faults : — she also hoped, 
 that she would either not marry at all, or unite
 
 PATIENCE. 5 J 
 
 herself with some country gentleman, and be- 
 come the mother of a family who would sup- 
 port the estates she bequeathed, in a style ot 
 independence and respectability suitable to 
 the ancestors from whieh they were derived, 
 and far removed from that world of commerce, 
 whose triumphs she ridieuled, and wh 
 wealth she despised. 
 
 Mr. Blaekwell was her nearest neighbour, 
 and although about ten years her junior, was 
 so generally of her way of thinking on all 
 worldly subjects, and so much amused by her 
 caustic observations, that he entered into all 
 her intentions for the future, and became even 
 interested in her plans of benefiting persons 
 to whom he was an utter stranger ; and it was 
 in consequence of this interest, that she placed 
 his power of action as a guardian in a latitude 
 so wide, well knowing that he was alike from 
 property and principle, beyond temptation, 
 and that he could, through that means, alone 
 forward her views. Upon her death, Mr. He- 
 minffford had been summoned bv him to attend 
 her funeral, and had thence conceived that a 
 man apparently as immoveable as the antient 
 hall he lived in, and one who seemed to hold 
 the truslas a hardship, was not likely to inter-
 
 52 PATIENCE. 
 
 fere in any way so long as he was let alone ; 
 and this idea unhappily combining with the 
 desire of secrecy expressed in the will, and his 
 own necessities, which urged him to make a 
 property of his alienated child, altogether led 
 to the conduct thus adopted — a conduct in 
 which his family readily concurred, from the 
 stimulus of envy in the daughters, and a sense 
 of necessity in the expensive mother. 
 
 At the time when young Stancliffe suddenly 
 made his appearance, and as suddenly became 
 the admirer of that daughter whom they had 
 decreed to a life of celibacy, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Hemingford were not more vexed with an oc- 
 currence which thwarted all their plans, than 
 ashamed of the part they had acted, and fear- 
 ful of the discovery which was inevitable; well 
 aware that the excuse of compliance with the 
 will of Mrs. Downe, though it might operate 
 in their favour with poor Dora, would not do 
 so in the eyes of either young Stancliffe or 
 any other person who might address her — they 
 considered whether it would be possible to 
 secure her from future admirers, in case her 
 present attachment was broken ; and after due 
 deliberation, came to the conclusion, that as 
 her marriage with some one was inevitable, it
 
 PAT] ENCE. 
 
 would be better to take place with him by 
 whom they eould be most benefitted, and whose 
 
 future wealth would be in some measure use- 
 ful to them ; nor had they the courage to meet 
 those evils which a breach with Stancliffe must 
 inevitably draw upon them. Of course they 
 consented reluctantly to the marriage; and 
 in the confusion arising from conscious dis- 
 ingenuousness, neglected that power of mak- 
 ing a good bargain which the state of their 
 daughter's fortune fully warranted, and left the 
 future to chance. 
 
 In fact, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hemingford 
 were cunning, much less systematically dis- 
 honest. In the endeavour to make a property 
 of their daughter, they had reasoned them- 
 selves in the first place, into an idea that it 
 was only right, one so disproportionately en- 
 dowed, should contribute to the support of 
 her family ; and from accustoming themselves 
 to consider her too fortunate, they were led to 
 the sin of really rendering her unfortunate, by 
 making her unhappy ; but they had by no 
 means the power of carrying any regular de- 
 sign against her, or any other person, into 
 execution. They contracted a sense of guilt 
 on their consciences, subjected themselves
 
 64 PATIENCE. 
 
 justly to suspicion from their disingenuous 
 conduct, and lost all due influence over a 
 young man whom they knew to be headstrong, 
 and had proved to be unfeeling, without doing 
 themselves or their child any good, or gaining 
 those advantages which were in their power. 
 In fact, Mr. Hemingford had too much inte- 
 grity for his own intentions ; he became con- 
 fused and embarrassed, when his dread of 
 poverty forced upon him sinister intentions, 
 and exhibited a melancholy proof that the 
 fear of want will derange the clearest intellect, 
 and warp the most upright views ; therefore 
 it is alike wisdom, and virtue, to guard against 
 it. 
 
 The following morning Mrs. Hemingford 
 and Catharine, (whose pride, but by no means 
 her affections, had been somewhat wounded 
 by Stancliffe's preference of Dora,) made their 
 appearance early, being alike eager to arrange 
 the parties, and partake the gaieties, of a mar- 
 riage they had so lately considered an irre- 
 parable misfortune. Mrs. Hemingford brought 
 with her a reticule full of letters from her hus- 
 band for his partner to look over, observing, 
 " she understood most of them were from 
 Smyrna."
 
 PATIENCE. 55 
 
 Stancliffe took them with a silent sneer on 
 his countenance, so different from his usually 
 free and polite carriage, as to communicate a 
 pang even to her thoughtless mind ; but it fell 
 with much more effect on that of poor Dora, 
 who, after all, felt that she was her mother, 
 and could not bear to consider her an object 
 of contempt to her husband; — in order to 
 open the late occurrence in a pleasanter way 
 than he seemed likely to do, she observed, — 
 
 " We were surprised yesterday by the visit 
 of a Mr. Blackwell." 
 
 " Indeed ! what sort of a person is he ? I 
 have never seen him — but I suppose he is 
 quite an oddity? hi, hi, hi." 
 
 " Not so odd, madam, as some of our ac- 
 quaintance, who bottle up heiresses in garrets 
 and counting-houses, and leave it to chance 
 whether they fly out to coblers, or are saved in 
 pity by gentlemen," said Stancliffe. 
 
 " So — h !" said Mrs. Hemingford, with a 
 long drawn breath, which with difficulty she 
 prevented being the prelude to hysteric tears, 
 though little subject to emotion of so power- 
 ful a character, " Soli ! so! — then 1 suppose 
 he has been telling you what he ordered us to 
 keep a profound secret ; that's some people's
 
 5() PATIENCE. 
 
 consistency — well ! I'm very glad it's all out, 
 for I'm sure it has been at the point of my 
 tongue a thousand times." 
 
 " And mine too," said Catharine warmly, 
 and truly. 
 
 " I do'nt doubt it, for little Frank told me 
 you called Dora ' heiress' often in derision ; 
 but we both fancied it applied to her expecta- 
 tions from Mrs. Aylmer — the fact is, that the 
 insincerity, and cruelty of conduct observed 
 towards Dora, is utterly inexcusable, and 
 could be adopted only for the purpose of rob- 
 bing and" — 
 
 " Robbing ! !" exclaimed Catharine in a 
 rage. 
 
 " Yes, Catharine, robbing her, and cajoling 
 me — she has been in the most distressing situ- 
 ation amongst you, and" — 
 
 " Has been ! — you mean she is ; for no man 
 of feeling would so speak to her mother ; but 
 Everton Stancliffe's temper is no secret to any 
 one — if she had a thousand pounds for every 
 twenty she will ever see, she would still be a 
 miserable woman with such a man as you." 
 
 Stancliffe gazed on Catharine with looks 
 indicative of rage and fury, that were abso- 
 lutely ferocious, and so terrified Dora, that
 
 PATIENCE. 51 
 
 although she rose as it" to supplicate him for 
 mercy on them all, she sunk back pale and 
 almost tainting on her seat ; whilst he, though 
 generally a man of fluency in speech, appeared 
 unable to utter reply, from the passion, which 
 shook him almost to phrenzy. 
 
 " At all events i/oh have much to be thank- 
 ful for," said Mrs. Hemingford ; " we are the 
 losers every way — and even supposing we had 
 done wrong, which it is certain we did not, yet 
 it is all in your favour, Mr. Stancliile : — if 
 Dora had remained in Wales, (which was what 
 Mr. Blackwell very much wished for,) un- 
 doubtedly she would have married young Sy- 
 denham; (and been lady Sydenham some 
 time,) so that at any rate you have reason to 
 be thankful." 
 
 Dora opened her half closed eyes, and gazed 
 at her mother with an air of astonishment, 
 which recalled her husband to his senses, by 
 presenting him with a new and painful sub- 
 ject of surmise; but the quick and rapid 
 glances of his brilliant, eyes still continued to 
 infuse terror, as, gathering his letters together 
 in haste, he waived the subject for the present, 
 by saying — 
 
 ' These letters are, (as you said, ma'am,) of
 
 58 PATIENCE. 
 
 the utmost importance — if I mistake not, they 
 will lead some of us a longer journey than 
 agreeable — but you, Miss Hemingford, are 
 amazingly well calculated for playing eastern 
 princess — your beauty will become an Ha- 
 ram." 
 
 " What can he mean 1" said Mrs. Heming- 
 ford, as Stancliffe left the room, and imme- 
 diately afterwards the house — " he cannot 
 surely think of sending your father to travel 
 at his time of life ! well, however, I am glad 
 he is gone ; but I am very sorry old Blackwell 
 has been, for I certainly did expect to get the 
 next half year's income for Dora, and so I 
 ought, because of her wedding things — but 
 come, child, pray do'nt sit there as if you were 
 frightened to death — women an't so soon kill- 
 ed, take my word for it ; come, let us go up 
 stairs and see what pretty things you have 
 brought from Buxton." 
 
 Dora obeyed ; but she could not, like her 
 thoughtless mother, recover from the shock she 
 had received, nor readily forgive Catharine for 
 offending her husband to such a degree as to 
 render him the being she had described ; and 
 she was really glad when they departed, for 
 she sought for solitude in which to commune
 
 PATIENCE. .')[) 
 
 with her own heart, to prostrate herself' at the 
 i h rone of Mercv, and intreat divine aid and 
 guidance in the new and difficult path which 
 she perceived to be before her. Believing the 
 great duty of woman to consist in the practice 
 of forbearance, meekness, and humble en- 
 durance, the prayer of her heart was that in 
 her " Patience might have its perfect work." 
 
 When Stancliffc returned, he was gloomy, 
 dispirited, and evidently either angry or 
 ashamed ; sensations which alike tend to make 
 a man appear sullen when the former is sup- 
 pressed* and the latter unavowed. Dora con- 
 cluded that he had seen her father, and she 
 naturally wished to know what had passed 
 between them, and made every possible ex- 
 cuse in her mind for the ill-humour her hus- 
 band was still affected by, but she did not 
 venture to ask any questions. 
 
 At length Everton began to make eager en- 
 quiries respecting Arthur Sydenham — his per- 
 son, manners, situation, expectations, and in- 
 timacy with her, all passed in review — the an- 
 swers of Dora were all dictated by that simple 
 truth which left no pretext for anger, and no 
 shadow of doubt on the score of that jealousy 
 her mother's declaration had temporarily
 
 60 PATIENCE. 
 
 awakened. Stancliffe was not a man subject 
 to feeling this passion much ; for his personal 
 vanity was considerable, and had a natural 
 tendency to render his errors rather those of 
 self-confidence than of suspicion : — he was 
 also apparently conscious of the nature of his 
 own faults, for their conversation ended by an 
 assurance " that the kindness and patience 
 she had evinced towards him at a time when 
 he was terribly annoyed, should never be for- 
 gotten by him :" — he lamented with much 
 feeling the errors of his early education, which 
 had nurtured the faults it ought to have cor- 
 rected, from which he had become irritable 
 when opposed, but maintained, " that gentle- 
 ness never failed to disarm him." To this 
 Dora replied by an assurance given with firm- 
 ness and solemnity, " that she would always 
 endeavour to subdue all anger in herself, and 
 consider his vexations as flying storms, which 
 it was her duty to bear :" — she would have 
 added her hope, " that he would endeavour to 
 gain that self-conquest so necessary for both," 
 but such was the generosity and delicacy of 
 her nature, that she would not, in the moment 
 of humiliation, utter one word on the subject 
 beyond what was necessary — she could neither
 
 PATIENCE. 61 
 
 at this period doubt the power nor the will 
 of* her beloved, to rectify his errors, and of 
 course render her as happy as she could de 
 sire. 
 
 But though Stancliffe thus professed to be 
 merely a petulant man, whose passions sub- 
 jected him to the ebullitions of rage, blame- 
 ably indulged, but speedily removed; it soon 
 appeared that he added to this, abiding resent- 
 ment ; and although Mrs. Hcmingfbrd had 
 truly observed, " that he had little to complain 
 of, in finding his wife rich when he had ex- 
 pected her to be unportioned," he yet con- 
 tinued to dilate on the secrecy, insincerity, 
 and intentional fraud, of his wife's family, in 
 a manner which was extremely painful to her, 
 and drew upon them those animadversions 
 from others to which no one ought to expose 
 their connections : — if Dora ventured to ex- 
 cuse them, he reproached her for it, as ar- 
 guing affectation, " since it was not in the 
 nature of tilings that she could love them," 
 or accused her of ingratitude to himself, who 
 had proved the sincerity of his regard, by tak- 
 ing her without a portion. 
 
 Had he said " the violence of his passion," Mr. 
 Stancliffe would have used a much better term 
 
 o
 
 6<2 PATIENCE. 
 
 for his feelings towards Dora, whom it is cer- 
 tain he would at one time have purchased at 
 any price, and whom he continned to gaze 
 upon with very considerable admiration. 
 They were now receiving company, and he 
 so far conceded to Dora's wishes, as to permit 
 her sisters to be generally with them ; but it 
 appeared as much with a desire to place Dora 
 above Catharine, and thereby vindicate his 
 own taste, as from a wish to oblige her ; and 
 the direct, or indirect sparrings, which took 
 place constantly between two persons of their 
 description, rendered every day a period of 
 trial to Dora. 
 
 Scarcely had she been married two months, 
 when other letters arrived from Smyrna, by 
 which they learnt that the necessity of a resi- 
 dent partner at that place was so apparent, as 
 to threaten the ruin of the house if it were de- 
 layed. Stancliffe laid them before Dora, ob- 
 serving " they only confirmed the former." 
 
 " I will go with you any where, my love," 
 was the immediate reply of his young wife. 
 
 " But I am not inclined to go : — our articles 
 of partnership are equally binding on your 
 father — and in short, he must go, and shall." 
 
 " 1 am afraid his health will suffer — it is too
 
 P \ TIENCE. ').; 
 
 late in life for him to change his climate and 
 his habits, whereas, you arc accustomed to it; 
 mv deai-, pray think, before you decide." 
 
 " 1 have thought — I have decided — either 
 he shall go, or find some other person to lend 
 him money on his bond, than the fool he 
 sought to cheat and circumvent." 
 
 " Stancliffe was as good, or rather as bad, 
 as his word ; and Mr. Ilemingford was com- 
 pelled to see clearly that he must set out im- 
 mediately, for his partner still held him in his 
 power : — indeed it was evident, that as he 
 had now no other stay but his business, he 
 must preserve it ; whereas his youthful part- 
 ner had the means of life should the other 
 fail. 
 
 Bitter were the lamentations this resolution 
 caused in the family of Mr. Hemingford; but 
 to no person perhaps was the trial felt, so se- 
 vere a one as the father himself, since he saw 
 that parting with his boy was for the child's 
 sake inevitable, and his heart had been so long 
 attached to this, as the one object on which 
 his affections rested, and to which his hopes 
 clung, that the loss of him appeared a pang 
 almost as terrible as death. 
 
 When every thing was finally arranged.
 
 64 PATIENCE. 
 
 Mr. Stancliffe's heart evidently softened to- 
 wards the suffering family ; and he not only 
 readily agreed, (according to Mr. Blackwell's 
 proposition,) that Frank should form a part 
 of his family, but gave an invitation to Harriet, 
 also, upon her leaving school, and seconded 
 every contrivance suggested by the active 
 good will of Dora for their assistance and 
 accommodation, with a liberality that rendered 
 him exceedingly dear to her. This was indeed 
 the kinder, because she had been compelled to 
 see that, although hospitable to profusion, 
 and occasionally capable of squandering mo- 
 ney, yet Everton Stancliffe was not generous 
 in general, and very frequently he was careful 
 even to parsimony. 
 
 This great change was felt by Frank with 
 various sensations ; he was loath to part with 
 his papa, whom lie tenderly loved, but he was 
 so much more attached to Dora than to any 
 human being, that he could scarcely be sorry 
 for any circumstance which placed him under 
 the same roof with her — he was also inclined 
 to love his brother-in-law, for he admired him 
 exceedingly, and with the curiosity natural to 
 his age, was delighted to hear him relate cir- 
 cumstances, or describe places connected with
 
 l'A'I'l EM I i 63 
 
 his travels; but yet Trunk was also a little 
 afraid of him, and could not perfectly forgive 
 him for having taken away his darling sister. 
 
 Though few daughters could have less to 
 regret than Dora, yet the deep consideration 
 and pity, which led her to oppose their de 
 parture so far as she dared, continued to ailed 
 her ; and she bade them farewel under great 
 depression of spirits, in which her father evi- 
 dently partook, as he was extremely agitated, 
 and repeatedly recommended her to the care 
 and love of her husband in the tenderest man- 
 ner, together with Frank, who was not present 
 at their departure, lest his health should be 
 injured by the stimulus given to his sensi- 
 bility. 
 
 The disorder under which this poor boy la- 
 boured, and which had proved fatal to his 
 brothers, was the occasional rupture of inter- 
 nal blood vessels, by which his life was fre- 
 quently placed in danger, and his general 
 health rendered extremely delicate, though 
 free from pain and particular complaint. On 
 this account he could never be trusted at 
 school, or with any assemblage of children, 
 since play would inevitably be fatal to him, 
 nor could he be subjected to reproof except 
 
 G 3
 
 66 PATIENCE. 
 
 very gently administered, since a fit of crying 
 might in his case become fatal : his life was 
 necessarily dull, and his attainments few ; but 
 he was a child so full of kindness and intel- 
 ligence, so grateful for attention, and so hum- 
 ble from a consciousness of dependance, that 
 he seldom gave occasion for reproof since he 
 had been under the guidance of Dora, and 
 was generally an object of pity or affection. 
 The more than feminine delicacy of his com- 
 paction, and almost ethereal slightness of his 
 form, aided by his mild blue eyes, and a pro- 
 fusion of pale brown ringlets, that flowed over 
 his face, gave an idea of angelic beauty in his 
 person, at the same time that they bespoke the 
 fragile tenure of a life that was in perpetual 
 jeopardy. 
 
 The first care of Mr. StanclifYe was to re- 
 move to the late dwelling of his partner, on 
 account of its convenience as a house of bu- 
 siness ; and he appeared to enter on the duties 
 which now rested solely upon him, with the 
 activity and ability for which Mr. Hemingford 
 had ever given him credit ; but this zeal was 
 of very short duration. Accustomed to indul- 
 gences inconsistent with the daily routine re- 
 quired, as soon as he became busy, it might
 
 PATIENCE. 67 
 
 truly be said he became indolent ; for although 
 he entered with avidity into all extraordinary 
 duties <>r pleasures, because they necessarily 
 proved his powers and excited him to exer- 
 tions, he sunk without that stimulus into po- 
 sitive inaction — he must do great things, or 
 do nothing at all. 
 
 Yawning away the morning on a sofa, and 
 making late evenings in gay parties — never 
 seen on Change, seldom visible in his count- 
 ing-house, always willing to invite the foreign 
 merchant to dinner, but never ready to receive 
 his commissions, or attend to his shipments 
 — trusting all to servants, yet treating them 
 with a cold hauteur which rendered them 
 averse to his person, and indifferent to his in- 
 terest, Mr. Stancliffe in a very short time 
 (•hanged the tide of public opinion, and private 
 prosperity ; and those who had pitied the 
 young man who was tied to a partner whose 
 extravagant family had reduced his property, 
 and injured the credit of the house, now main- 
 tained that to the services of Hemingford alone 
 it had been indebted for stability, and that as 
 i i 10 elder Stancliffe had gained money through 
 his diligence, the younger must preserve it by 
 the same medium, or lose it.
 
 68 PATIENCE. 
 
 In the mean time Dora attended to her du- 
 ties with that quiet, but unremitting vigilance, 
 which is ever effective ; and rinding that she 
 could not, consistent with the situation she 
 filled in society, indulge her love for reading 
 and drawing, (which she held to be the greatest* 
 pleasures of life,) she gave herself up to those 
 pursuits most agreeable to her husband, whose 
 pleasure it was that she should be a busy 
 housekeeper in the early part of the day, and 
 frequently take a part in musical performances 
 with parties in the evening. Mr. Stancliffe's 
 mother had been much of a cook, and al- 
 though her situation in life had placed her 
 above the necessity of such employments, 
 had, partly from a desire of pampering her 
 son's appetite, and partly to fill up the vacuity 
 of time, (heavy to an unfurnished mind and 
 undirected taste,) engaged herself much in 
 culinary employments ; and from her example, 
 her son concluded that all good wives ought 
 to do the same, as he had now ceased to gaze 
 on Dora's complection, or examine the form 
 of her fingers, and the pinkyness of her palms, 
 he thought her cool hands might be well em- 
 ployed in pastry, of which he was particularly 
 fond.
 
 PATIENCE. fif) 
 
 To win his approbation, ;hi<I feel rewarded 
 by lii- smiles, was the first apparent object of 
 Dora's life; but yet it is certain, that her 
 heart was silently engaged in higher hopes 
 and expectations! She trusted that her own 
 activity would be the stimulant to his, and 
 that her meekness and self-controul, in the 
 petty vexations and unceasing crosses, which 
 happen in every establishment, would lead him 
 to endure those thwartings of circumstances, 
 which every man in business must submit to; 
 and her gentle admonitions to Frank were fre- 
 quently of such a nature as to awaken him to 
 the exercise of the talents she praised, but she 
 never presumed to give advice, much less to 
 remonstrate, with her husband. 
 
 Two hours in the day she constantly dedi- 
 cated to Frank, who had also masters to attend 
 him, and now began to make rapid progress 
 in his education, which Stancliffe aided much 
 by praise, saying frequently, " aye, my boy, 
 J will soon have you in the counting-house 
 — I will make a man of you by and bye," 
 words which Dora construed into general en- 
 couragement ; but she learnt with surprise and 
 almost dismay, that he really intended to place 
 the poor child there, so soon as he could b
 
 70 PATIENCE. 
 
 rendered in the least degree useful ; and upon 
 her proposing to engage a person to supply 
 her place to him as a governess, when the task 
 became too laborious for her, she was assured 
 " that it was wholly unnecessary, for that her 
 sister Harriet might supply her place to him. 
 These were not times in which to increase the 
 expences of the family beyond what the neces- 
 sity of the case required." 
 
 From a young husband, about to become a 
 father for the first time, these words were cold, 
 and almost harsh ; and the heart of the young 
 creature to whom they were addressed, sunk, 
 as she recollected that she had no mother, or 
 friend, to whom she could look for comfort 
 or assistance, at that awful period which every 
 woman trembles to encounter, and which calls 
 imperatively for all the aids of kindness, and 
 the supports of consolatory love. The pro- 
 visions made by a husband for the accommo- 
 dations of his beloved wife, and the expected 
 claimant on his tenderness, may be pardoned 
 for partaking the character of extravagance, 
 but never ought to diverge in a contrary direc- 
 tion. 
 
 Happily for Dora, she was herself so dis- 
 interested and generous, that it was scarcely
 
 PAT] ENCE, . i 
 
 possible for her to coneeive the opposite prin- 
 ciples could operate in the mind of one she 
 loved ; and frequent as the proofs of meanness 
 and selfishness in Stancliffe's conduct had al- 
 ready been, she generally imputed them either 
 to deficient eonsideration, or a habit contracted 
 from circumstances with which she was un- 
 acquainted. She contrasted the trifling saving 
 he now attempted, with the ex pence he had 
 perhaps incurred the day before ; and not 
 being aware that those who are the most 
 covetous, may from the same cause be the 
 most profuse, concluded, that when her dear 
 Everton did wrong, it was from chance, (either 
 in saving, or spending,) whenever his action 
 could be construed into good, she registered it 
 as proceeding from principle and disposition. 
 If ever man could be flattered into virtue, 
 Everton Stancliffe appeared likely to become 
 that man ; for unconnected as his wife now 
 was, her talents and her conduct, (aided un- 
 doubtedly by her person, manners, and reputed 
 fortune,) had drawn around them a circle of 
 respectable and accomplished persons, whose 
 good opinion he was desirous of preserving ; 
 and although his passion for Dora had d 
 clincd, his esteem for her, and his desire of
 
 72 PATIENCE. 
 
 holding his place in her affection, rose daily. 
 He was proud of being appreciated by a per- 
 son of her discernment, and that vanity which 
 had formerly led him to seek distinction for 
 his personal advantages, or those accomplish- 
 ments which attract the eye, now turned a 
 little towards more worthy objects ; and those 
 faculties with which he was eminently gifted 
 by nature, were partially applied to objects 
 worthy of their powers. 
 
 Though subject to indolence, and habituated 
 from his cradle to self-indulgence, yet few men 
 were more capable of either mental or bodily 
 exertion than Stancliffe ; he had the power of 
 being rapid without confusion, and of com- 
 prehending quickly, and yet proceeding sys- 
 tematically, to any given point. His memory 
 was singularly retentive ; and whatever he 
 had taken the trouble to learn, whether mo. 
 mentous or trifling, was so fixed in his mind, 
 that he could always bring it into action. 
 From his father he had acquired the knowledge 
 necessary for great gains, and bold yet not 
 gambling speculations : — from his mother, 
 he picked up a habit of petty savings, incon- 
 sistent with his situation in life and his general 
 habits, but which to the sborf-sighted looked
 
 PATIENCE. 73 
 
 like prudence. Altogether, there were those 
 ingredients from which a clever tradesman, an 
 useful member of society, and a very agree- 
 able companion, might be extracted, could 
 they have been amalgamated with religious 
 integrity of principle, well regulated sensibi- 
 lity, and domestic affection. 
 
 In the first weeks of his married life, Stan- 
 cliffe had paid his young and lovely wife at- 
 tentions which bespoke the violence of his 
 passion, since they proved that he really 
 thought more of her than himself : — the ad- 
 miration she excited in society, for a time 
 continued to render her an object of his care, 
 because she was one of his pride, and even at 
 the time when he had most wounded her feel- 
 ings by reflections on her parents, or quarrel? 
 with the servants, during the former part ot 
 the day, in the evening he hovered round her 
 with the pride of an admirer, and the tender- 
 ness of a lover — he felt her value as his own 
 property, and was delighted to display his 
 own advantages in her beauty and accomplish- 
 ments. 
 
 But as passion for her person declined, and 
 the novelty of exhibiting her lost its charm, 
 Everton Stanclilie relapsed into his former self, 
 
 H
 
 74 PATIENCE. 
 
 a character in which Dora had never beheld 
 him, since love had from the first day of then 
 acquaintance given to him its own ameliorating 
 traits, and transformed a clever, but conceited 
 and petulant young man, selfish in his feel- 
 ings, and obstinate as passionate in his tem- 
 per, into a gentle though impatient suitor, 
 who, in subduing one passion for the gratifi- 
 cation of another, obtained the praise of ge- 
 nerosity, to which he had in fact little preten- 
 sion, since the welfare of her he loved was no 
 further considered by him, than as conducive 
 to the interest he sought to obtain in her af- 
 fections. 
 
 Dora of course saw none of these things — 
 she loved, for the first time, an apparently 
 amiable young man, who had in his person, 
 manners, and mind, every qualification neces- 
 sary to excite the regard of an intelligent and 
 tender heart, thrown upon the mercy of any 
 one for that kindly intercourse from which it 
 had been cruelly separated. It is, however, 
 certain, that the trials of her father's house 
 Were of great use in preparing her mind foi 
 those she soon afterwards experienced in the 
 temper and disposition of her husband ; since 
 they enabled her to perceive that life in ge-
 
 PATIENCE. 75 
 
 neral is very different from that she had known 
 at Crickhovvel, and that the religion which she 
 had been taught to embrace there as the great 
 support of virtue, and the consolation of the 
 afflicted, must henceforward be rendered an 
 active principle, constant in its influence. 
 Every lesson she had received from «Mrs. 
 Aylmer rose to her mind, and she endeavoured 
 to benefit from them ; but they rarely applied 
 to any situation in which she found herself 
 placed, save as the guardian of Frank, fur 
 Mrs. Aylmer as a wife had been very differ- 
 ently placed, nor had her path in the world in 
 any way resembled that which was chalked 
 out for her beloved protogee. Yet her return 
 to England, her presence, her support, her 
 advice, was soon looked to by Dora as the 
 greatest of all earthly blessings, for she felt 
 the want of a friend, sometimes of a protector 
 since the heart on which she sought to lean, 
 refused or eluded the burthen.
 
 7f> 
 
 CHAP V. 
 
 o 
 
 otancliffe was in the situation of being 
 half persuaded to do right, from liking the 
 praise which attended it, and also the profit 
 likely to accrue from it, when letters were re- 
 ceived from Mr. Hemingford, which plainly 
 indicated how valuable his presence had al- 
 ready become, since they contained important 
 remittances, and guaranteed orders to an 
 amount which roused the young man into in- 
 stant activity, by awakening not only his love 
 for money, but for pre-eminence as a mer- 
 cantile man. 
 
 Dora rejoiced in the change; for although 
 she would have been most thankful if the even 
 tenor of her way had never been broken in 
 upon by commercial concerns, and certainly 
 had no love for money beyond its real uses, 
 yet she justly considered a life of idleness as 
 unworthy a rational being, and especially dis- 
 gusting in a young man. She thought, too, 
 that the sensibilities of the heart were frozen
 
 PATIENCE. 77 
 
 in that state of apathy produced by indolence, 
 and that love and kindness would return with 
 those exertions which set the spirits in motion ; 
 and although she was extremely unwell, (and 
 in particular anxiety on Frank's account,) she 
 yet paid the utmost attention to all the subjects 
 on which her husband expatiated, and assumed 
 the utmost interest in all his movements. 
 
 Their letters were succeeded by visitants — 
 the same vessel which brought these despatches 
 conveyed also a Mr. and Mrs. Masterman, 
 who had been the intimate friends of Mr. 
 Stancline during a considerable part of his 
 residence abroad. The gentleman had been 
 a well-meaning but somewhat visionary 
 schemer, who after various plans returned 
 poorer than he set out in pocket, but accord- 
 ing to his own conception, so much richer in 
 knowledge and experience, as to ensure the 
 making of a rapid fortune in his own country. 
 He was a plain kind-hearted man, a generous, 
 confiding, and most affectionate husband, ge- 
 nerally too much absorbed in his plans for the 
 future, to pay further attention to his domestic 
 concerns than to provide liberally for the 
 many wants of his beautiful and all-command- 
 ing wife. 
 
 ii 3
 
 78 PATIENCE. 
 
 Mrs. Masterman was that dangerous cha- 
 racter in society, a married coquette, which 
 she assumed under an appearance of prudery, 
 so artfully managed, as to deceive the most 
 wary ; and every man distinguished by her 
 smiles, gave himself credit for having been the 
 only one who could touch a heart so guarded. 
 She was married when very young, from a 
 humble station in life, and being uneducated, 
 unattached, and remaining childless, had pos- 
 sessed an unhappy leisure which she could 
 only employ in ornamenting her person, which 
 was very handsome, and in amusing herself 
 by practising those lures which render beauty 
 most fascinating to the susceptible and 
 thoughtless. Exercise of power had its usual 
 effect; she became proud, tyrannical, and 
 frequently malignant, towards others ; and 
 was, in her turn, a slave to passions it was the 
 great and distressing business of her life to 
 indulge and to conceal. No stage Abigail 
 in the old comedy could be more a woman of 
 intrigue ; but with ability to which they could 
 form no pretence, no shepherdess in a pastoral 
 poem preserved a more innocent exterior or 
 greater purity of deportment. 
 
 On her first arrival at Smyrna, Mrs. Master
 
 PATIENCK. 79 
 
 man had distinguished Everton Stancliffe; 
 and as circumstances threw them much into 
 society together, and she was the admired of 
 all eyes, his vanity could not fail to be gratified 
 by her simplest approbation. He was consi- 
 derably younger than her, (although her cease- 
 less cares prolonged the reign of beauty,) and 
 his admiration of her person was not that 
 thraldom of the senses, and bewilderment of 
 the judgment, she had been accustomed to 
 awaken — she became piqued into a resolution 
 to perfect her conquest, and would unques- 
 tionably have carried her point, but for the 
 sudden removal of her husband, and the ne- 
 cessity she was under of accompanying him 
 to Aleppo. 
 
 On her return, Stancliffe was gone to Eng- 
 land, and thither she determined on following 
 him ; and although generally true to the in- 
 terests of her husband, if false to him in other 
 respects, (like the wife of Belisarius,) she did 
 not hesitate to sacrifice them in the present 
 instance ; and by working upon his affections 
 from feigning indisposition, she prevailed on 
 him to give up his prospects and the remu- 
 neration of past labours, and return suddenly 
 to his native countrv.
 
 80 PATIENCE. 
 
 The voyage restored her health, and re- 
 animated her beauty ; and she burst upon 
 Stancliffe with all the advantages of an adept 
 in the art of charming, at a time when his wife 
 was inevitably looking ill, and was languid in 
 her spirits though not dejected, of course un- 
 equal to the amusement of a man whose tem- 
 per varying perpetually, either required a 
 companion who could perform for his pleasure 
 the part assigned, or listen in mute attention 
 to him. He was pleased with the accession 
 of company, as offering variety, and was 
 doubly pleased to receive it in so fair a form 
 as that presented by the arrival of Mrs. Mas- 
 ter man. 
 
 The gentleness of Dora's manners, the po- 
 lished simplicity, and the genuine warmth ol 
 her hospitable reception of the strangers, 
 who brought with them letters from her mother 
 and sisters, really delighted Mr. Masterman, 
 and half disarmed his lady of those designs 
 she had conceived against her domestic hap- 
 piness ; the more especially when she perceived 
 that her own person and dress were regarded 
 by Stancliffe with the admiration and homage 
 she intended them to exact. Mild, and in- 
 sinuating in her manners, of penetrating mind,
 
 PATIENCE. 81 
 
 and stored with observations which supplied 
 the place of reading, and were communicated 
 with a vividness of colouring fresh from the 
 life, her society was delightful to Frank, anr* 
 scarcely less so to his sister, who was morti- 
 fied when she refused to take up her abode 
 with them altogether, and gladly assisted in 
 seeking lodgings as near to her own house as 
 possible for her temporary home. 
 
 A very few days sufficed to render J)ora 
 Imppy in the belief that she had now secured 
 the friend she had long desired ; but a i'ew 
 more told her that her husband, not less happy 
 than herself, gave up to the strangers that 
 time which was now of the last importance, 
 and that the hours spent with Mr. Masterman 
 in consultations on his affairs, or in shewing 
 the neighbourhood to his lady, were really too 
 valuable at this particular time even for friend- 
 ship to demand. Every day she hoped that 
 a person so truly friendly as this lady appeared 
 to be, would herself see the propriety of set- 
 ting him at liberty, and that as she evidently 
 could say more to him than any other person, 
 she would give him advice to this end. Mrs. 
 Masterman did not do this; but when in
 
 8£ PATIENCE 
 
 confidential conversation, she urged it on her 
 young friend as a positive duty. 
 
 " Really, dear Mrs. Stancliffe, you ought 
 to speak to Mr. S. — I know very well that if 
 the goods are not sent out immediately, your 
 father will be in the greatest distress, and the 
 prospects of the house are now so great, that 
 you ought not to allow them to be lost from 
 his inattention." 
 
 " I hope he will do every thing, indeed I 
 am sure he will ; he is very active, and does 
 more in a day, than many in a week, and our 
 clerks are all very industrious." 
 
 In fact, it was impossible to make Dora 
 say one word that could irritate the husband, 
 which had been the pious intention of the 
 lady, not but she wished him to attend to his 
 concerns, even whilst he was attending to her, 
 for she wanted him to get money in order to 
 forward her views in the disposal of it, and at 
 length addressed him with — 
 
 " Would it not be possible for you to make 
 that baby of yours useful in the counting- 
 house ? her father boasted much of her talents 
 in that way to Masterman, I remember." 
 " Oh. no ! at least not at present, in her
 
 PATIENCK. 83 
 
 situation ; — the whole town would talk about 
 it." 
 
 " I would make her do it, nevertheless, and 
 the town should be no wiser — what is her 
 paltry income? nothing, certainly, that should 
 prevent her from a little exertion at a particular 
 time like this, for a husband who has been 
 supporting her family for years." 
 
 Stanclirle knew the conclusion of this speech 
 to be as false as the beginning was imperti- 
 nent and cruel ; but he had resigned his judg- 
 ment to this woman, who saw her power over 
 him, and determined to use it to the utmost ; 
 she was offended with him for daring to marry 
 after she had honoured him by encourage- 
 ment, and was bent on revenge. But she had 
 a two-fold point to carry ; she wished to se- 
 cure him in her chains, and to render him the 
 partner of her husband ; by this means she 
 could enjoy his fortune and his society, and 
 at the same time render his domestic uneasiness 
 at once the punishment of his faults, and the 
 medium of attaching him to herself, from 
 whom alone he should receive his pleasures. 
 
 If we did not know " that such things were," 
 we would not present such a being to the con- 
 templation of the unvitiated mind ; but, alas !
 
 84 PATIENCE. 
 
 there are many such syrens in the world, and 
 the young and inexperienced of both sexes 
 should be warned against them : — this was 
 not the first house where Mrs. Masterman had 
 thrown the brand of discord, whilst she en 
 tered with a* smile on her lip, and the lan- 
 guage of friendship on her tongue ; but it was 
 certainly the first in which she had failed to 
 render the wife an offender against her hus- 
 band by using words of exhortation or re- 
 proach, which when most merited, man nevei 
 fails to resent from his weaker partner, and to 
 consider his excuse for even flagrant error. 
 
 In a short time Dora's dressing-room be- 
 came the scene of labours she entered into 
 with avidity, but was ill able to execute, 
 hoping from day to day, that the evening 
 would repay her labours by words of praise, 
 and deeds of kindness, from Everton, who was 
 now, at the instigation of Mrs. Masterman, 
 really very busy. But unfortunately, she ever 
 failed of this reward ; he was too fastidious to 
 be satisfied, too weary to inspect, or in too 
 great a hurry to get out ; " it was very hard 
 indeed upon a man to be teazed in his own 
 house when he had been fagging all day as 
 he had done."
 
 PATIENCE. 85 
 
 The very first clay he was at liberty, he an- 
 nounced an intention of setting out immedi- 
 ately for London. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Masterman, " we are all 
 going together, my dear friend, depend upon 
 it we will take care of him." 
 
 " But he cannot go," said Dora, with a de- 
 precating look, "at present, Mrs. Masterman, 
 for I am very ill." 
 
 " Indeed ! and you want him to make your 
 caudle ?" 
 
 " Do not laugh at me — it is certain I wish 
 for him very much — I have been doing my 
 utmost to assist him, and I had hoped — be- 
 sides, how can he be happy leaving me in so 
 critical a situation ?" 
 
 " I will not leave you, Dora," said Stancliffe, 
 with warmth, " not for the world." 
 
 Dora looked towards him with eyes full of 
 glistening gratitude, but in doing so, she 
 caught an expression of anger in those of Mrs. 
 Masterman, which astonished and confounded 
 her ; she knew not what might previously have 
 occurred, but in the present happy state of 
 her feelings, she could not ascribe it to any 
 thing now passing, and she therefore added, 
 
 i
 
 86 PATIENCE. 
 
 " I was in hopes, too, that you would have 
 been with me, my friend." 
 
 " Perhaps I may— like all wives, I must de- 
 pend upon the will of my liege lord." 
 
 Dora well knew this assertion was not strictly 
 true, for in all things she had observed this 
 lady carried her point ; and although Mr. 
 Masterman, in his tall athletic form, conveyed 
 the idea of an important personage, it was yet 
 certain that he was completely under the 
 management of his sovereign lady, who ap- 
 peared born to reign a queen over all of his 
 sex whom she deigned to consider her sub- 
 jects. 
 
 Dora retired to her room, and soon became 
 so ill as to summon her attendants ; yet she 
 was sensible that loud words were passing in 
 the parlour she had quitted ; soon afterwards, 
 her husband ran up stairs, and rushing into 
 the room sans ceremonie, said, " good bye, my 
 love — I find I must go, take care of your self 
 - ah ! doctor, are you there ? good bye, good 
 bye." 
 
 He vanished ; and for a moment Dora felt 
 as if the stroke of death had fallen upon her, 
 a pang far beyond the mere loss of his presence
 
 PATIENCE. 87 
 
 at this moment, rent her heart, and opened her 
 eyes, and she perceived herself abandoned for 
 another, — that other, the woman she had loved 
 and confided in. 
 
 Terrible as this affliction was, and rendered 
 doubly severe at this trying period, yet for a 
 season it was necessarily forgotten, for there 
 are times in which the most weighty concerns 
 of the mind must bend to the distresses of the 
 body ; but who shall describe the mingled sen- 
 sations, the very agony she felt, when her boy 
 was placed in her arms, and she remembered 
 that his father had forsaken them both in the 
 hour of suffering, and robbed her of the ten- 
 der reward which nature designs for every 
 mother — -that of presenting her offspring to 
 its parent. 
 
 Long and bitter were the tears she now shed ; 
 but the remonstrances of her attendants were 
 listened to, and she endeavoured to calm her 
 mind, and to excuse her own weakness, and 
 the apparent unkindness of her husband, whom 
 she desired Frank would write to immediately. 
 Although a thousand recollections of circum- 
 stances indicating the more than friendly at- 
 tentions of her husband to Mrs. Masterman 
 sprang continuallv to her mind, as if to rival
 
 88 PATIENCE. 
 
 the pains that had left her, yet she opposed 
 to them, with all the strength she could, a 
 determination to believe him innocent of 
 actual or intentional guilt ; and like most wives, 
 she was more inclined to lay error at the door 
 of his seducer, than of him. The expression 
 on Mrs. Masterman's countenance was ever 
 present to her eye, as indicating anger with 
 him for a promise she had afterwards prevailed 
 on him to break ; and she justly judged that 
 her husband had allowed the struggle his heart 
 had held between them, to terminate in favour 
 of her rival, who was probably now rewarding 
 him for his desertion, by means which could 
 not fail to produce future infamy. 
 
 How did she long to fly after him, to be- 
 seech him to have mercy upon himself and 
 her, and the child she had borne him ! — what 
 torrents of eloquence seemed to spring to her 
 lips for such a purpose, and how fondly did 
 she dwell on his promise to remain, — a promise 
 which, although broken, implied intentional 
 kindness, in which a patient and tender heart 
 could find food for hope, and reason for per- 
 severance in love. 
 
 Hut the distress she had suffered, and the 
 solicitude which she could not conquer, neces-
 
 PATIENCE. 89 
 
 sarily affected her health ; and though she 
 straggled to appear cheerful, and even jested 
 upon her own childish wishes for the presence 
 of her husband, (lest the jealous uneasiness of 
 her heart should betray itself to those around 
 her,) the consequences too soon appeared, she 
 became alarmingly ill, and her infant partook 
 the disorder. 
 
 The overwhelming sorrow of poor Frank at 
 this juncture may be easily conceived; but 
 his tender watchfulness, presence of mind, and 
 care in procuring assistance, were beyond his 
 years, and gave him a new interest in the 
 hearts of all who offered their services on this 
 melancholy occasion. To the great satisfac- 
 tion of their friends, Mr. Stancliffe arrived 
 before it appeared possible that he had heard 
 of her danger. 
 
 The unexpected pleasure of his presence 
 operated as a cordial on the sinking wife, and 
 obliterated all her late fears and suspicions ; 
 and the cheerfulness of her reception, the ra- 
 pidity of her amendment, effaced thl circum- 
 stance as a matter of blame from the minds 
 of those around her, who now considered that 
 it was indeed very indispensible business that 
 had compelled him to the journey. Yet there 
 
 i3
 
 90 PATIENCE. 
 
 was a constraint and uneasiness in the man- 
 ners of the husband, which indicated a heart 
 little interested in the circumstances so mo- 
 mentous to him ; his spirits were evidently in 
 perturbation, but it was not that of anxiety as 
 a husband and a father. 
 
 In a few days after his arrival, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Masterman also returned, and the lady 
 soon paid her respects to the invalid in the 
 stile their acquaintance warranted ; and in the 
 ease and openness of her manners, Dora not 
 only conquered all remaining anxieties and 
 suspicions, but in the generosity of her heart 
 sought to make her amends for having dared 
 to think ill of her ; though she could not ac- 
 quit her of having caused her to be treated 
 unkindly by her husband, yet she felt the ac- 
 tion as proceeding from a very different cause 
 from that which her jealousy had assigned. 
 Sincerely did she thank God that her husband 
 was innocent, and firmly did she determine 
 never to condemn herself again to such suf- 
 fering as 4ier suspicions had caused her to en- 
 dure. 
 
 Every thought of her heart was read in her 
 ingenuous countenance, and unsophiscated 
 manners, by the woman whose natural pene-
 
 PATIENCB. <Jl 
 
 tration had been improved by experience, and 
 who in the present case could not hate hci 
 whom she determined to use as a creature sub- 
 servient to her views, and conducive to hrr 
 interests. With an air of secrecy she inform- 
 ed her, " that their sudden journey had been 
 taken to secure something of great importance 
 to Mr. Masterman, which could not have 
 been possibly done without the intervention 
 of Mr. Stancliffe, who would probably be some 
 day the better for the kindness he has shewn 
 him — in fact he has been bound for him, and 
 is, I believe, going into partnership with him, 
 but pray do not give a hint that I told you. 
 Men are all fond of keeping their own se- 
 crets, or divulging them their own way ; but 
 I could not forbear telling you, because it 
 must be evident to you that Stancliffe has 
 something on his mind." 
 
 " Yes, I have perceived that he was very 
 absent, and I did not know what to impute it 
 to, since I have been so much better." 
 
 " Well, that is the matter, so now be easy 
 — we have already been the cause of so much 
 uneasiness to you, that although I am under 
 promise not to speak of it, yet 1 could not help 
 it."
 
 92 PATIENCE. 
 
 " How could I so wickedly wrong this wo- 
 man ?" said Dora to herself ; " but how happy 
 a circumstance it is to reflect upon, that I had 
 the resolution to keep my foolish thoughts to 
 myself — never can a wife be too careful in 
 concealing the errors of her husband, much 
 more should she conceal her suspicions." 
 
 The first time Dora dined down stairs, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Masterman were present. She did 
 not feel quite her usual cordiality towards the 
 former ; but he admired her little boy, and she 
 forgave him : — he talked much of the busi- 
 ness into which he was entering, and shewed 
 his hopes, his difficulties, and expectations, 
 with an openness, candour, and simplicity, 
 which marked at once his honesty, enthusiasm, 
 and false estimation of circumstances common 
 to projectors. Dora trembled for him, and was 
 extremely uneasy for her husband, whose usual 
 quick-sightedness seemed to fail him on this 
 occasion, as he listened to the golden dreams of 
 Masterman with considerable approbation ; 
 but his manners were still indicative of uneasi- 
 ness, and his first pleasant look was assumed 
 at the moment of her departure to the nursery. 
 
 Stancliffe was new to deception, and he was 
 indeed at this time unhappy ; his proud and
 
 PATIENCE. 93 
 
 fiery spirit was curbed by that cowardice which 
 is inevitably connected with guilt in young 
 offenders — his mind was busy and uneasy, 
 dissatisfied with himself and all arouud him, 
 yet unable to seize an occasion of venting his 
 vexation, lest he should betray the guilty se- 
 cret that preyed upon his heart. 
 
 The following day, he thus addressed the 
 wife whose love and confidence were at this 
 time so tormenting to him, as to render his re- 
 quest less a desire than a demand. 
 
 " You are now well, I think a journey could 
 not hurt you ?" 
 
 " It will not hurt me, my love, if the child 
 can bear it." 
 
 " Pshaw ! the child — I suppose that is to 
 be made a reason for every thing — but you 
 may take it with you into Cheshire, I wish 
 you to visit Mr. Blackwell, and persuade him 
 to advance me two or three thousand pounds." 
 
 " He is a stern man, you know, my love, 
 and will ask a thousand questions." 
 
 " I know it, which is the reason I send you, 
 instead of going myself, for I am aware that 
 I should fly out and ruin all — you must tell 
 him the prosperous state of our business, 
 which you understand sufficiently to prove;
 
 94 PATIENCE. 
 
 and say, that he may repay himself by with- 
 holding the income he now allows us, or settle 
 the matter as he pleases ; but I must have the 
 money." 
 
 " Cannot I write all this, my dear?" 
 
 " No — your personal appearance, and even 
 that of your boy, are a species of security to 
 him — had you both died, (which appeared 
 likely enough a fortnight ago,) all would have 
 gone to Frank — such is the d — d way in which 
 old women make wills." 
 
 The cold, heartless way in which Stancliffe 
 adverted to her death, struck Dora as careless 
 even to cruelty ; but she resolved not again to 
 condemn him causelessly, and she sought in the 
 readiness of her obedience, to embrace a dis- 
 agreeable journey, on a disagreeable errand, to 
 earn that approbation, and win that kindness, 
 so dear to her heart, and so necessary to her 
 happiness. 
 
 A nurse, a babe, a young wife, were very 
 extraordinary visitants at Blackwell hall, and 
 excited no small degree of astonishment in the 
 antient housekeeper, and venerable butler; 
 but there are few hearts so dead to the early 
 and sweet sympathies of our common nature, 
 as not to behold them with pleasure Mr.
 
 PATIENCE. !).') 
 
 Blackwell received Dora after his first excla- 
 mation of surprise, with a courteous, but sin- 
 cere welcome, and handed her into his house 
 with an air of fatherly protection, which soothed 
 the agitation of her spirits, and somewhat com- 
 pensated for the fears which had harassed her 
 during her journey, which being more than 
 fifty miles, had also been too much for her in 
 her present convalescence. 
 
 Every person, and every thing, under the 
 roof, were soon put into requisition, for the ac- 
 commodation of the guests, and for the first 
 time in her life Dora was treated as a gentle- 
 woman of importance. Mr. Blackwell soon 
 learnt that she arrived as a suitor to him for 
 money ; but he neither by word or look, indi- 
 cated any thing repellant, although he placed 
 an interdict on all business till the following 
 day, intreating only " that she would command 
 his house in such a way as might most con- 
 duce to her health and comfort." 
 
 Poor Dora had unlimited permission to 
 lengthen her visit from a husband who had 
 conceived that her commission would be one 
 of difficulty, and who was aiso glad to be de- 
 livered from the burden of her presence, to 
 which he could not in the present state of his
 
 96 PATIENCE. 
 
 mind accustom himself. Although wearied 
 and somewhat indisposed on the following day, 
 she had the satisfaction of writing to Stan- 
 cliffe the consent of Mr. Blackwell to advance 
 him two thousand pounds on the terms pro- 
 posed, to mention his hospitable reception, and 
 heartily wish that he were present to partake 
 it, that being the only circumstance wanting 
 to her happiness. 
 
 The change of scene was rendered extremely 
 beneficial to Dora, in consequence of the air- 
 ings Mr. Blackwell took her over the estates of 
 her late godmother, anxious to shew the im- 
 provements he had made by enclosures, fences, 
 and buildings, which although they had ne- 
 cessarily encroached considerably on the pre- 
 sent produce, would fully justify his expendi- 
 ture. He also took her to the house occupied 
 by Mrs. Dorothy, which though smaller than 
 his own, was well calculated for a country 
 gentleman's establishment, and was kept by its 
 present occupants in a state of great neatness 
 and thorough repair, and beautifully situated 
 in the midst of an old fashioned garden, en- 
 riched by avenues and terraces, from whence 
 it looked on a wide-spread smiling country. 
 The eyes of Dora swam in tears, (but not of
 
 PATIENCR. (J7 
 
 sorrow,) as she thought of the happiness to be 
 enjoyed in such a place, far from the cares 
 and the fictitious splendour of cities, with 
 leisure for the duties and the pleasures of her 
 early life, the friend of that life for her guide 
 and companion, and her husband turning his 
 mind to objects of useful and rural occupa- 
 tion, the friend of the poor, the admiration of 
 the rich, the example to all. 
 
 " I must have patience," said Dora inter- 
 nally, " I must take the apostle's advice to 
 ' labour and not faint,' and never to be • wearied 
 in well doing.' " 
 
 Dora spent the Sunday following with her 
 kind entertainer, and at church renewed the 
 engagements and holy resolutions of her soul, 
 so lately injured by sorrow, and worldly anx- 
 ieties. Her heart was at once purified and 
 lightened of its load of care, and the freedom 
 she enjoyed from all present pressure, £ave 
 her spirits that elasticity they needed, restored 
 her health, and bestowed strength to run her 
 arduous race anew. 
 
 K
 
 98 
 
 CHAP. VII. 
 
 JVIr. Blackwell himself conveyed Dora and 
 her attendant in his own coach the first two 
 stages of her journey. On parting, he re- 
 gretted much that her husband had not given 
 her the meeting, but added, " I suppose the 
 same painful necessity which induced him to 
 send you alone operates still ; he deserves to 
 get rich, for he makes, in my opinion, great 
 sacrifices to that end; but pray, my dear young 
 lady, exert your utmost influence to guard him 
 from extending his concerns too far, that is 
 the error of all Liverpool men, and indeed the 
 error of the age : tell him also, to exchange 
 the hunters he is too busy to exercise, for a 
 carriage, in which his w r ife and child may 
 really receive benefit, as well as himself." 
 
 Dora well knew that she dared not deliver 
 the latter part of this friendly message, but 
 she meditated all the rest of the way on those 
 circumstances connected with the former.; 
 and considering it her absolute duty to speak
 
 PATIENCE'. 99 
 
 on the subject, determined to do it even at the 
 risk of that anger which was the object of her 
 greatest earthly fear, and which nothing of 
 less importance than the welfare of her hus- 
 band could induce her to venture upon. 
 
 " But he will not be angry with me now," 
 said Dora, as the carriage drove to the door, 
 and she folded her child in her arms ; and the 
 conclusion would have been deemed a just 
 one by all who saw her, for never had she been 
 so lovely — never had her countenance beamed 
 with so sweet an expression, nor that exqui- 
 site complection, which had first attracted his 
 eye, shone with such pearly whiteness, such 
 glowing roses. 
 
 Stancliffe was just going out at the moment 
 when she alighted, and he not only started at 
 the sight of her, but the colour sprang to his 
 cheek — " he loves me," said Dora, and her 
 heart beat with delight, as she seized his arm 
 and hastened into the house. 
 
 " I did not expect you this hour ; I was 
 stepping ii j) to Masterman's, he will be wait- 
 ing for me." 
 
 " The idea, " perhaps she will be waiting," 
 darted through the heart of Dora; but she 
 repe'led it, and said gaily, " well, my love, let
 
 100 PATIENCE. 
 
 him wait a little while, he is too gallant to 
 take you from a lady — besides, you have no 
 idea how the child is improved, every day 
 makes him more like you, look at him." 
 
 StanclifFe looked at his boy, and even kissed 
 him, but his eyes reverted more frequently to 
 the mother, and he said again and again to 
 himself, " how well she looks ! how handsome 
 she is !" he even sate down, as if to partake 
 her tea, but the striking of the clock reminded 
 him of his engagement, and he rushed out of 
 the house without speaking. 
 
 Hour after hour passed, and he returned not 
 — ah ! who can tell, save her who has thus 
 waited, and thus counted the lapse of time, 
 how heavily it passed to poor Dora at a period 
 when her spirits were excited by circumstances, 
 and overflowing with love and joy — when she 
 had the power too of presenting her beloved 
 husband with a certain property, and of de- 
 scribing: that which awaited them, and which 
 was more desirable than any thing of which 
 she had formed an idea. It is certain there 
 are many injuries more tangible than unkind- 
 ness and neglect, but there are none which 
 are felt more acutely, or which the wounded 
 spirit bewails more bitterly ; and though we
 
 PATIENCE. 101 
 
 arc all apt to complain the most of those 
 slights inflicted upon us in the hour of sorrow, 
 and think ourselves justified in registering 
 them as worthy of resentment, yet we feel 
 them severely also on other occasions, for the 
 joy which a beloved connection refuses to 
 share is from such a cause turned into sor- 
 row. 
 
 Poor Frank was unwell, and had retired be- 
 fore her arrival, and she would not permit him 
 to be disturbed — she could not read or work, 
 and several times she resolved to wrap herself 
 up and step to Mr. Masterman's herself, but 
 she dreaded exciting an idea that she was 
 suspicious or of shewing that like her husband 
 she could not live without constant inter- 
 course with them — her reverie was dissolved 
 by the entrance of Mr. M. who merely called 
 to give the servant a newspaper, but hearing 
 she was arrived, stopped for a moment to wel- 
 come her home. 
 
 " Have you then not been at home ?" sajd 
 Dora, in surprise and inward alarm. 
 
 " Not for some hours — I had an engage- 
 ment, and 'not expecting you so soon, desired 
 Stancliffe would come and play chess with 
 Mrs. M.; you know ] never leave her for an 
 
 k 3
 
 H)2 PATIENCE. 
 
 evening without providing her with some 
 amusement, they are both great players, and 
 do vastly well together " 
 
 Whilst he spoke, Stancliffe returned home, 
 and after he was gone, Dora observed, " that 
 she was so much a stranger to every thing 
 down stairs, as it was six weeks since she left 
 the parlour, that the evening had passed very 
 slowly, she had been nearly wrapping herself 
 up and coming over the way to them. 
 
 " I should have been exceedingly angry if 
 you had." 
 
 " Angry !" said Dora, faintly. 
 " Yes, very angry, it would have been highly 
 improper, and what I certainly should not 
 forgive." 
 
 The tone in which the last words were ut- 
 tered was silencing, from its loudness and as- 
 perity, and Dora was left to consider whether 
 the impropriety spoken of was relating to the 
 state of her own health, (in which case it was 
 a kindness,) or to the liberty of intruding unin- 
 vited, on a woman who was a constant visitant 
 at all hours in her house ; but under any cir- 
 cumstance she could not fail to see that a de- 
 cided preference was given to the company of 
 Mrs. Mastennan, and that to contribute to her
 
 p \ i i r..\( r. 103 
 
 amusement was considered paramount to the 
 duty of cheering one who had so lately been 
 a sufferer, and still more lately, a supplicant 
 for his convenience and that of his friend. 
 
 The following day, Dora laid the money 
 upon the table, and in a playful, yet somewhat 
 impressive voice, repeated the admonition of 
 Mr. Blackwell. 
 
 " Tis all very fine, but I shall grow rich as 
 soon as I can, in spite of master Blackwell's 
 old saws. I have no doubt of his cheating me 
 as much as he can, and 1 shall therefore do my 
 best to keep things even by my own gains." 
 
 " Oh ! he is a just, good man, I am sure 
 he is." 
 
 " You are a judge, undoubtedly, Mr-. Stan- 
 cliffe — an upright judge, but rather a young 
 one — certainly one that may be deceived, even 
 out of the evidence of your senses." 
 
 " Perhaps I may," said Dora, with a sigh. 
 
 " I hiow you may." 
 
 " But that money, my dear — is it to be put 
 in the bank .'" 
 
 " It is not. I am going into partnership 
 with Masterman, and this is a part of my 
 capital." 
 
 " Pardon me, dear Everton, but allow me
 
 104 PATIENCE. 
 
 to tell you that I listened with great attention 
 to Mr. Masterman, and I thought his scheme 
 one that must be a long time before it an- 
 swers." 
 
 " So it will, undoubtedly — it is certain no 
 ghost need come to tell us that." 
 
 " Then why should you engage in it who 
 have already an excellent business in your 
 hands, requiring all your time and more than 
 your capital ? why should we, whose property 
 must increase in a few years so materially, be 
 harrassed with new schemes, when the old and 
 certain ones are more than equal to our wants 
 and which must tend to destroy all ease and 
 pleasure, in the best days of our existence? 
 you know, my love, you do not like exertion, 
 and how excessively our last hurry annoyed 
 you." 
 
 " That is true ; but I have promised Master- 
 man, and I am under great obligations in that 
 quarter that you know nothing of — and in 
 short" — 
 
 " If you arc under obligations, repay them, 
 my love, if you can, but not by so terrible a 
 medium as becoming a partner in a concern 
 you do not understand, and cannot manage, 
 and which for some years will demand money
 
 PATIENCE. 105 
 
 you cannot furnish, and prevent you of course 
 from pushing the excellent mercantile busi- 
 ness now so flourishing — here are the bills, 
 my love; lend them, nay, give them to Mr. 
 Masterman, if you like, L give them up freely 
 for that purpose ; but pray, pray do not be- 
 come his partner, — it will harrass you to 
 death." 
 
 The intense anxiety, the glowing affection, 
 the subdued, yet earnest tones, in which Dora 
 addressed her husband, quelled the anger and 
 contempt with which he at first regarded her, 
 and was about to oppose her interference. 
 He felt that she was right ; and it struck him 
 that the best thing he could do would really 
 be to pay off the money he had been bound 
 for, and make an end of the business by ad- 
 vancing that sum. He set out for that pur- 
 pose ; and this offer would have been grate- 
 fully accepted by the husband, but on the wife 
 finding that the proposal had originated with 
 Dora, with that determined ambition to tri- 
 umph over her, which had already been exer- 
 cised at the risk of her own ruin, she set 
 eagerly about thwarting her wishes and con- 
 trived to stimulate the avarice of Stanclirfe 
 so adroitly on the one hand, and alarm him
 
 106 rATIENCE. 
 
 with the fears of discovery on the other, that 
 he finally signed the deeds of partnership, and 
 thus became doubly her slave. 
 
 " Alas ! he has no resolution," thought poor 
 Dora, as she shook her head at the sad pros- 
 pect this folly had opened to them ; and the 
 conclusion was but too just. There was a 
 natural inconstancy in all Stancliffe's feelings 
 and pursuits, which checked alike the pro- 
 gress of virtue in his conduct, and prosperity 
 in his affairs : — he had left his business in 
 Smyrna half established, and his late commis- 
 sion from thence would have been only half 
 got up, if the cares of his old clerk and his 
 young wife had not completed them. He 
 liked the bustle and importance, but he hated 
 the fatigue and perseverance called for ; and 
 even his love for money, which was really 
 great, failed in imposing on him any task that 
 wearied him, or curtailed his pursuit of plea- 
 sure and love of ease. 
 
 From this time Mr. Stancliffe lived more 
 in the house of Mr. Masterman than his 
 own ; yet that, was either directly or in- 
 directly, managed entirely by Mrs. M. whose 
 pleasure it was to tie the young mother en- 
 tirely to her nursery, to controul her expences
 
 PATIENCE. 107 
 
 in every particular, and not only subject her 
 to restrictions, but lectures upon her domestic 
 economy, alike unnecessary and insulting. 
 The husband was, however, made the medium 
 )f all his suffering partner's mortifications, 
 and Dora felt them onlv the harder on that 
 account, since she understood that every act 
 of grace towards her was always accorded, 
 " because Mrs. Masterman thought it right, 
 or had the goodness to recommend it :" — the 
 proud, the irritable Stancliife, was supple as a 
 glove on the hands of his mistress, though 
 unyielding as iron to the wishes of his wife. 
 
 This woman had now become establish- 
 ed in the best society of the town ; and 
 by the plausibility of her manners, and the 
 perfect union which subsisted between her 
 and her husband, at least suspended censure, 
 and generally defeated scandal. There was 
 an air of affection in her manners to Dora in 
 company, which deceived casual observers, 
 who sometimes expressed surprise at the cold, 
 estranged air, of one who even in her meek- 
 ness could not bend to the dishonesty of feign 
 ing regard. But Dora was now little seen — 
 her child pined beneath the actresses which 
 silently consumed the mother's heart, and hei
 
 108 PATIENCE. 
 
 affection really tied her to the nursery where 
 her enemies wished her. 
 
 But this retreat was by no means so dull 
 and uninteresting as might have been ima- 
 gined, for Frank was an intelligent, as well 
 as affectionate companion ; and as reading 
 was at once his sole employment and amuse- 
 ment, his mind had become stored with a va- 
 riety of information, which he was proud to 
 display for the amusement of a sister who 
 supplied to him all the relations of life, and 
 fulfilled all his ideas of excellence. Sensible 
 that she was not properly treated, he had yet 
 the delicacy and good sense never to wound 
 her by adverting to it ; and happily he was a 
 stranger to the nature of that influence which 
 was in full operation against her peace. Many 
 a time did Dora struggle for his sake to ap- 
 pear cheerful, and even gain in the effort much 
 of the composure she sought ; and although 
 there were times when the silent tear would 
 not be repressed, and poor Frank would as 
 silently wipe her eyes and his own, till the 
 overflowing grief of each had subsided into 
 pensive calmness, yet most probably on the 
 whole, they suffered much less than the guilty 
 pair, who were the cause of their sorrow. In
 
 PATIENCE. 109 
 
 the perpetual labours of Mrs. Masterman to 
 act two parts in life, joined to the irritability 
 of her own temper, and the violence of Stan- 
 clill'e's, there was a solicitude, toil, and anxiety, 
 that wore her constitution, and injured that 
 beauty, which was to her an object of idola- 
 try ; — even the gullibility of Dora had its 
 inconvenience. She was perpetually sus- 
 pecting that she was suspected ; and the calm 
 dignity of endurance, the Christian patience 
 of Dora, which was indicative of forbearance, 
 not ignorance, kept her in perpetual alarm, 
 even while she presumed upon it. Free from 
 all religious scruples herself, she had no cri- 
 terion in her own mind by which she could 
 judge how far another could be influenced by 
 them ; and she continually feared that Dora 
 would be throwing oil' the mask of submission 
 she supposed assumed for a season, and ex- 
 pose har openly. She could not conceive that 
 a women could exercise so much patience, 
 and meekness, in the hope of hiding the faults 
 of her husband from the world, and eventually 
 restoring him to the paths of virtue; still less 
 suppose that she could receive those consola- 
 tions from on high, which enabled her to sub* 
 
 L
 
 110 PATIENCE. 
 
 mit to the injustice of man, as a chastisement 
 permitted by God. 
 
 Orders again poured in from her father, and 
 again Dora, (notwithstanding her cares as a 
 mother,) was placed in requisition ; and as 
 she was now fully aware that nothing less than 
 the most active care could answer in their 
 situation, she exerted herself to the utmost. 
 It was an object with her to remain as much 
 behind the scenes as possible ; but the absence 
 of her husband, the necessity of personating 
 him at some times, and his own anger when 
 she had failed to do it, all compelled her to 
 come forward ; and of course she became an 
 object of remark and pity. 
 
 To obviate this consequence, Mrs. Master- 
 man adroitly and industriously spread a report, 
 " that Mrs. Stancliffe, young as she was, had 
 unfortunately contracted such a love for mo- 
 ney, and had such an overweaning affection 
 for her own family, that poor Stancliffe could 
 not prevent her from interfering with every 
 thing which promoted her darling objects. — 
 She was so saving, that she had never allowed 
 him any company at home since she became 
 a mother ; her whole house was under rules
 
 PATIENCE. 1 1 1 
 
 of economy the most ridiculously rigid, and 
 it was evident to every one who saw her at 
 church, that she had bought herself no clothes 
 since her bridal ones : — she was a sweet young 
 woman in her person and manners, but Stan- 
 cliffe was much to be pitied, for he was of a 
 very different disposition : — poor man ! he 
 would be quite lost, if it were not for the com- 
 fort he enjoyed at her house in the society of 
 her husband." 
 
 Under this view of the case, it occurred to 
 StanclifTe, one morning after losing a game at 
 billiards, on which he had betted considerably, 
 to be consoled by an allusion to his wife's 
 love of money. The subject was a delicate 
 one, because Stancliffe well knew that what- 
 ever might be the services he required from 
 Dora, her personal wants were never attended 
 to ; and that under pretext of curtailing her 
 little charities, she had even been kept with- 
 out any money ; — conceiving, therefore, that* 
 to be reproach which was meant for condolence, 
 he replied with asperity, on which the speaker 
 observed — 
 
 " I meant no offence, Mr. StanclifTe ; Mrs. 
 Masterman, who knows much better than I 
 do, whispers every where about your wife's
 
 112 PATIENCE. 
 
 covetousness — she says you never get a good 
 dinner but in her house, and a great deal of 
 that kind of thing." 
 
 Stancliffe was already heated by his loss, 
 and the current of his vexation immediately 
 turned against the woman who, not content 
 with heaping wrongs on the head of his wife, 
 thus sought to defame her, not seeing (in the 
 blindness of his anger) that the accusations 
 against Dora, were in fact promulgated to 
 assist his character and protect her own. He 
 flew in his rage to Mrs. Masterman, accused 
 her of speaking ill of Dora, and added, " that 
 it was a liberty he never would forgive, and 
 less from her than an} r one." 
 
 The lady was justly astonished, and perhaps 
 justly offended also, since the gratuitous scan- 
 dal she had spread was intended for his bene- 
 fit ; and as it had long appeared a tacit agree- 
 ment between them that their respective 
 partners were to be sacrificed in any way for 
 their mutual pleasure, she could see no reason 
 for this troublesome start of conscience. She 
 apprehended, that it rose in fact from the 
 youthful charms of the person defended ; and 
 her rage arose in consequence, words begat 
 words, and in the midst of those violent bick-
 
 PATIENCE. 113 
 
 crings which unbridled passion produces be- 
 tween persons who are devoid of esteem for 
 each other, as much as self-command, Mr. 
 Masterman and a commercial acquaintance 
 entered the room. 
 
 The guilty pair were in a moment silenced ; 
 but Stanclifl'e was fullv aware that words had 
 reached the ear of Mr. Masterman, and what 
 was worse, of his friend, for which he could 
 not fail to call him to account, since he would 
 probably draw those inferences which his own 
 sense of guilt led him to dread. 
 
 Accustomed as he had long been to witness 
 the extraordinary finesse of the lady, he yet 
 feared that her present passion would subdue 
 her accustomed cunning, and that her desire 
 of inflicting vengeance might even subdue her 
 fear of future punishment : — in overwhelming 
 confusion he suddenly retired, and hastened 
 to his own house. 
 
 Dora, after many hours of close application, 
 had dispatched her letters, attended to her 
 child, and was dressing for dinner on his bolt- 
 ing into her room, evidently in terrible dis- 
 order ; she let her gown fall from her hands, 
 and stood trembling before him, in the ex- 
 pectation that she had failed to obey some of 
 
 L 3
 
 114 PATITiNCE. 
 
 the many injunctions he had poured on her 
 at breakfast time. 
 
 Thus in this world, must the innocent often 
 tremble before the guilty : — but we forbear 
 comment. 
 
 " Dora," said Stancliffe hastily, " I have 
 been making a sad fool of myself, — entirely 
 on your account ; — I have quarrelled with 
 that infernal woman, — Mrs. Masterman, I 
 mean." 
 
 Dora half smiled. 
 
 " It is no jest, I assure you : — that dolt, 
 poor Masterman, came in, and another person 
 with him, so that he will be obliged to look 
 into the affair, for madam is so completely on 
 the high ropes, she will not condescend to 
 cajole him — heaven defend me from such a 
 fury ! — we quarrelled entirely about you ; 
 therefore you must get me out of the scrape." 
 
 " I will do any thing in my power — surely 
 a man may be pardoned for speaking too 
 strongly on behalf of his own wife, if that were 
 your fault." 
 
 " It was, entirely — but, Dora, people do 
 not quarrel as we were quarrelling, unless — 
 it strikes me that this silly fellow will become 
 suspicious, that he will probably seek you,
 
 P ATI EN C ] 115 
 
 and question you — now you never were jealous 
 of any thing improper, you know." 
 
 Dora was silent. 
 
 " You never were jealous, surely ?" 
 
 " Stancliffe, look at these thin arms, this 
 w asted form, and these pale cheeks — they are 
 inv answer." 
 
 " You do, indeed, look very ill ; very dif- 
 ferent to what you were ; but I did not think 
 it arose from that — I have been a wretch, a 
 fool, a madman — what will become of me ? 
 I see you will not help me, nor can 1 ask 
 you." 
 
 lie struck his clenched hands on his fore- 
 head, burning tears started into his eyes, the 
 fear of shame, and the consciousness of folly, 
 so wounding to pride, seemed to rush upon 
 and rend his heart. Dora, in scarcely inferior 
 distress, threw her arms around him, and 
 sought to soothe the frenzy of the moment by 
 every suggestion her mind could furnish for 
 that purpose ; and at length proposed going 
 herself, to offer apology on his behalf to Mrs. 
 Masterman, for his temper. 
 
 " No," cried Stancliffe, " I will die first — 
 I would rather fight him a thousand times — 
 in fact, if righting were all that were required,
 
 116 PATIENCE. 
 
 I should be easy — but it is other things which 
 torture Die." 
 
 He threw himself in agony across the bed, 
 hiding his face with his hands. — " Alas !" 
 thought Dora, " this is not a cause for which 
 a man should risk his life — surely it is my 
 duty in such a moment as this, to do any 
 thing, every thing, that can avert these hor- 
 rors ; I must conquer all pride, all repugnance 
 — I must submit" — 
 
 A gentle tap at the moment broke upon her 
 startled ear, as if it were a summons to meet 
 some terrible disaster ; she opened the door, 
 and beheld Frank. 
 
 " Mr. Masterman and another gentleman, 
 have been examining me just as if they were 
 lawyers ; they asked me such strange ques- 
 tions, you can't think, sister." 
 
 " What questions V said StanclifTe, jump- 
 ing up and gazing on the boy with terrific 
 eagerness. 
 
 " They asked if you were very passionate ?" 
 
 " Well ! and what did you answer ?" 
 
 " I said, prodigiously." 
 
 " Um — um, that was right ; go on." 
 
 " They said, did you speak cross to my 
 sister, i. e. were you rude in your speech, for-
 
 PATIENCE. 117 
 
 getting she were a lady? — I told them, when 
 you were in a passion, you always expressed 
 yourself in a very violent manner." 
 
 " True enough — go on." 
 
 " They looked at one another, and said, 
 that was very satisfactory ; which I thought 
 very odd." 
 
 " Well, did they go away ?" 
 
 *' No, they asked ine if you loved my sis- 
 ter ; and I said, to be sure you did." 
 
 " You are a very good boy, Frank — very 
 good indeed " 
 
 " I thought it a silly question, for every 
 body must love Dora, and especially her hus- 
 band ; but they said again, it was very satis- 
 factory, of course you would write a note of 
 apology, and went away, talking about what 
 fools men made of themselves ; so I came up 
 stairs to tell Dora, because I did not think it 
 was at all handsome of them to ask me such 
 odd questions." 
 
 Frank retired, and Dora falling on her knees, 
 in the accents of revived hope and deep gra- 
 titude, thanked God for the relief she felt 
 from the severest sense of sorrow and terror 
 she had ever experienced. Stancliffe's own 
 heart was deeply moved by a sense of mercy
 
 118 PATIENCE. 
 
 extended to him, when he was on the very 
 verge of destruction, and when he felt the arms 
 of his innocent and injured wife clasped around 
 him, and heard her in the most gentle manner 
 beseech him " to use the present moment for 
 effecting a total liberation from his enslaver, 
 and thus proving his sincerity and thankful- 
 ness for the present escape ;" his heart was 
 melted, his tears flowed freely from penitence 
 and love, and he promised far more than even 
 Dora had requested. 
 
 So soon as the agitation of this trying scene 
 subsided, Stanclifle wrote a note, intreating 
 the pardon of Mrs. Masterman for the violence 
 he had been guilty of, but added, " that since 
 the cause could not fail to affect his mind, and 
 render him liable to repeat the offence, he had 
 determined to deny himself all future oppor- 
 tunities of offending, and restrict his inter- 
 course with Mr. M. to their unavoidable con- 
 nections in business." 
 
 When this letter was dispatched, the writer 
 felt as if a mountain were removed from his 
 breast, and a film had been plucked from his 
 eyes ; but he had not the courage to look back 
 upon the conduct which had rendered his home 
 unpleasant, and his wifi= indifferent to him
 
 PATJ K\ ( E. 1 I!) 
 
 he could not endure the pain of* reflecting up- 
 on the cruelty of his own inflictions on the 
 kind and tender heart of her whom he had 
 bound himself to protect ; nor would his pride 
 confess, how worthless had been his compen- 
 sations for sacrificing his wife's happiness, his 
 own ease of conscience, and chance of dis- 
 grace, and the sense of having injured the 
 man who trusted him, and whom he had 
 placed in actual possession of his property. 
 Stancliffe, in flying from his seducer, and es- 
 caping from the infamy which was his due, 
 lost the salutary effects of punishment, and in 
 returning to his happiness, conceived himself 
 to be meritorious ; hence a transaction in its 
 own nature awful, passed over him with little 
 actual improvement to the heart, even whilst 
 it beneficially affected his conduct. 
 
 Accustomed, herself, to all the subterfuges 
 of cunning, and alarmed beyond all former 
 fears, Mrs. Mastennan saw onlv in his con- 
 duct the same effects which had agitated her- 
 self, and doubted not, when his fears had sub- 
 sided, that he would contrive some means of 
 seeing her, and condoling with her on their 
 mutual sufferings ; but when she found that 
 he stiil kept aloof, that he had the insolence
 
 120 PATIENCE. 
 
 of remaining at home, or walking out with his 
 wife, and even paying her the most affectionate 
 attention, her rage became unbounded, and 
 would have led her to the most fatal excesses, 
 if it had not been tempered by that self-love 
 which was her ruling principle, and told her 
 that revenge might be more effectually secured 
 by time than violence. 
 
 Mrs. Masterman, at one period, had de- 
 spised her paramour for the very facility with 
 which she had moulded him to her will ; but 
 she was now become fond of him, and would 
 have given the world to recall him. Judging 
 by her own feelings, she concluded that her 
 empire over him was the same it had been ; 
 but this was far from the case, even before 
 their rupture, and since then, as the present 
 fascination of the senses had ceased, all regard 
 for her had vanished, and memory never pre- 
 sented her in any other view to his mind, than 
 as a woman who had misled him for the pur- 
 pose of inveigling him into a convenient 
 partnership with her husband. Thus doth sin 
 graft sorrow on the vices it has planted. — In- 
 nocence hath no need to seek vengeance for 
 the injuries it may receive, they rarely fail to 
 be punished even where they escape detection.
 
 PATIENCE. 12] 
 
 It had been so self-evident that Mr. Mas- 
 terman's business could be carried on in Lon- 
 don much better than Liverpool, that he had 
 wished for some time to remove thither, but 
 was prevented by the remonstrances of a wife 
 to whom he always yielded, and a partner 
 whose interest gave him a right to dictate 
 In order to prove her own power, Mrs. M. 
 now advised their removal earnestly, in the 
 full persuasion that Stancliffe would refuse 
 his consent ; but to her bitter mortification, 
 she found, through her husband, that he ap- 
 proved the suggestion, and sought so earnestlv 
 to forward their scheme, as to offer to settle 
 all the private debts of Mr. Masterman in 
 order to facilitate it. 
 
 Caught in her own trap, the lady resolved 
 that Stancliffe should pay dearly in the ac- 
 commodation he offered, for the final separa- 
 tion he thus inflicted ; nor was she without 
 the hope of renewing that acquaintance in 
 London precluded by circumstances in their 
 present situation. She set out with avidity, 
 yet left behind her debts to an amount so far 
 exceeding all the calculations of Stancliffe, 
 as seriously to distress him, and add to that 
 distress, by the natural belief, that when 
 
 M
 
 I'2'2 PAT1UNCE. 
 
 thrown at so Great a distance from his cos:- 
 nizance, she would not fail by her expences 
 to involve both her husband and himself in 
 one common ruin. 
 
 StanclifTe revealed his difficulties and his 
 fears to his wife ; but whilst she consoled him 
 under his trouble, for the first time she could 
 not sympathize in his pains. Such was the 
 relief she felt from the removal of her insidi- 
 ous rival, that no pecuniary sacrifice seemed 
 too great to offer as an equivalent ; and as 
 Dora had never looked upon the partnership 
 with Mr. Masterman in any other light than 
 as a yearly drain to the purse, and an increase 
 to the labours of the house, so she was pre- 
 pared to receive her share of the burden with- 
 out surprise, and sustain it without complaint. 
 Such was the cheerful activity with which 
 she renounced projected pleasures, and actual 
 indulgencies, so willing was she to look on 
 the bright side of dark affairs, and improve 
 those which admitted it ; to save, or to gain, 
 wherever her assistance could be applied, oi- 
 lier wants dispensed with, that StanclifTe roused 
 himself to action and to self-controul, and in 
 assuming his duties, at once lost the sense of 
 his vexations, and helped to restore his losses,
 
 PATIENCE. 123 
 
 Amongst the various ways in which his lun- 
 enslaver had exerted her influence over him in 
 
 directing his household, one had arisen which 
 only now became acted upon. Stancliffe had 
 a great aunt, Mrs. Judith Everton, a single 
 woman, far advanced in life, whose fortune, 
 though not lame, was more than sufficient to 
 her wants, which were now principally those 
 of an aged invalid. She had many years re- 
 sided witlr two maiden sisters in a neighbour- 
 ing village, the daughters of an apothecary, 
 whose scanty gains had left them so narrow 
 an income, that Mrs. Judith was to them, as 
 a liberal boarder, a person of great import- 
 ance. No one could be more happily situated 
 than she was with these worthy women, who 
 were skilful in administering to all her wants, 
 patient in attending to her verbose and gar- 
 rulous conversation ; and from long habit, and 
 naturally affectionate disposition, really at- 
 tached to her person :— it was evident that it 
 was their interest to be kind to her, and pre- 
 serve her as long as they could. It was also 
 evident, that Mrs. Stancliffe had more than 
 sufficient employment for a woman moving in 
 her sphere of life ; since in addition to her 
 cares as a mother, which were naturally
 
 124 PATIENCE, 
 
 increasing ones, she had the charge of a bro- 
 ther, whose health ever hung on so slender a 
 thread, as to make him, even in his best days, 
 %n object of unceasing anxiety; and her ex- 
 cellent abilities rendering her occasional ex- 
 ertions of importance to her husband, who 
 was also very fond of company, how was it 
 possible she could give attention to any other 
 inmate ? Yet it had entered the mind of Mrs. 
 Masterman, that by providing such a constant 
 tie as Mrs. Judith Everton would be, on the 
 attention of Dora, and that by placing an in- 
 habitant in his house who could hardly fail 
 to be disagreeable, she should the more effec- 
 tually bind him to herself ; and, regardless of 
 any other consequence, she determined to 
 effect a removal which was alike cruel to all 
 the parties concerned. 
 
 The avarice of Stand iffe was stimulated by 
 the profusion of her, who, in prompting him 
 to denv necessaries to his wife, did not fail to 
 draw expensive presents for herself — he was 
 told, " that the old lady would leave her pro- 
 perty to those with whom she should end her 
 days ;" and, " that as he was her legal heir, 
 it was a duty he owed to himself and his child, 
 to secure it." That his wife, already confined
 
 PATIENCE. I 'J., 
 
 to the duties of a nurse, might as well add 
 another subject to her infirmary, and since the 
 income paid for her and Frank had ceased, 
 even a trifling substitute was of value — be- 
 sides " when a wife was tied to the house, 
 she could spend nothing out of it." 
 
 This advice was acted upon, and the duti- 
 ful nephew was properly seized with a great 
 desire to contribute to the comfort of his irreat 
 aunt, a desire the more effective perhaps, in 
 that it had never been exhibited during his 
 whole life before. Mrs. Judith did not think 
 of removing ; she had not discovered that her 
 situation admitted of amendment; but when 
 it was kindly pointed out to her, no wonder 
 that a mind never strong, and now diverging 
 to childishness, suffered itself first to be per- 
 suaded, and then become eager for change. 
 The sisters modestly urged their claims ; but 
 finding they were disallowed, insisted only 
 upon that notice of three months which in 
 such cases was deemed regular ; to this Mr. 
 Stancliffe yielded, and that term having ex- 
 pired, the old lady was now expected to claim 
 her new home in the house of her relation. 
 
 Before then, it is certain that Stancliffe had 
 seen his error in this arrangement, and also 
 
 m 3
 
 126 PATIENCE. 
 
 that at this time the representations of Dora, 
 who had always disapproved this plan, would 
 have been listened to. But Mrs. Judy had 
 set her heart upon it ; her place had been 
 supplied to the family she quitted, and alas ! 
 money was become an object ; and thus every 
 circumstance combined to transplant her into 
 a new soil, when she was least likely to take 
 root there happily ; when not only prejudices, 
 and partialities were irrevocably fixed, and 
 habits confirmed, but mental imbecility had 
 thrown a veil over her faculties, which for- 
 bade the formation of that esteem and ve- 
 neration which ought " to accompany old 
 age."
 
 127 
 
 CHAP. VIII. 
 
 At the appointed time, Stancliffe himself 
 brought Mrs. Judith Everton, and her indis- 
 soluble companion, a little pug-dog, justly 
 named "Fury," to their future home. As she 
 had resided at a distance of seven miles, Dora 
 had not yet seen although she had paid her 
 all the respect save visiting, which was in her 
 power. The excuse of a drive to see her, at 
 a time when Dora was confined, (for the sake 
 of securing the company of the favourite,) 
 had led to those serious changes which now 
 took place. 
 
 A time had been, when Mrs. Judith was 
 very good-looking ; but she was now only 
 very fat, and very good-tempered, if we ex- 
 cept an unreasonable dislike to all children, 
 and an unnatural aversion to all cats. When 
 her age of dressing and dancing was past, 
 she entertained a passion for reading, ami 
 considering novels either as unworthy of her 
 dignity, or injurious in their tendency, she
 
 128 PATIENCE. 
 
 abjured them altogether, and became an his- 
 torical reader of immense magnitude, sweet- 
 ening this solid fare by all the fashionable 
 poets of the day, whom from henceforward 
 she quoted and misquoted, with all the fa- 
 cility incident to a prodigious but ill-directed 
 application. Age, and a slight paralytic, had, 
 about four or five years before this period, 
 unhappily deranged the mighty mass of know- 
 ledge and lumber which occupied her brain, 
 and turned the whole into a confusion the 
 more lamentable, because from that very pe- 
 riod she was observed to talk much more than 
 she had ever done before, and to thrust dates, 
 facts, and characters, upon every person she 
 came near, in proportion to the utter worth- 
 lessness of the commodity. To this faculty, 
 she added also a great taste for turning all she 
 said into doggrel rhymes, for aiming continu- 
 ally at making a pun, or a jest, which she re- 
 peated perpetually for the whole day, as too 
 good a thing to be lost sight of for a moment. 
 Her late complaint, and still more an early 
 habit, occasioned her to pull hideous faces, by 
 way of being humourous, so that unhappily 
 poor Mrs. Judith's wit was every way terrific, 
 though certainly melo-dramatic, for if it did
 
 PATIENCE. I'2'J 
 
 not tell to the ear, it never failed to seize the 
 eye. 
 
 " What a dreadful time have 1 gone through, 
 we have been live hours on the road!" ex- 
 claimed Stancliffe. 
 
 " I am very sorry you have had so bad a 
 journey, my love," replied Dora; "but yon 
 have not left home five hours ; where is your 
 aunt .'" 
 
 " Oh ! she is unpacking, and will roll in by 
 and bye ; bow, wow, wow — confound that 
 eternal dog, I will shoot him before the week's 
 out." 
 
 " Don't say so, dear Stancliffe," said Dora, 
 as she tripped away to welcome the stranger, 
 whose round, portly form, feebly supported 
 by Lilliputian feet, was slowly sailing through 
 the hall, followed by the servants, and pre- 
 ceded by Fury, whom she essayed to soothe 
 by an assurance that the change he experi- 
 enced was all for the best. " Don't bark, Fury, 
 that's a good little dear ; don't you see, it's the 
 very house that your grandfather, that is, that 
 my nephew's grandfather intended to build — 
 I suppose you prefer the country, Fury, and 
 to be sure 1 grant,
 
 130 PATIENCE 
 
 ' Pathless hills and shady groves, 
 ' Places which pale passion loves,' 
 
 are very pretty ; but then you ought to know, 
 Fury, ' whatever is, is right.' — Oh ! dear, how 
 do you, Miss ? a very pretty creature, indeed ; 
 poor Mr. Hemingford's little girl, I dare say." 
 
 " Mrs. Stancliffe, my dear madam ; but 
 you are quite right in supposing me Mr. He- 
 mingford's daughter, pray take my arm, and 
 allow me to conduct you." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I remember now — Everton told 
 me the fair lady whom I called the princess 
 of Babylon, 
 
 ' The lovely Thais by his side, 
 
 ' Who languish'd like an eastern bride/ 
 
 was not the actual, but only the ostensible 
 wife — you know, my dear, there is an actual 
 and an ostensible, (Fury, Fury,) as the Roman 
 emperor said: — bless my life, is'nt that a 
 child ?" 
 
 The last words were accompanied with a 
 start, on seeing her nephew rolling with his 
 lovely little boy, (whom Dora had popped into 
 his arms when she ran to receive her,) upon 
 the carpet. 
 
 The child was sent to the nursery — Fury
 
 PATIENCE. 131 
 
 accepted a siiug place on the hearth-rug, and 
 Dora made tea, whilst Mrs. Judith adjusted 
 her ample form in the great chair, but never 
 ceased her speech; for though frequently va- 
 rying in subject, the same perpetuity of sounds, 
 either in prose or verse, continued to break, 
 generally uttered in soliloquy, but always ad- 
 dressed to some person so pointedly, that they 
 must be heard, whether comprehended or not, 
 and seen also, from the grimace and contor- 
 tions, with which they were accompanied. 
 " That's right, my dear, pray send it away; 
 children are poor little dears, that's certain, too 
 dear for me to buy, ha, ha, ha, do you like 
 puns? that's what I call a good one — too 
 dear for me to buy — but not too dear for you; 
 but I hope you will have no more ; my niece, 
 Everton's mother, had only him, and he is but 
 a little one : — you need not toss your head, 
 my dear nephew, for it will not make you 
 grow — you were always handsome, but by no 
 means tall enough for my taste, which always 
 inclined to a man of stature ; had L ever given 
 up my virgin affections, it would have been 
 to Ajax, or Androcles, or some other of the 
 angels in Paradise Lost : — a little man mav 
 have great faults, and a great man little
 
 132 PATIENCE. 
 
 faults, ha, ha, ha, what do you say to that, my 
 dear ?"— 
 
 Trembling for her husband's politeness, 
 Dora interrupted Mrs. Judith, to enquire after 
 the ladies she had left, the Misses Lawrence. 
 
 " Oh ! they are very well, only a little low 
 at parting ; for we have lived together twenty- 
 seven years this very Michaelmas-day, and 
 eat our last goose together of poor Miss Sally's 
 stuffing, as she said, crying all the time." 
 
 " Ah, truly !" said Stancliffe with a deep 
 sigh, " 'twas a thousand pities to divide you." 
 
 " So it was, my dear nephew, in one sense, 
 for I hate to think of parting ; it reminds me 
 always of the pathetic farewell of sixteen- 
 stringed Jack : 
 
 ' 4dieu, adieu, my dear Miss Roath, 
 ' Since Tyburn tree must part us both.' 
 
 now I call hanging a really affecting circum- 
 stance ; but I am fond of every thing elegiac. 
 I said to Sally this morning, (by the way, 'tis 
 her birth-day, she's forty-five, owns to eight- 
 and-thirty, and grows the colour of a dried 
 marigold, which is just the case with all thin 
 women,) I said to her ; 
 
 ' The g;oose thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
 ' Had he thy reason, he would fly away.'
 
 PATIENCE. 133 
 
 " So will I," cried Stancliffe, starting up ; 
 
 and casting a significant glance at Dura, lie 
 instantly left the room. 
 
 " My dear sister," said Frank, casting ;: 
 look full of pity on Dora, " what will become 
 of youV 
 
 " I know not ;" said Dora, with a pathetic 
 sigh. 
 
 " So ! that is your brother," interrupted 
 Mrs. Judith. " I remember, now, my grand- 
 nephew said there was such a person, and that 
 we should be charming company ; and so we 
 shall, for I can tell him all about the Greek 
 emperors, and the Roman kings, and the 
 knights of chivalry, and the battles of Alex- 
 ander the Great, on the Po, and the Danube, 
 and all the rest of the places — ah ! my dear, 
 you will find me excellent company, and so 
 improving, which is the great thing for young 
 people. Whenever your sister is engaged, 
 now you will always have me to look to, which 
 to be sure will be a great matter for you— 
 you are not a child, exactly, which is the 
 reason I like you ; if all children were as big 
 as you when they were born, it would save a 
 monstrous deal of trouble; or if people would 
 have them when they grew old, and had 
 
 N
 
 134 PATIENCE. 
 
 nothing to do but play with them, 'twould be 
 all very well ; but really it is mighty silly to 
 spoil their best days with them, as many peo- 
 ple do ; master Frank, don't you think so, my 
 dear (" 
 
 During this harangue, the speaker had 
 seized on the hands of poor Frank, who, un- 
 able to struggle, and anxious to follow the 
 example of Stancliffe, feebly appealed to his 
 sister's aid by the exclamation of " Oh Dora!" 
 
 " At the word," accoutered for all encoun- 
 ters, Mrs. Judith began again to harangue. 
 
 " Dora you call your sister, my dear boy, 
 that is not the proper diminutive for Dorothy 
 — -no, no, that is Doll, or Dolly ; I amused 
 your brother-in-law, my grand-nephew, that 
 is, Mr. Stancliffe, who is just gone out, Ever- 
 ton, as I often call him, he being the son of 
 my own niece; well, I say, I amused him all 
 the way here with telling him how well we 
 should agree together, and making verses about 
 it ; I said in this way : 
 
 'Judith and Dolly. 
 
 ' Will quickly be jolly.' 
 
 then I brought my little dog in, which you 
 know was verv proper, because we are never
 
 PATIENCE. 135 
 
 lung parted ; and then my verse was longer, 
 
 it ran thus : 
 
 ' Fury, and Judith, and gentle Dolly, 
 ' Will never more be melancholy.' 
 
 the word gentle, my dear, is what is called an 
 epitaph — epitaph ! no, that's not the word." 
 
 " Epithet, ma'am, you mean, and proper 
 enough for my sister." 
 
 " True, true, my dear ; I knew it was epi 
 something : aye ! few people have read one 
 half so much as me ; I have Addison and all 
 the antients oil' by heart : now sit down, and I 
 will tell you about the nymph Egeria, and how 
 she lived in a cave." 
 
 " I know it all, ma'am, indeed I do." 
 " And what Augustus said about a man and 
 an elephant." 
 
 " Oh ! ma'am, I know it very well." 
 " And about the triumvirate, and Oliver 
 Cromwell, and the siege of Troy, and William 
 Tell, and Robert Bruce, and the massacre of 
 St. Bartholomew, and the death of Lconidas, 
 and king Charles the martyr, and — why, child ! 
 you shake your head at every thing." 
 
 " I know all those things, indeed, ma'am." 
 " Well, but my dear boy, say nothing on
 
 136 PATIENCE. 
 
 the subject ; hear what Young says in the 
 
 Night Thoughts : 
 
 * Be silent always when you doubt your sense, 
 ' And listen unto me with diffidence.' 
 
 if it isn't Young, it's Milton ; who is a mon- 
 strous favourite author with me. I have got 
 every one of Satan's soliloquies off by heart : 
 poor Sally Lawrence always called them my 
 devilish speeches. I believe the poor dear 
 thought them as long as his tail, and as hard 
 as his cloven hoof, for she was a bit of an ig- 
 noramus. I said to her, says I, my dear miss 
 Sally, if ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise, 
 dear miss ; for I always make a rhyme— they 
 will have such a miss of me, I'm sure my very 
 heart aches to think of it, and I say, 
 
 ' Then ages hence, when all my griefs are o'er, 
 what's the next line, my dear ? 
 
 ' When this rebellious tongue must speak no more,' 
 replied Frank : 
 
 " Very true, my dear ; then comes in some- 
 thing about singing and bringing, and sigh- 
 ing and crying ; it is all very fine, and what 
 they call ' immortal verse,' my dear, which 
 means verse that will last for ever ; you un- 
 derstand master Frank — the proper way to 
 make it, is to do as I did with your sister's
 
 PATIENCE. 137 
 
 name, to say Dolly, choly, folly, jolly, and so 
 on; but after all, it' people haven't a natural 
 genius, tin -v never make out much. 1 do 
 honestly believe I was born with just the same 
 genius I have at this moment — the Evertons 
 had all geniuses — there was my brother Tom 
 laid out a garden like nobody else; and my 
 aunt Sarah, who lived in queen Anne's time, 
 raised a Yorkshire pie like a eastle. Dick 
 Everton. mv father's sister's eldest son, spent 
 a very handsome fortune in finding the longi- 
 tude ; and I can assure you, little Stancliffe 
 here, my grand-nephew, who is just gone out, 
 drew a globe before he was your age, all over 
 with hieroglyphics, like Sir Isaac Newton's 
 Copernican gravitations. In short, genius 
 comes one knows not how, and goes one knows 
 not where : — 'tis untold the times I have said 
 that to Sally, and Miss Lawrence too, day- 
 after day ; but you see comprehension lies 
 in the brains, and if people can't comprehend 
 because they happen to have no understand- 
 ing, it is not possible to put these things into 
 them — -now, there's Lavater's system, have 
 you heard about that ?" 
 
 " Pardon me, ma'am, if 1 insist on sending 
 my brother to bed, he looks very pale, and 
 
 N 3
 
 138 PATIENCE. 
 
 every degree of excitement is so bad for him 
 that I am really obliged to be positive," said 
 Dora. 
 
 Frank escaped like a bird from the fowler, 
 and Mrs. Judith herself protested that it was 
 bed time, and after taking the toast and negus, 
 which constituted her supper, retired with the 
 maid appointed to attend her. As her. mo- 
 tions were necessarily slow, Dora heard her 
 voice all the way up-stairs, pursuing its cus- 
 tomary task ; and it was not till after her 
 chamber door had closed, and the sound 
 ceased, that she could venture to congratulate 
 herself on the relief her jaded spirits had long 
 earnestly desired. 
 
 If, when the wearisome hour was past, Dora 
 could have beckoned her husband from his 
 hiding-place, such was the sweetness of her 
 temper, and such the submission to circum- 
 stances she had acquired, that she would im- 
 mediately have dismissed her chagrin, and 
 even found herself rewarded by his presence ; 
 but to her grief and alarm, many wearisome 
 hours followed before Stancliffe made his ap- 
 pearance ; and when he came, it was evident 
 that he had not spent a sober evening in the 
 house of an acquaintance. He spoke as one
 
 PATIENCE. \3[) 
 
 half intoxicated, and whilst he inveighed with 
 bitterness against Mrs. Judith, he yet ex- 
 pressed no compassion for the wife to whom 
 he had assigned her as a companion, and 
 whose avocations, spirits, and situation, every 
 way ought to have exempted from a task 
 which those only were calculated to endure 
 who had been by degrees habituated to the 
 evil, and held her conversation in the same 
 light as the loud clicking of a clock to which 
 they had ceased to attend. 
 
 Alas ! the history of one night was that of 
 many ; and Dora, again bereft of her hus- 
 band's society, had the farther mortification 
 of finding that his evenings were spent gene- 
 rally in a manner which incapacitated him for 
 exertion in the day, and that he became, 
 though less violent in his temper than when 
 under the immediate promptings of a wicked 
 and artful woman, yet morose, stubborn, and 
 to her unfeeling, as to others rude. She was 
 aware that his spirits were oppressed by va- 
 rious causes, especially the demands made by 
 Mr. Masterman for increased advances foi 
 his hitherto unprofitable concern ; but he 
 again ceased to make her the confidant of his 
 affairs, although she was the necessary par-
 
 140 PATIENCE. 
 
 taker of his troubles. Cold in his manners, 
 severe in his house-retrenchments, and daily 
 assuming the sternness of age, whilst he al- 
 lowed himself all the licence of youthful plea- 
 sure, it would have been impossible for Dora 
 to have borne up against the complicated dif- 
 ficulties by which she was surrounded, and 
 have preserved that equanimity which distin- 
 guished her, if her mind had not had one 
 subject on which her heart could dwell, 
 and to which it could have recourse for tem- 
 porary comfort. This was the expected re- 
 turn of her first and only friend, who had now 
 been absent the full term she proposed, and in 
 all her late letters had spoken of her health as 
 re-established. Yet this hope was rather the 
 
 refuse of a distressed heart, that like the wan- 
 es 
 
 dering dove sought for any resting-place, how- 
 ever slippery and untenable, than the hope of 
 happiness beyond the pleasure of welcoming 
 one dearly and justly beloved. Dora could 
 not bear the idea of Mrs. Aylmer seeing Stan- 
 cliffe her still beloved, though erring husband, 
 in his present state of conduct ; and she was 
 well aware that his circumstances could not 
 be concealed from her ; yet from the pain, and 
 the shame attending both discoveries, she ar-
 
 PATIENCE. 141 
 
 dently desired to save both herself and her 
 friend, conscious as she was that a few more 
 years of toil and privation, would place her in 
 ease and even affluence. On the other hand, 
 she flattered herself, that the great respecta- 
 bility of Mrs. Ayhner's character, the supe- 
 riority of her mind, the maternal rights she 
 undoubtedly had in her, and even the expecta- 
 tions which she blushed to remember her hus- 
 band often hinted at, might altogether influence 
 him so far as to suspend his present habits ; 
 and she hoped, that as he had been restored 
 to her when held by a stronger spell, she 
 might reclaim him more effectually from a 
 weaker : — she hoped — what will not woman 
 hope i'or him to whom her heart still clings, 
 worthless as lie may be ? tmd as the green ten- 
 dril imparts its own freshness to the withered 
 spray round which it winds, so does she im- 
 part to him a portion of her virtues, hiding the 
 deformity she cannot cure, and delaying the 
 destruction she seeks to avert. 
 
 At length a letter in the well-known long- 
 loved hand, with a Dover post-mark, was re- 
 ceived, announcing Mrs. Alymer's return to 
 England, and her intention of visiting Liver- 
 pool before her settlement at Crickhovvel or
 
 14'2 PATIENCE. 
 
 any other place, but lamenting that there 
 would be a necessity for her to stop some 
 weeks in London. Dora shewed this letter to 
 Stancliffe, not only with the pleasure awaken- 
 ed by good news, but with that enquiring gaze 
 which sought to read how far it was agreeable 
 to him, and with the desire to found upon it 
 a request for the money necessary to provide 
 various little accommodations in which her 
 house was at this time deficient. Stancliffe, 
 like the deaf adder, refused to hear, even the 
 voice of a wise charmer: — the usual answer 
 to every petition of this nature, had long been 
 either an exclamation of astonishment at what 
 she could 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 com- 
 mon out-of-door's expenses 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 en- 
 counter those daily wants, those petty, but 
 pressing grievances, to which he constantly 
 exposed his wife, and which are undoubtedly
 
 PATIENCE. 143 
 
 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 volun- 
 tarily subjects the woman he has bound him- 
 self to protect to such misery. 
 
 In the present case, Mr. Stancliffe had not 
 recourse to any of the above methods of re- 
 fusal : — a fter 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 
 fur many things, certainly, nor can I do with- 
 out it — you must go over to old Blackwell 
 again, and get something out of him — he will 
 not refuse you." 
 
 Dura 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 in- 
 creasing my expenses; 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."
 
 144 PATTENCE. 
 
 " Let us go together, my love, and 1 have 
 no doubt you will obtain it, although it is cer- 
 tain 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 an- 
 swer 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 en- 
 sures 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 Hood of abuse followed this 
 declaration, though made in the most humble 
 manner, and for the express purpose of fa- 
 cilitating the errand on which she was sent :— 
 when the ebullition had exhausted its rage,
 
 PATIENCE. 146 
 
 and the speaker's strength, he then confessed 
 that " it was necessary to keep up appear- 
 ances," and even proposed, " Frank as her 
 companion in a p>>st-chaise, as the roads were 
 line, 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 unquestion- 
 ably considered her representative, in ad cases 
 where ill-humour sought a vent, and required 
 an object. Frank intreated her to keep up tier 
 spirits, gave her his especial promise, " that he 
 would watch the child, and listen to Airs. 
 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 af- 
 fection 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 sup- 
 ply her presence to it. She endeavoured, by 
 
 o
 
 146 PATIENCE. 
 
 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 se- 
 cond application, so irregular and unprece- 
 dented." 
 
 " Our principal business is doing exceed- 
 ingly well ; the other, though unproductive, 
 is full of promise, and has ceased to require a 
 farther capital. I am really warranted in say- 
 ing this." 
 
 " Um — urn — yet you evidently labour un- 
 der an artificial poverty, as distressing as the 
 sad realities I see around me. I am sorry
 
 PATIENCE. 147 
 
 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 wilt give me some- 
 thing ; 1 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 mo- 
 ney." 
 
 " 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 Hushed 
 cheek and fevered lip, bespoke the inward 
 stru triple 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
 
 148 PATIENCE. 
 
 his eyes, and feeling that he had taken her 
 hand, as he answered, 
 
 " My poor girl, you shall not be so circum- 
 stanced, nor will I wound you farther by 
 questions which could give me little informa- 
 tion — 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 conver- 
 sation, notwithstanding her past fatigue and 
 recent solicitude. In the warmth of her af- 
 fectionate 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
 
 PATIENCE. 149 
 
 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 investi- 
 gate 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 mis- 
 conduct 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 
 nay 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 
 
 o 3
 
 550 PATIENCE. 
 
 her own consciousness of the difficulty she 
 had inwardly experienced in prosecuting her 
 errand, the pain she had suffered, and the gra- 
 titude 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 affec- 
 tions 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 pos- 
 sessed in her lovely child, and her interesting
 
 PATll.M'K. 151 
 
 brother, she succeeded in dispossessing them, 
 and reached ber home in that happy frame 
 of mind which disposed her to receive her 
 husband with ardent love, and meet her fa- 
 mily with her usual kindness and compla- 
 . riicy.
 
 1/Sfl 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 W hen 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 ad- 
 mittance, 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 cir- 
 cumlocution, proceed to elucidate the matter 
 himself. 
 
 " Yes, truly, you find us in pretty confusion,"
 
 PATIENCE. 153 
 
 for my part I left the house as soon as I got 
 up, and a line hunt 1 iind they had alter me — 
 did you Iind old Blackwell at home ?" 
 
 " I did — all is well there, but what is the 
 matter up-stairs 1 \\ hat has been the matter ?" 
 
 " Why, as far as I can learn, all went on 
 very comfortably yesterday ; but this morn- 
 ing, 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 Wil- 
 liams was such a fool as to put him into her 
 arms whilst she went down stairs for sonic 
 milk ; in consequence, the silly old soul, who 
 has not strength to nurse a kitten, pulled faces, 
 and spluttered verses, till the child in terror 
 flounced, struggled, and fell out of her arms, 
 and would inevitably have been killed by 
 going head foremost on the fender, had not 
 Frank adroitly interposed his arm, which saved
 
 154 PATIENCE. 
 
 the child, and was broken just below the 
 elbow." 
 
 Dora sunk on the nearest chair. 
 
 " The arm is set, but in his case, you know, 
 the accident must inevitably be fatal — Mr. 
 Eton, the surgeon, says not; he maintains, 
 that the arm receiving all the injury, and the 
 boy remaining in perfect composure, he will 
 escape ; but I am certain he will not, I expect 
 bleeding to come on every minute." — 
 
 Stancliffe suddenly stopped, for his wife 
 heard him not ; the last word which met her 
 ears was " fatal," when the idea of losing her 
 beloved brother at a moment when he had 
 made himself more dear to her than ever, 
 completely overcame her, and she fainted 
 away before her busy husband had perceived 
 her situation. 
 
 Dora was carried to bed, and soon became 
 much worse than Frank, who bore his injury 
 with so much fortitude, that, contrary to all 
 expectation, it failed to produce an effect ex- 
 pected by every one, and feared by every one, 
 save Stancliffe, who unhappily gave rather 
 unequivocal tokens of being disappointed in 
 the catastrophe he had so confidently predicted.
 
 PATIENCE. 155 
 
 Poor ])ora lost her expectations of being 
 again a mother, and was reduced to a degree 
 of alarming weakness ; but she had the satis- 
 faction of knowing that her husband was much 
 in the house, and that in the confusion and 
 bustle incident to the distressing state of his 
 family, he found a succedaneuin for that ex- 
 citing society he had previously lived amongst. 
 Poor Mrs. Judy's disaster was a perpetual 
 theme on which he rallied her without mercy ; 
 and such had been the effect of her accident 
 on the mind of the kind-hearted woman, that 
 it had comparatively reduced her to silence ; 
 and, to the sincere grief of Frank, she was per- 
 petually affected even to tears, by the taunts 
 of her nephew, whose talents at every descrip- 
 tion of scolding, from the scornful sneer, pro- 
 gressively to the loud remonstrance and over- 
 whelming torrent of reproach, were scarcely 
 rivalled, certainly not exceeded, by any female 
 practitioner in Europe. 
 
 Dora was soon aware that the contents of 
 her purse had been silently extracted during 
 her illness, and she was sensible that her pre- 
 sence was so much required in her family, 
 that she hastened to descend to the breakfast 
 parlour, where Frank was delighted to receive
 
 ]56 PATIENCE. 
 
 the thanks and embraces of a sister, whose 
 
 gratitude for his preservation ascended on 
 
 high, and called down blessings on his head ; 
 
 nor could she delay seeing the innocent cause 
 
 of so much anxiety, poor Mrs. Judy, who 
 
 screwed up her large features into the most 
 
 hideous contortions, as she approached her, 
 
 saying, 
 
 " Ah ! now we three are met again, 
 " In sorrow, misery, and pain." 
 
 " You see, my dear Dolly, I'll tell you how 
 it was ; I took the child, and poor simple 
 thing, it can stand well enough, but it can't 
 sit, and I wanted it to sit on this arm, and I 
 told it so — it has never read Locke's Associa- 
 tions, (for a very good reason, because it can't 
 read,) but I will leave them to it in my will, 
 splendidly bound, that it may never do so 
 again — poor dear creature, 1 hope it will live 
 to forgive me, and I hope you will, my good 
 Frank, forgive me too." 
 
 " I have done it, my dear Mrs. Judith, so 
 don't say a word about it, pray don't." 
 
 " I believe you, my dear boy, and I'm very 
 glad you are alive to do it — though I do really 
 believe in my heart, 'twould have been better 
 you should have died, for if any body is fit
 
 PATIENCE. 157 
 
 for an angel, it is you ; not that I am like my 
 grand-nephew, 1 don't therefore wish you to 
 be one, not I, indeed." 
 
 " Nor docs StanclifFe, my dear ma'am, you 
 quite mistake him — you don't understand him 
 at all." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, yes, I do, my dear Dolly. 1 
 understand all about it; he wants Frank's 
 estate, 'tis as clear as the noon-day — also, he 
 wants my little matter of money, and he says 
 to himself, 'young may go, old must go;' 
 oh! you don't know what penetration I 
 have; but Miss Sally told me that ; she says, 
 says she, 'your grand-nephew is a StanclifFe 
 all over, as keen as mustard, as hot as pep- 
 per."' — 
 
 Poor Mrs. Judy's comparisons were cut 
 short by the unannounced arrival of a lady, 
 who entering hastily, ran towards Dora, but 
 ere she reached her, started back as if alarmed 
 by her pale looks and her wrapping habili- 
 ments. 
 
 But in another moment, and the arms of Dora 
 were bound about her neck, calling her "mother, 
 friend, protectress," and weeping in such an 
 agitation of joy, as in her weak state to be 
 almost alarming. When Mrs. Aylmer reflected 
 
 1'
 
 158 PATIENCE. 
 
 on this scene, it became more so to her really 
 maternal heart, than it was in the first moment, 
 for although much might be allowed to her 
 recent illness, and the surprise of the meeting, 
 yet the emotion of poor Dora went beyond 
 any which a happy wife was likely to display, 
 even on the occasion of meeting a much-loved 
 and long-parted parent. 
 
 Mr. Stancliffe entered just as Dora was 
 about to retire, and endeavour to compose her 
 spirits ; to her great satisfaction, he addressed 
 the stranger in the most suasive and agreeable 
 manners he could assume — those manners 
 which about three years before had made an 
 impression on her heart yet too well remem- 
 bered; but after thus welcoming her, he sud- 
 denly addressed his own lady with — 
 
 " Dora, you must not give way to crying 
 and weak nerves, you know Mr. Eton says so, 
 and especially not now, for you will have 
 another stranger here before to-morrow night, 
 and one you are little prepared for — your 
 father:' 
 
 " Dear, dear papa !" cried Frank, jumping 
 up with the natural expression of joy and rap- 
 ture. He was reproved by a frown of such 
 withering severity from Stancliffe, that the
 
 PATIENCK. 159 
 
 heart of Mrs. Aylmer sunk within her at the 
 sight of it, and scarcely could it revive when 
 he added, — 
 
 " I am obliged to set out for London by the 
 mail to-night, so you will put me a few neces- 
 saries in the portmanteau, my dear." 
 
 As Stancliffe spoke, he offered his arm to 
 Dora, whose feeble steps evidently needed 
 support, and when they retired, he hastily ex- 
 plained to her the necessity he was under of 
 seeing Mr. Masterman, and pressing him to 
 advance him some money, as otherwise he 
 could not meet his partner, whose arrival was 
 not less surprising than mal-a-propos." 
 
 " How do you know my father is coming?" 
 
 " Williamson spoke to him in the river this 
 
 morning ; he bade him say nothing of the 
 
 matter, as he would not leave the vessel till 
 
 her cargo was landed." 
 
 " And is my mother with him V 
 " No, he is alone — he said his great object 
 was to see his boy ; but I have my doubts of 
 that — you will be verv careful in answering 
 his questions — he has the staff in his hand 
 now, and will not fail to show his power; our 
 situations are completely reversed at this 
 time."
 
 l'JO PATIENCE. 
 
 Whilst Stancliffe spoke, Dora was silently 
 thanking God, that the poor lather had not 
 thus late in life undertaken this long voyage 
 to find his darling son a corpse — something 
 which escaped her on this head made her hus- 
 band revolve the subject also ; but we will 
 not venture to read thoughts which the owner 
 would at one time have shuddered to indulge. 
 
 Stancliffe leaving in some measure his fate 
 in the hands of his wife, was kind in his adieus 
 to her, and courteous to the rest of the family, 
 being desirous to render Mrs. Aylmer his friend, 
 and not less so of erasing from the fading me- 
 mory of his antient relative, the provoking 
 and unfeeling remarks he had showered upon 
 her in the day of trouble. The very tender- 
 ness of his parting kiss brought a new sorrow 
 to the heart of Dora ; was he not going once 
 more into the very bower of that syren whom 
 she considered the author of all his errors, and 
 her own misfortunes ? might not her attrac- 
 tions become stronger than ever by the allure- 
 ments of dress, the aids of opportunity ? must 
 not his very wants render him more interest- 
 ing to the woman who was conscious of hav 
 ing injured him? and would he not be com- 
 pelled from that cause to shew himself a
 
 PATIENCE. lGl 
 
 humble, and therefore a captivating, suitor ? 
 The distraction produced by such thoughts 
 as these can be judged by those alone who 
 have been similarly situated, and know what 
 that fever of the soul is, which not merely 
 trembles for the fidelity of a partner known to 
 be frail, but also for the moral conduct of an 
 accountable being, for whose eternal welfare 
 they are intensely solicitous. Dora passed a 
 night of such agitation, that in her weak state 
 it was wonderful how she could so far conquer 
 her feelings as to meet her friends with cheer- 
 fulness, and pit pare to receive the parent she 
 dreaded yet desired to see. 
 
 As Mrs. Aylmer had never been fond of Mr. 
 Hemingford, and considered justly that she 
 had been unhandsomely treated in Dora's 
 removal, she determined on withdrawing to 
 the house of another friend during his stay, 
 a resolution Dora could not oppose, although 
 she feared that some reports might reach her 
 affecting the reputation of Stancliffe — thus on 
 every hand she was beset by difficulties. With 
 an independence of spirit which scorned de- 
 ception, a firmness of integrity in religious 
 principle, that refused every shade of a lie, 
 and a simple ingenuousness of nature which 
 
 p 3
 
 162 PATIENCE. 
 
 forbade the power of dissimulation, she yet 
 felt impelled by all her received notions of a 
 wife's allegiance, and all the remains of linger- 
 ing love to the only man who had ever awaken- 
 ed that feeling in her bosom, to hide his faults, 
 extenuate his foibles, and preserve, or restore 
 him, in the good opinion of her friends. 
 
 Mrs. Aylmer's good bye kiss was still on 
 her cheek when Mr. Hemingford drove to the 
 door, and in another moment found himself in 
 the arms of Frank, on whom his eyes seemed 
 to spend not only their powers of sight, but 
 the soul that shone through them; he was 
 become thin, and brown, and almost dried up 
 by trouble and climate ; and it was a curious 
 as well as affecting sight, to see his gaunt 
 withered form embracing the beautiful strip- 
 ping, who appeared too fair a flower for such 
 a blighted root. It was, however, soon evi- 
 dent to Dora, that her father's health and 
 spirits were much better than they had been 
 three years before ; and she endeavoured to 
 rejoice that good had come out of evil. 
 
 " Well Dora," said the father at last — " you 
 have made a man of my boy, for which, maj 
 God bless you ; but I cannot say to your hus- 
 band, he has made a woman of my girl, for
 
 PATIENCE. 163 
 
 you look thinner and more chitty-faced than 
 when I left you." 
 
 " I am only just out of my bed, Sir — we 
 have had a very siekly family, but I shall soon 
 br better." 
 
 " Where is Everton?" 
 
 " In London" — " he was obliged to go." 
 
 " 'Tis all very right, he has hitherto gone 
 much too seldom — when will he be at home ?" 
 
 " Oh," cried Frank, with a joyous accent, 
 " not this long time ; he only went last night." 
 
 Poor Dora started, she even trembled, as 
 her father cast his eye upon her — she rose, sat 
 lown again, and felt at the very core of her 
 heart, how unworthy it was of her husband to 
 compel her to bear the evils from which he 
 had flown himself, conscious as he must be, 
 even in despite of the vanity and self-love to 
 which he was subject, that she had in no way 
 been accessory to them, and yet that all the 
 personal evil produced had fallen on her alone. 
 
 But contempt and indignation, though they 
 would arise for a moment, were never che- 
 rished or acted upon by Dora, and when she 
 felt them, it only rendered her the more vigi- 
 lant in guarding her expressions, and exerting 
 that patient forbearance, which, if it could not
 
 164 PATIENCE. 
 
 retrieve the past, would yet soften its effects 
 on the future. Though her heart was very 
 full, she compelled herself to speak by en- 
 quiring after her mother and her sisters — the 
 answer was laconic, but satisfactory. 
 
 " Your mother is not half such a fool as 
 she was ; she is willing to grow old, and let 
 the girls play off instead of herself. Kate is 
 very well married, and wonderfully improved, 
 which she honestly imputes to your good ex- 
 ample. Louiz is rather cross, but she is active, 
 and makes a very fair housekeeper; by the way, 
 hew does Harriet go on 1" 
 
 " Extremely well, she comes home for good 
 at Midsummer, if you think proper." 
 
 " We shall see — perhaps I may take her 
 back, or I may leave her a year for the be- 
 nefit of your good example ; — that it is 
 good, I have had more proof in some respects 
 than I wished — every thing that has been 
 done (by a principal at least,) has been done 
 by you ; either Everton is swallowed up by 
 his new concern, or he is sunk in idleness — 
 we never see any thing from him, no not a 
 line." 
 
 " He prefers exertion to writing " 
 
 " Yet he has lost much for want of exertion,
 
 PATIENi l.. ]Q5 
 
 he declined taking a journey last spring 
 twelvemonth, which would have put a fortune 
 in his hands — to be sure it was not lost, for 
 the young man who married Kate, took it, 
 and re-established, through some letters you 
 copied, an invaluable connection — ah, child ! 
 you have been lucky to us, though we lost 
 your property by a marriage that 1 doubt has 
 been unlucky to you ; but here is a letter from 
 Kate for you, and she has sent you a bag of 
 finery too of some kind. Dora opened the 
 letter and read : 
 
 DEAR SISTER, 
 
 I never think of you now, 
 but to reproach myself for a thousand in- 
 stances of bad conduct towards you, which I 
 intreat you to forgive. I grieve to hear many 
 things of Stancliffe, which prove him unwor- 
 thy of goodness like yours. Mrs. Masterman, 
 in her letters to friends in this place, describes 
 his conduct in so many little particulars in- 
 dicative of a thorough knowledge of your do- 
 mestic concerns, that 1 fear it is but too true ; 
 and that now she is no longer near you, things 
 are still worse. My excellent husband has 
 just given me a hundred pound bill for
 
 166 PATIENCE. 
 
 English purchases ; but pray, my dear Doia, 
 use it in any way most conducive to your 
 own comfort, not forgetting that I must in- 
 sist on buying my little nephew a new frock. 
 Mama looks very well considering — we were 
 all sadly lost for want of company when we 
 first came, but that is now got over, for my 
 own part, I can truly say I regret nothing in 
 England but you, whom I used so ill, from 
 pride and envy of that fortune which has 
 hitherto, I fear, done little for your happiness. 
 Pray, my dear sister, write to me fully and 
 confidentially ; for you will perceive that 
 your delicacy in speaking so kindly of Ever- 
 ton, has not availed in hiding your situation 
 from us ; we all feel for you deeply and sin- 
 cerely. I am happy to say, that my father 
 is much improved in his temper, and if he 
 could see Frank, would be the happiest of 
 men, for every thing prospers with him, and 
 he is looked up to by every body as the father 
 of the British interest in this place — you were 
 the first person who gave me a true idea of 
 him ; but indeed all your words and actions 
 are present to my mind, and when I am 
 a mother, they shall not be lost to my child. 
 Mr. Noble, my excellent husband — (God
 
 PATIENCE. 107 
 
 knows, a much better than I deserve,) desires 
 his best regards to you, and intreats you to 
 consider him in every respect your friend and 
 brother — my father will introduce you to his 
 
 relations in , if you desire it; and now my 
 
 beloved, respected sister, I must say farewell, 
 &x\ &c. 
 
 Dora could not peruse this letter without 
 tears of joy, and feelings of true sisterly re- 
 gard for the writer, whose sins of unkindness 
 had been long blotted from her memory ; but 
 the predominant sensation it excited, was 
 anger towards the woman who had traduced 
 the character of her husband, in a quarter 
 where he had been highly respected, and 
 might be much injured, for errors which she 
 considered to have arisen entirely from her 
 own malignant influence ; and she warmly 
 commented to her father on this part of her 
 sister's letter, observing, " that the baseness 
 and cruelty of that woman towards poor Ever- 
 ton, was absolutely shocking." 
 
 " Then he did not lie in bed all day when 
 there was any press of business ? but did he 
 not compel you, (in fact,) to exertions impro-
 
 168 PATIENCE. 
 
 per for your situation, and which have entailed 
 weakness on your child ? can you deny writing 
 all the foreign letters in your dressing-room, 
 when, in his mad pettishness, he had kicked 
 out the foreign clerk ? is it not true that he 
 left you in the very hour of pain and danger ? 
 were you not obliged to cut up your own 
 clothes for baby linen, because you had no 
 money till Mrs. Aylmer sent you a present ? 
 and was not even that taken from you to help 
 the purchase of a gig, into which you nevei 
 set your foot ? and" — - 
 
 " Because she took possession of it," cried 
 Dora, eagerly ; " it was bought to please her ; 
 — wicked woman, to tell such stories ! she 
 knows that she ordered every thing — did every 
 thing — he left me at her instigation, slighted 
 me at her bidding." 
 
 " So — h, so — h," said Mr. Hemingford, 
 " my poor girl, I see how the matter stood — ■ 
 this is the man, who, without pity or con- 
 sideration, without remembering that the in- 
 dustry of thirty years of my life had been help- 
 ing his fortune, could take advantage of errors 
 that injured myself alone, to drive me an exile 
 from my native land, and my only son — send
 
 PATIENCE. \(') l J 
 
 me forth with a constitution injured by toil 
 and sorrow, to lay down my grey hairs in a 
 foreign grave— may («'ocT — 
 
 " Father ! father, do not curse him ! he is 
 my husband ; him to whom you gave me will- 
 ingly, nay, thankfully — he wilt repent — lie 
 has repented — do not curse him ! are we not 
 all liable to error ! have we not all need of 
 mercy and forgiveness .'" 
 
 Mr. Hemingford sat down and covered his 
 face with his hands — his bosom heaved with 
 convulsive sobs, and the anguish of remem- 
 bered sorrow combined with newly awakened 
 anger to agitate him to excess. The words 
 of Dora had fallen not less distinctly on his 
 ear than his heart, which they filled with self- 
 reproach, though conscious that she meant it 
 not ; at length he replied slowly and in a 
 voice which faultered with extreme emotion : 
 
 " True, we have ail need of forgiveness, 
 child — we ought to ask it of you, who have 
 been unfairly dealt by, ever since you were 
 born : — Dora, Dora, 'tis a sad thing for a man 
 to get into difficulties, it blunts his conscience, 
 confuses his faculties, (ills his poor wandering 
 brain with a thousand schemes, and habi- 
 tuates him to think on things he would have 
 
 Q
 
 170 PATIENCE. 
 
 scorned to entertain for a moment in his pros- 
 perity." 
 
 " Very true, my dear father, heaven preserve 
 us in the day of trouble from the temptations 
 trouble brings." 
 
 " Think what it is, Dora, for a man to la- 
 bour for thirty years, acting liberally, living 
 handsomely, held respectably by all men, 
 being at last brought to the test, convicted of 
 poverty, and condemned to spend the latter 
 years, the natural resting years of life, in misery 
 and obscurity ? — perhaps eating the bread of 
 charity from those hands he helped to fill — 
 surely such a prospect might shake the stoutest 
 heart, and confuse the clearest head — such a 
 prospect haunted me for years." 
 
 " Thank God, it is over, my dear father." 
 
 " It is not over, its evils survive in you, 
 Dora — had I trusted you with all I thought 
 and wished, and one half of what I feared, all 
 would have been well — but the woman to 
 whom I was tied had given me no great opinion 
 of your sex, dear heart, and my spirits were 
 cowed as no honest man's should be : — I also 
 felt very ill at that time ; I did not deem my- 
 self equal to do that which I have done — alto- 
 gether, Stanclifte was rry master — I thank
 
 PATIENCE. 1 7 J 
 
 him, he has taught me how to govern — the 
 tables are now turned, and it was time." — 
 
 Dura brought her boy to its grandfather, 
 anxious to divert the tenor of his thoughts — 
 he smiled upon it very kindly, but left the 
 house soon, saying, " that he must go to 
 Change, and had indeed a great deal of busi- 
 ness to get through, since his whole stay must 
 be as short as possible." 
 
 In the present state of anxiety under which 
 she suffered, his daughter could not desire his 
 stay to be protracted ; yet this was the first 
 time when she could feel the comfort, the pro- 
 tection, and the confidence, his presence ought 
 to have a Horded her.
 
 17« 
 
 CHAP. X. 
 
 IMr. Hemingford did not return at the hour 
 he had himself appointed for dinner ; and as 
 he was wont to be very exact, Dora became 
 extremely uneasy, for she justly dreaded that 
 other circumstances might transpire as to the 
 conduct of her husband, which might tend to 
 irritate his mind ; and when at length she 
 sate down with Mrs. Judy and Frank, she was 
 in a state of extreme disorder, which she was 
 anxious to conceal from both. 
 
 " Where can your papa be gone ?" cried 
 the old lady, " I think all men are alike ; 'tis 
 well for me I have had nothing to do with 
 them — there is Stancliffe, now, the most par- 
 ticular creature in the world, he will order half 
 a dozen fid- fads to be got for his dinner, all 
 to be done to a minute, and it is ten to one if 
 he comes when poor Dolly has been fidgetting 
 about them for hours. I'll tell Mr. Heming- 
 ford when he comes; I'll say to him, says 
 I."—
 
 PATIENCE. 175 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Judith, pray say nothing to my 
 father." 
 
 " Say nothing — dear ! that will be very 
 rude ; but if you desire it, I'll do any thing, 
 that is, nothing. All I fear is, not to speak to 
 a stranger will be indecent, and as Milton 
 says, • The want of decency is want of sense,' 
 but what do you say, my dear Frank?" 
 
 " 1 hear my father's step," said Frank, and 
 in a moment afterwards Mr. Heminsrford en- 
 tcred, not indeed to take his place at his daugh- 
 ter's table, but to beckon her out of the room 
 and precede her to her dressing-room in silence, 
 but with a countenance so full of trouble as to 
 prove it the herald of misfortune. 
 
 " Dora, child, sit down, I must speak with 
 you." 
 
 Dora obeyed, unable to reply, yet trembling 
 less in limb than in heart. 
 
 " Is it true that StanclifTe is out almost 
 every evening ? — that he comes home very 
 late ?" 
 
 ' He generally does go out for a few hours ; 
 
 in summer he goes to the bowling-green, — 
 
 now, he goes to the billiard-room, 1 believe." 
 
 Yes! there he goes, and there he stays. 
 
 alter all decent people are gone — in short, he 
 
 Q 3
 
 174 PATIENCE. 
 
 is become a decided gamester — he has lately- 
 lost frequently to the amount of hundreds — ■ 
 we have no money in the bank, all has been 
 drawn out in small sums, not one of which has 
 been applied to the uses demanding it : about 
 three weeks since, he took in a thousand 
 pounds, but it was all drawn out, within two 
 days, by gentlemen, not. tradesmen, to whom 
 he had given checks — can you cast any light 
 on this transaction?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! I thought it was for you that he 
 had got the money. I had no idea of all this, 
 and I hope y r ou have been misinformed — poor 
 Everton is quick in his temper, by which he 
 makes enemies, who judge harshly, and report 
 him unfairly." 
 
 " I shall set out for London this very night, 
 and endeavour to save him from further mis- 
 chief; he is gone to receive money, and it is 
 evident he cannot be trusted to brino: it back 
 — the responsibility of a highwayman, or a 
 swindler, is security compared to that of a 
 gamester." 
 
 " Take me with you — I will find my hus- 
 band, and prove to you that he is calumniated 
 —I will"— 
 
 Alas ! the will was good, but not the power,
 
 PATIENCE. 175 
 
 as Dora pronounced the last words, she sunk 
 fainting on the shoulder of her father, unable 
 to sustain herself further against the repeated 
 shocks, which, like wave after wave, came over 
 her . 
 
 Mr. Hemingford set out, and Dora, aware 
 that his sudden departure after the not less 
 sudden flight of her husband, might lead to 
 conjectures injurious to the credit of both, 
 after the seclusion of one night in her apart- 
 ment spent in tears and prayers, again entered 
 her usual silting room, tried to exhilirate the 
 spirits of poor Frank, who was grieved to lose 
 his father so soon, and to endure with cheerful 
 complacency the trying questions of numer- 
 ous callers upon her father, and the not less 
 trying consolations of Mrs. Judith. Indeed, 
 the half guesses, the occasional truths, the 
 jumble of sense and nonsense, the provoking, 
 wearisome volubility, and the pure good-mean- 
 ing of this person, formed altogether a regular 
 kind of torment to a wife so situated, which 
 kept the spirits in perpetual anxiety ; she 
 either did say something, or you expected her 
 to say something, which ought not to be said 
 at that moment, or to thai person.— When 
 the terror of the interview had subsided, and,
 
 176 PATIENCE. 
 
 after sitting on thorns for an hour, the unwel- 
 come visitant had disappeared, or the prying 
 servant was withdrawn, and the liberated suf- 
 ferer sought repose, then out poured Mrs. 
 Judith with a flood of nonsense, by way of 
 being agreeable, and supplying the want of 
 other company. At all times a perpetual 
 blister, in the day of trouble she became one 
 of tenfold severity — Dora felt, shuddered, but 
 endured it. 
 
 For the following five days and nights, sus- 
 pence and solicitude were rendered still more 
 difficult to bear from the frequent presence of 
 that dear friend to whose society she had 
 looked so long, as the balm of all her wounds, 
 and with whom in early life she had never 
 known the secret of an hour. But now that 
 her heart was burdened to breaking, she could 
 not speak openly to her ; and she even felt 
 her presence a restraint, because she knew that 
 Mrs. Aylmer of necessity read her troubles in 
 her countenance. She felt like one under a 
 spell, she coi^ld not, dared not break; yet she 
 was sensible that such a friend as Mrs. Aylmer 
 had a far stronger claim upon her than such 
 a husband as Stanclifie : — but whatever were 
 his faults, she yet pitied and loved him ; and
 
 PATIENCE. 1/7 
 
 she would have sought for sympathy in her 
 sorrows, if she could have revealed them with- 
 out revealing also faults, for which she was 
 unable to oiler excuse or apology. 
 
 At length a letter arrived from her father, 
 which she hurried with to her most private 
 room before she dared to open; it was evi- 
 dent lv written in great trepidation, and con- 
 tained only two lines. 
 
 " I have found him, and, I trust, saved him ; 
 but all mv fears were well founded — he sa j 3 
 he is ill ; 1 shall not leave him a moment, 
 
 Sec. &c." 
 
 The letter was without date, and Dora there- 
 fore concluded that her father was about to 
 return with her husband, and she could not 
 help being thankful that they were together, 
 though the last sentence conveyed the idea 
 that Stancliffe had endeavoured to shake him 
 oil". The idea of their contention was terrific 
 to her ; yet she was compelled to see that her 
 father was the only person who could inter- 
 pose to save them all from ruin and disgrace, 
 under this new and terrible infliction ; but so 
 much did she dread the time of hi departure.
 
 178 PATIENCE. 
 
 under circumstances so likely to irritate her 
 husband, that she sincerely wished he might 
 be prevailed upon to remain, and send Stan- 
 cliffe in his turn to Smyrna, as a change which 
 could hardly fail to be beneficial to his habits, 
 and in consequence to his temper. 
 
 No other letter *fol lowed, but within a week 
 Mr. Hemingford arrived in a post-chaise ac- 
 companied by Stancliffe and his daughter 
 Harriett, who had been for the last four years 
 in a school near town. Dora was informed 
 by her father that her husband was extremely 
 unwell, and must, he believed, be got to bed 
 immediately ; but he assured her, in an under 
 tone, " there was no occasion for alarm." 
 
 So well was she already acquainted with 
 her husband's passion for his bed, whenever 
 it afforded a refuge from intrusion or vexation, 
 that this information excited no surprise, and 
 she was even glad that he should escape 
 thither, from the shame and trouble which op- 
 pressed him, well aware that no word would 
 escape her own lips that could add to his dis- 
 tress, and that her heart was open to his con- 
 fessions and his complaints, when he chose to 
 utter them, and till then she could attend him 
 in silence and tenderness.
 
 PATIENCE. 17!) 
 
 StanclifTe was, in all things which concern- 
 ed himself, a man of acute feelings ; and so 
 sensible was he of the error of his past con- 
 duct, that he shrunk from beholding Mr. He- 
 mingford, not only as a son-in-law and a part- 
 ner, but as a criminal, whose character as a 
 commercial man was irreparably lost. Yet 
 still his pride struggled with his shame; and 
 as he was satisfied that Dora was either ig- 
 norant of his late practices, or, knowing, would 
 conceal them, he determined at all hazards to 
 procure money from Mr. Masterman, whom 
 he knew to be rising in the world, and with it 
 to satisfy the claims of a man whom he had 
 long affected to despise, and from whom he 
 had no reason to expect indulgence. 
 
 He had found his London partner immersed 
 in business which was now beginning to re- 
 ward his cares, and offer an abundant harvest 
 in return for the money expended, and the care 
 bestowed ; but it had not hitherto produeed 
 profits which warranted the expensive stile in 
 which his lady condueted her household. Stan- 
 clifie therefore dreaded the further develope- 
 ment of his affairs, prosperous as they appear- 
 ed; but on explaining the difficulties in which 
 he was placed by the arrival of his father-in-
 
 180 PATIENCE. 
 
 law, Mr. Masterman readily promised to sup- 
 ply him with money, saying, " that he had a 
 friend immensely rich, who would not suffer 
 him to be distressed, especially at a time when 
 he could offer security so ample ;" adding - , 
 with a warm grasp of the hand, " but you were 
 my Jirst friend, dear Stancliffe ; I can never 
 forget what I owe you." 
 
 A pang shot through the heart of the con- 
 scious traitor at those words, so terrible, that 
 he hastened to leave him, for he was peculiarly 
 alive to the pain of shame, and could with 
 difficulty be brought to appoint an interview 
 the following morning. Masterman was 
 puzzled by the wildness and disorder of his 
 looks ; he related the whole affair circumstan- 
 tially to his wife, who heard it with wounded 
 but better concealed feelings, and eagerly 
 suggested the idea of purchasing Stancliffe's 
 share of their business, which in his present 
 distress he would undoubtedly part with on 
 very advantageous terms for them. 
 
 " But consider what we owe him, my dear." 
 A slight blush suffused the cheek of Mrs. 
 Masterman; but she was subject to blushing, 
 and her husband was not subject to investi- 
 gation, and he continued to say, " besides, do
 
 PATIENCT.. 181 
 
 you think Mr. Enfield will find the money 
 lor I suppose you are thinking of him." 
 
 The lady engaged that he should, and so 
 much was she alarmed with the idea of that 
 eclaircissement her letters to Smyrna might 
 probably oecasion between the parties about 
 to meet, that she exerted her influence so ef- 
 fectually over her new ftiend, who was a 
 bachelor advanced in life, and infinitely more 
 her slave than Stancliffe had ever been, that 
 on the following morning a proposal was 
 made so advantageous as to exceed all his 
 hopes ; since, although it quashed the golden 
 dreams he had once indulged, and deprived 
 \im of the rational expectations of wealth in 
 the day of fruition, yet it returned him nearly 
 all that he had advanced, and what was, in 
 the present state of his feelings, not less wel- 
 come, closed for ever a connection with a man 
 whose confidence and kindness inflicted a tor- 
 ture he could not endure. 
 
 Had Dora been with him at this moment, 
 perhaps her thankfulness for such a termina- 
 tion of an affair so long oppressive, and her 
 vigilance to turn it into the proper channel of 
 penitence for past error, and resolution for 
 future improvement, might have had its effect 
 
 K
 
 182 PATIENCE. 
 
 — but, alas ! Stancliffe was alone, no eye was 
 upon him, (save that he no longer remem- 
 bered,) and in looking at the cash and secu- 
 rities he held for a large sum, that demon of 
 avarice, which is the gamester's deity, in- 
 fluenced him to make it larger, and to redeem 
 all his late losses by a stroke. London was 
 the only place for such an experiment, and in 
 London he found himself unchecked by the 
 prying eyes of narrow-minded tradesmen — 
 unfettered by that obtrusive partner whom 
 he might never again so effectually elude. 
 
 Most happily for him, that indefatigable 
 partner, despite of years and fatigue, traced 
 him to the place where for hours he had been 
 losing his newly acquired property, with a 
 facility increased by the violence of his temper, 
 which spread a fever through his veins, and 
 utterly incapacitated him from guarding 
 against the ruin he had tempted, whilst it in- 
 duced him to use language so insulting, as to 
 be only borne by the successful, who found 
 their power of revenge increased by this in- 
 temperance. At the moment when Mr. He- 
 mingford forced his way into the apartment 
 where he had spent the night, he found him 
 in all the frenzy of rage, yet nearly exhausted
 
 PATIENCE 183 
 
 by the irritation and overwhelming solicitude 
 in which he had been suffering for so many 
 hours, and exposed to the insults of two fe- 
 rocious looking attendants of a place now 
 nearly deserted by its usual frequenters. His 
 first emotion on tire sight of Mr. Hemingford 
 was joy, for he felt after all that he was .1 
 friend, and taking his proffered arm, he went 
 out with him with the air 'of one completely 
 enfeebled and humbled. 
 
 Whatever had been the previous anger and 
 alarm experienced by Mr. Hemingford, he 
 could not behold the son of his 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 Hash 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 pre- 
 served; and Mr. Hemingford not knowing the 
 real situation of his affairs, therefore concluded
 
 184 PATIENCE. 
 
 that he had been the mere loser of loose cash 
 taken from home for his expenses. 
 
 Even under this persuasion, Mr. Heming- 
 ford 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 actuall}- thrown 
 away almost three thousand pounds, the sum 
 he had originally advanced to Mr. Master- 
 man, he became so depressed as to yield un- 
 questioning 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. Heming- 
 ford was ready, and they proceeded homeward 
 accordingly, both parties probably relieved 
 by the presence of Harriett, whose many en- 
 quiries, and artless exhibition of pleasure, re- 
 lieved 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,
 
 P \ I I BN< E. 185 
 
 endured iiis rebukes, or soothed bis self-up- 
 braidings, assisted his plans of improvement, 
 and revived his hopes for the future. 
 
 Mr. llemingford, too busy to waste time in 
 fruitless messages, and unheeded expostula- 
 tion, 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 distribu- 
 tion. 
 
 At length all things were ready for Mr. He- 
 mingford's departure, and Dora hoped that 
 her invalid husband would exert himself to 
 bid him farewell ; but this he positively re- 
 fused, although he sent a kind message, and 
 a proposal of exchanging situations with him 
 the following year, provided his health per- 
 mitted it. 
 
 B .;
 
 180 PATIENCE. 
 
 " 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 wont 
 despair, Dora ; — only remember this, that 
 when I am gone, you must see after things — 
 my sleeping partner must have an active re- 
 presentative ; at the end of my term you will 
 have a double release, so keep up your spirits." 
 
 Mr. Hemingford uttered this farevvel ex- 
 hortation 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, look- 
 ed 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*
 
 PATIENCE. 1 87 
 
 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 dis- 
 appointment, and the weariness, the soul sick- 
 ness, 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
 
 188 PATIENCE. 
 
 deem them eternal, to look to their re-union, 
 is indeed the greatest, sweetest, contempla- 
 tion 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 ex- 
 hortation 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 
 oilier means; but since man ought to be her 
 guide, as he is her head, in general there is
 
 PATIENCE. 189 
 
 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 abun- 
 dant."
 
 lyo 
 
 CHAP. XL 
 
 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 com- 
 plaint 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 an- 
 noyed 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 un- 
 certain whether it was best to fix her residence 
 near her or not.
 
 PATIENCE. 10,1 
 
 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 occupa- 
 tions — 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 bv 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 pre- 
 sents for her old neighbours and Sunday scho- 
 lars, and forced upon her with a parental com- 
 mand, 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 ap- 
 peared to consider in the light of a parent or
 
 1Q2 PATIENCE. 
 
 future benefactor, whom lie 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 re- 
 move 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, sullenless, 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 de- 
 pendance. 
 
 It will be easily supposed that in this situ- 
 ation Stancliffe soon completely lost his ap- 
 petite, 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 recol- 
 lections of the most painful kind, which in his 
 present disposition, failed to awaken the sor- 
 rows of a penitent heart, but renewed perpe-
 
 PATIENCE. 193 
 
 tually 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," fre- 
 quently worked himself into a state of agita- 
 tion 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 mis- 
 fortunes, 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 nourishing circum- 
 stances, 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 
 
 s
 
 194 PATIENCE. 
 
 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 dis- 
 play 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 now and then a friend 
 to sit with him ; and on Harriett's return from 
 a visit in the neighbourhood, he desired to see 
 her. This interview appeared to be attended 
 with happy consequences ; for upon her re- 
 presentation of the beauties of the country, 
 he declared that he would have a lodging pro- 
 cured, and remove thither immediately — he 
 proposed dressing, and thought he could ven- 
 ture into the drawing-room. 
 
 With joy and tenderness, even sincere gra- 
 titude to him for this exertion, Dora made 
 every arrangement that could tend to his ac- 
 commodation ; she took care to place poor 
 Mrs. Judith and her dog out of hearing, and 
 so to contrive every circumstance, and com- 
 bine every motive for exertion, that he might 
 be stimulated to use it. In another day he
 
 PATIENCE. iy.5 
 
 was persuaded to take an airing ; and as his 
 pale and interesting countenance naturally 
 attracted attention, there was reason to be- 
 lieve his vanity would be gratified by the pity 
 he appeared to excite ; nor was that faculty 
 dormant ; but on his return he did not appear 
 to wish for any company beyond his own 
 family, and Dora's heart bounded with the 
 hope that the happiness she had so long de- 
 sired would really be her's — she should behold 
 Stancliffe a happy and attached husband, 
 fulfilling his duties in society, but holding his 
 home- as the scene of his dearest pleasures; 
 his wife as the friend of his bosom. 
 
 Every airing, and indeed every hour, as 
 might be expected, increased the strength and 
 renewed the appetite of the invalid, who not 
 only abandoned the idea of removal, but now 
 expressed as great a desire for company as he 
 had lately shewn aversion ; and although 
 Dora had herself been so reduced by her long 
 confinement with him as to be little equal to 
 fatigue ; yet her desire to see him resume 
 his place in society, and to seize the present 
 moment for obliterating all the past, induced 
 her to exert herself to the utmost in preparing 
 her household for a mode of exertion to which
 
 196 PATIENCE. 
 
 it had been long unaccustomed. Frank was 
 her constant auxiliary ; he daily read, and 
 frequently answered, the letters of business, 
 dispatched all her cards of invitation, listened 
 to Mrs. Judith with the patience of Job, and 
 played with his little nephew by the hour. He- 
 was still a kind of alien from the apartment 
 occupied by Stancliffe, who had certainly not 
 quite forgiven him for falsifying his own pro- 
 phesy, and presuming to live. Frank felt this, 
 but never commented upon it ; yet he one day 
 observed, " that his brother gave all the love 
 to Harriett which he ought to have divided 
 between them." 
 
 " Don't be jealous, my dear boy," said 
 Dora ; yet as she said so, a pang resembling 
 jealousy shot through her own heart, which 
 compelled her to see that the observations 
 which followed were just, as Frank answered. 
 
 " I am not angry at Harriett, she is very 
 good-tempered, and has done us all good, for 
 which 1 sincerely thank her; but I cannot 
 help seeing that Mr. Stancliffe, who never 
 would allow any other person to influence him 
 the least in the world, obeys her as it were in 
 every thing — it was at her suggestion he left 
 his bed, for her sake he went out an airing,
 
 PATIENCE. 197 
 
 because she thought it dull, he invited com- 
 pany, and he yields to every thing she says, 
 except that of going into country lodgings ; 
 and I really think that is because he knows 
 that he then would be parted from her, for she 
 dislikes the country." 
 
 The innocent but true expose* of her hus 
 band's conduct and feelings, wrung the heart 
 of Dora, and again crushed her new-born 
 hopes of happier days ; but she struggled to 
 subdue her feelings, and trusted that the vo- 
 latility of her husband, if not a better motive, 
 would (now he began to enter into company) 
 give a new turn to his mind. She revolved 
 numerous plans by which to wean him from 
 an inclination she considered as childish, 
 rather than criminal, in its present state, but 
 which could not be checked too soon ; and 
 she felt an especial care to prevent Harriett 
 herself from perceiving it — whilst thus busied 
 with various cares, the sudden and increasing 
 illness which seized her little boy, soon ab- 
 sorbed all her thoughts in him. 
 
 It appeared that the child was seized with 
 the measles under very alarming symptoms ; 
 and as Harriett had never had the complaint, 
 as soon as this was announced, she declared
 
 198 PATIENCE. 
 
 an intention of setting out for Preston imme- 
 diately, being already engaged to pay a visit 
 there, a measure Dora considered very pru- 
 dent ; but when Stancliffe professed a deter- 
 mination to accompany her thither, she could 
 not forbear to insist " that he could not pos- 
 sibly be equal to any such exertion." 
 
 " Really," said Harriett, " I think it would 
 do him good ; at the same time, Dora, I know 
 he ought not to leave you — I don't know what 
 to say !" — 
 
 Neither did the anxious wife and sister; 
 but sufficient had passed to determine Stan- 
 clifTe to abide by any object of his own wishes, 
 and in a very short time he was on the road 
 with Harriett ; and Dora, with her suffering 
 child on her lap, and the eternal questions and 
 condolencics of Mrs. Judith in her ear, was 
 compelled to forget ideal evils, in the actual 
 ones by which she was surrounded. 
 
 To her surprise, and undoubtedly her grati- 
 fication, her husband returned as soon as it 
 was possible for a person in high health to 
 have performed the journey ; and although 
 she could not but feel hurt at the cold manner 
 in which he enquired after the child, and his 
 total disregard of her, yet she did not wonder
 
 PATIENCE. 109 
 
 that he should immediately go to bed, nor that, 
 with his former predilection for it, he should 
 remain there the three following days in a 
 state of complete relapse as to his former hu- 
 mour and indisposition. 
 
 At this time the little object of poor Dora's 
 unceasing care expired in her arms, and even 
 the apathy of the father was aroused. Stan- 
 cliffe left his bed, and insisted with authority, 
 if not with kindness, that " since all was over, 
 his wife should take care of herself." He sent 
 for a nurse, whom he ordered never to leave 
 her, " for he was certain she was ill ;" and he 
 spoke as if he considered her illness in the 
 light of an injury to himself; he was evi- 
 dently in a state of considerable mental in- 
 quietude and agitation, but it neither could 
 be occasioned by sorrow for his child, nor 
 sympathy with its mother; for he was well 
 aware that a few kind words would have been 
 more consolatory to her than any medical aid, 
 yet he withheld them, and indeed never ap- 
 proached her chamber. He buried the child 
 as soon as was consistent with decency, and 
 then set out for those country lodgings he had 
 previously refused, leaving Dora to follow him 
 when she should be able.
 
 200 PATIENCE. 
 
 The coldness and unfeeling stoicism as- 
 sumed by Stancliffe at this time of severe suf- 
 fering, gave a shock to the spirits and the 
 affections of Dora, such as she had never ex- 
 perienced before, and rendered an indisposition 
 which was merely the effect of grief and fatigue, 
 and which would soon have yielded to the 
 usual remedies, serious and lasting. Stancliffe 
 was himself a very unhappy man, and his pre- 
 sent unkindness was the result of pride, morti- 
 fication, and fear : — he had, in fact, insulted 
 Harriett, quarrelled with her, and in his own 
 apprehension, made a family breach which 
 never would be healed ; and expecting that 
 Dora would be informed of this by every post, 
 he shrunk from seeing her. As it is always 
 the nature of guilt to be cowardly, his con- 
 science construed every thing into offence and 
 reproach, and he fled from his own house, as 
 he had previously done from general society, 
 lest he should be annoyed by reproach he was 
 conscious of meriting, though by no means 
 in the habit of experiencing. 
 
 Loathing his own society, which was now 
 unrelieved, as formerly, by a wife always en- 
 deavouring to amuse him, and reproved by 
 every memorial of her regard for him for
 
 PATIENCE. 201 
 
 deserting her until she had, by using the 
 reproach he dreaded, given him a pretext 
 for such desertion, Stancliffe determined to 
 try some means of diverting his chagrin by 
 change of scene. The death of his child had 
 been a trouble to him less for the love he felt 
 for it, than the idea of losing one hold upon 
 its mother's property ; he had unfortunately 
 from its very birth, considered it somewhat in 
 the light of a rival ; yet he had also the idea 
 (of course) that it ensured him succession, and 
 since it was gone, he was extremely anxious 
 for Dora's life, (at least, until she became of 
 age,) also for poor Frank's death during his 
 minority, and he determined to pay an incog- 
 nito visit to that property which he hoped to 
 call his own hereafter, through this two-fold 
 medium. 
 
 As Stancliffe had no servant with him, and 
 went out a great deal on horseback, staying 
 away a day or two at a time, it was easy to 
 carry his design into execution. He avoided 
 the side on which the estates of his trustee 
 laid ; but, desirous of making many enquiries 
 concerning him, he stopped at a little farm- 
 house, where he bargained for oats for his
 
 202 PATIENCE. 
 
 horse, and made sufficient acquaintance to 
 answer his purpose. 
 
 The head of this family was a widow with 
 several children ; they had all heard that the 
 future landlord of Mrs. Downe's estate was a 
 handsome, sickly young gentleman ; and as 
 Stancliffe during his long confinement had 
 contracted a very delicate appearance, (which 
 was now aided by his mourning dress,) and it 
 was evident the strange gentleman knew a 
 great deal about the place, though " he seemed 
 to be mighty secret," it was not surprising 
 that they concluded this very person was to 
 be their future landlord. Under this persua- 
 sion, together probably with that interest the 
 pleasing person and manners of Stancliffe na- 
 turally inspired, every way of performing the 
 agreeable their humble means allowed, were put 
 in requisition — the parlour was made tidy, tea 
 and cakes were provided, and most unhappily, 
 the prettiest daughter of the three waited upon 
 his honour. 
 
 This young woman's modest and almost 
 fearful demeanour, which blended with pro- 
 found respect that pity and tenderness the 
 strange gentleman's supposed illness excited,
 
 PATIENCE. 1203 
 
 was extremely flattering to the vanity of Stan- 
 cliffe, and the more gratifying at a time when 
 he was >till smarting from the contemptuous 
 reproaches of one he now despised as a mere 
 chit, and apprehending the contempt of 
 another, whom, however he might fly from 
 or neglect, he yet held in high esteem. He 
 was also pleased with her person, and the high 
 glow of health in her countenance ; and per- 
 ceiving that in the affability of his manners, 
 and the contemplation of his person, the fair 
 rustic received as much pleasure as she gave, 
 he determined to renew his visit, precisely for 
 the reasons that (as a wise man) should have 
 deterred him. 
 
 Stancliffe went again ; but he then saw 
 Alice clandestinely, and without disclosing 
 his real name, professed for her a passion 
 which was met on her part with fondness but 
 modesty — she was ignorant, but not vicious ; 
 and although ambition might be awakened 
 in her mind, love was the prevailing sentiment, 
 and it was not difficult to prevail upon her to 
 remove to a situation where he could see her 
 more frequently. When Stancliffe had ar- 
 renged this plan, he became excessively em- 
 barrassed respecting its execution ; and in
 
 204 PATIENCE. 
 
 order to hide the guilty secret which no one 
 suspected, returned suddenly to his own house, 
 and applied himself with new and extraordi- 
 nary diligence to the proper management of 
 his business. 
 
 Dora was now beginning to recover from 
 her illness, and thankful to see the turn he now 
 was taking, though her heart was still that of 
 a bereaved mother mourning for her only child, 
 she exerted herself to the utmost to prove her 
 resignation to the divine will, and her desire 
 to make her home cheerful and pleasant to her 
 husband. So happy were her exertions in 
 this respect, that he ventured to enquire about 
 Harriett, to which Dora replied by saying, 
 " that she corresponded with Frank, not her ; 
 but she understood that the death of the little 
 boy had given her such a shock, that she de- 
 clined returning to their house for the winter." 
 
 From this time Stancliffe found a new sense 
 of dislike steal over his mind towards that 
 most amiable boy ; and as he was now much 
 in the counting-house, he made such con- 
 tinual opportunities of finding fault with him 
 in the most rude and unjustifiable manner, that 
 his life was rendered miserable. Dora per- 
 ceiving him look unwell, advised him to remain
 
 PATIENCE. 205 
 
 in the house ; but on his doing so, the temper 
 of Stancliile broke out with uncontroulable 
 fury. He was on the point of striking him a 
 heavy blow, when Dora, in extreme terror, 
 flung herself in betwixt them, and received it 
 on her arm. 
 
 Stancliffe pushed her away violently, but 
 suddenly recovering himself, said, " what right 
 had you to interfere ? but I suppose, madam, 
 it was done to make me the despicable wretch 
 who could strike a woman." 
 
 " No, my love," said Dora, recovering from 
 her fright, " it was to save you from hurting 
 one much weaker than any woman — although 
 poor Frank did not bleed when he got a broken 
 arm to save our little Everton, yet you know 
 
 -Di". said that a slight blow in the back 
 
 or stomach would" — 
 
 " Oh ! yes, 'tis all very fine — I tell you he is 
 as well as I am ; and I abhor idleness, as I hate 
 the devil, and do not choose to support him 
 for nothing to be a spy on my actions — out 
 of my sight, Sir." 
 
 " I cannot leave my sister, Sir," said Frank, 
 with modest firmness, " whilst you are so 
 angry." 
 
 Stancliffe was disconcerted by the calm 
 
 T
 
 20(j PATIENCE. 
 
 intrepidity with which so weak a creature met 
 his rage ; and he fancied that his courage 
 proceeded from some knowledge of which in 
 fact Frank was utterly ignorant — he felt de- 
 feated, and called upon for increased caution ; 
 but his hatred to the poor boy was rendered 
 the more inveterate, and as he was too proud 
 and passionate for caution, every person about 
 him noticed it, and commented upon it. 
 
 Often would Dora revolve in her own mind 
 the propriety of removing her brother from a 
 house where he was so unworthily treated, 
 and consider what plausible pretext she could 
 offer for such a measure ; but when she men- 
 tioned it to Frank, he cut short all her schemes 
 by an assurance " that he had considered the 
 matter a thousand times, and had resolved 
 rather to die with her, than to leave her, un- 
 less he could be assured that Stancliffe's dis- 
 like to him was such as to render his removal 
 valuable to her, in which case he would go to 
 his guardian immediately." 
 
 Dora seized a moment of calmness to men- 
 tion this to Stancliffe, and saw with an as- 
 tonishment which moved her pity, that he was 
 agitated by the bare mention of Mr. Black- 
 well's name — he begged her, in the utmost
 
 l'ATIENCK. 207 
 
 trepidation, to say no more on the subject ; 
 adding, " Frank knows my temper, and so do 
 you, and 1 should think you were both too 
 good Christians to bear malice ; pray let me 
 hear no more about parting. I would not have 
 
 him go to for the world — no, not for the 
 
 world." 
 
 Stancliffe spoke with earnestness, for he 
 spoke the truth ; and Dora so reported what 
 she considered a protestation of penitence for 
 his late unkindness, that Frank agreed with 
 her for the hundredth time, " that dear Ever- 
 ton's disposition had a great deal of what was 
 good in it," and that "he would come about 
 some time, and repay them for all their anx- 
 ieties." 4
 
 208 
 
 CHAP. XII. 
 
 JJiVERY day, every hour, was now observed 
 to increase the irritability of Staneliffe's tem- 
 per, and the bustle of his life, although there 
 was no particular business to be done ; and 
 such appeared his extreme anxiety, (without 
 any apparent cause,) that Dora began to fear 
 that he had again got some pecuniary em- 
 barrassment upon his mind of which she was 
 ignorant, and the thoughts of which affected 
 his temper and spirits in thllP extraordinary 
 manner. Little did she think that his counting- 
 house writing consisted of love letters, which 
 it was difficult for him so to write as that they 
 should be decyphered by her to whom they 
 were addressed ; and still less could she sup- 
 pose that the ill-humour and evident desire 
 to quarrel with her, which actuated her hus- 
 band, arose from the perpetual struggle of 
 his conscience with his inclinations, his re- 
 mains of good principle with a selfish passion, 
 which demanded a double sacrifice.
 
 PATIENCE. (209 
 
 Poor Mrs. Judith, who was the only happy 
 person his disturbed temper did not involve, 
 (in consequence of his banishment of her 
 every hour save that of dinner,) very frequently 
 roused his suspicion by her various quota- 
 tions, and her affectation of being knowing 
 and mysterious. One day he observed, in 
 rather an indeterminate manner, " that he be- 
 lieved he should be obliged to go to Dublin, 
 and he wished his linen to be ready," on which 
 Dora answered, "she would be very glad to 
 accompany him there if he pleased." 
 
 " I go on business and want no company." 
 
 Dora replied only by saying, "his port- 
 manteau could be packed in half an hour." 
 
 " So," cried Mrs. Judith, " then she musn't 
 go, poor dear ; but as Shakspeare says, 
 
 ' Be of your husband's mind, if right or wrong, 
 
 1 And eat your pudding, slave, and hold your tongue.' ' 
 
 Stancliffe frowned. 
 
 " You think that is not Shakspeare," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Judith; " well, then, this is : 
 
 ' Heaven first taught letters for some madman's aid, 
 ' Some raving lover, and some rural maid.' ' 
 
 Well as StanclifTe was acquainted with the 
 
 perpetual blunders made by the poor old lady, 
 
 and certain as he must be that no person in 
 
 t 3
 
 210 PATIENCE 
 
 his senses would ever entrust her with even 
 the shadow of a secret ; yet the guilty recol- 
 lection of having written a letter of the ut- 
 most importance two hours before, and in do- 
 ing which he had been twice interrupted, filled 
 his breast with rage and alarm. In the con- 
 fusion, his sudden passion awakened, he ran 
 into the counting-house, thinking he had left 
 it there—his face at the moment assuming a 
 deadly paleness, and his whole frame exhibit- 
 ing trepidation. 
 
 Dora was at the moment carefully dividing 
 a chicken's wing for her aged guest, and did 
 not observe her husband's countenance ; but 
 Frank was struck by the idea that he was seized 
 with sudden illness, and he immediatelv fol- 
 lowed him. 
 
 Dora gazed round with surprise as the ser- 
 vant closed the door, and looked to him for 
 explanation. 
 
 " My master went out, and Mr. Francis fol- 
 lowed him ; 1 think they went in the direction 
 to the counting-house, but there is nobody in 
 there at present, ma'am." 
 
 Dora apologized to Mrs. Judith, and in- 
 stantly followed them, dreading she knew not 
 what — the loud and angry voice of her hus-
 
 PATIENCE. 211 
 
 band quickened her trembling steps, as she 
 passed through the intervening warehouses. 
 
 At the moment Dora reached the counting- 
 house, she perceived Stancliffe striking Frank 
 with a ruler that had been lying on the desk — 
 the youth was extremely slender, but very tall, 
 and Stancliffe having seized him by the right 
 arm, beat him violently on the back, in spite 
 of his utmost struggles to escape. 
 
 The first sensation which assailed Dora on 
 sight of this horrible spectacle, was a pang so 
 terrible, that she felt as if struck with death, 
 and instinctively laid her hand on her heart as 
 if to keep it within her breast — she essaved to 
 scream, but had no power; yet in another 
 moment anger usurped the place of terror, and 
 she felt as if endued with a giant's strength. 
 Springing forward, she seized the uplifted arm 
 of Stancliffe, and by a violent and sudden 
 movement, pushed him aside, and clasped her 
 arms round Frank, crying in a thick convul- 
 sive voice, 
 
 " Madman ! — how dare you strike him ?" 
 
 Before it was possible to reply, or even to 
 repeat the blow, a deluge of blood poured 
 from the mouth and nostrils of poor Frank, 
 who sunk fainting on the floor, and Dora,
 
 212 PATIENCb. 
 
 unable to sustain him, sunk with him ; but her 
 senses quickened by new terrors, she recovered 
 the power of screaming aloud for help, though 
 fearful that none was nigh. 
 
 The sio-ht of blood calmed in a moment the 
 fury of Stancliffe ; he plucked his handker- 
 chief from his pocket by a natural movement 
 to offer aid, and out flew the letter half directed, 
 which he had accused Frank of taking, and 
 which he now recollected that with a hurried 
 hand and beating heart, he had stuffed into 
 his pocket on being spoken to by an old ser- 
 vant of the house, before whose eye his guilty 
 intentions made him shrink. The victim of 
 his rage perceived it, and pointed towards it, 
 as he lay speechless and apparently pouring 
 out his life. 
 
 Dora comprehended from the action, whence 
 the terrible scene had arisen ; but her eye fell 
 not on the direction of the letter — steps were 
 heard, and she said, whilst a new agony pierced 
 her heart, 
 
 " Fly, Stancliffe, fly — you are a murderer." 
 
 « No — no " — faintly murmured Francis, 
 putting up his hand as if to beckon him nearer. 
 
 The footman entered, having in fact been 
 listening, in the present case a happy circum-
 
 PATIENCE. 213 
 
 stance — he ran back to the house, sent in all 
 the maids, and flew himself for the medical 
 gentleman who usually attended the family. 
 
 They found their mistress supporting her 
 brother in the best position her terror and 
 weakness permitted, and their master standing 
 bolt upright, a letter and handkerchief in his 
 hand, with the air of a man horror struck. 
 At their approach, he hastily put the letter 
 in his most secure pocket, and began to wipe 
 off the blood which had touched his own 
 person. 
 
 " He faints — he is dying, mistress cannot 
 support him ; pray, sir, come to this side," said 
 one. 
 
 Stancliffe half moved in obedience ; but a 
 stern, and to him appalling expression, in the 
 hitherto meek countenance of his wife, forbade 
 his approach ; but he stood rivetted to the 
 place, in a kind of desperate, yet agonizing re- 
 solution. 
 
 A deep swoon, which looked like death, but 
 by checking the effusion of blood gave in 
 fact his only chance for life, now rapt the 
 senses of poor Frank. Stancliffe believed him 
 dead; but Dora, who had seen him thus be- 
 fore, (although from a far inferior cause,) was
 
 214 PATIENCE. 
 
 a little relieved by the hope she founded upon 
 it, and persisted in holding him in the same 
 posture till the arrival of medical assistance. 
 Her resolution saved his life ; and on their 
 arrival, by proper means his senses were re- 
 stored, his eyes opened, and the tongue which 
 appeared silenced for ever, asked faintly for 
 Dora. 
 
 " She is here," said Dr. C. — " your head is 
 on her shoulder." 
 
 " And Everton — poor Everton." — 
 
 " He is here too, my dear Mr. Francis, but 
 you must not speak." 
 
 Frank put out his hand — Everton, by a 
 motion from the surgeon, came near and took 
 hold of it — he pressed it fondly, covered it 
 with kisses and with tears ; and such was the 
 extreme agitation which affected him, that 
 the surgeon forcibly drew him out of the room, 
 and there was a positive mandate issued that 
 he must not approach the patient again, as 
 being evidently unable to controul his feel- 
 ings. 
 
 Francis, accustomed to submission, resign- 
 ed to death, and happy in the belief, that his 
 full and free forgiveness of Stancliffe was un- 
 derstood by him, and would eventually have
 
 PATIENCE. ^15 
 
 a happy effect upon him, gave himself every 
 
 chance of recovery his deplorable case admit- 
 ted. As even the shortest removal might be 
 fatal, he remained many days on the same 
 spot with pillows placed under him, and his 
 sister seated in silence near him, with her eyes 
 continually beut upon him ; yet fearful of 
 looking too tenderly, lest she should disturb 
 that placid fortitude which was his only me- 
 dium for recovery, and perhaps his best pre- 
 parative for removal. Dora well knew that 
 her young patient could learn from her no 
 new lesson ; she was aware that his hum- 
 ble spirit communed with God, and was at 
 rest, and earnestly did her own heart ascend 
 to heaven and seek for peace also ; but, alas ! 
 she could not find it now — her outward calm- 
 ness was the result of effort rising out of ne- 
 cessity and affliction, for new and terrible 
 emotions still continued to agitate her— -she 
 still beheld her husband as the murderer of 
 her brother — that brother, whose love to her- 
 self, her child, and even her husband — whose 
 misfortunes, gentleness, and goodness, ren- 
 dered him an object of such singular interest 
 and affection. 
 
 When she reflected on the bitter sorrow
 
 *2l6 PATIENCE. 
 
 Stancliffe had evinced, she wept and forgave 
 him ; but she could not but feel aware tha 
 there was no reliance on a man who suffered 
 himself to be governed by his passions — that he 
 had destroyed all the esteem with which she 
 had so long compelled herself to regard him, 
 and that although he must ever retain a cer- 
 tain hold upon her affections, as well as a 
 claim upon her duty, it was utterly impossible 
 for her either to regain past feelings, or es- 
 tablish new ones, of that nature which alone 
 render married life happy, and without which 
 a wife is a creature whose affections, hopes, 
 and virtues, are blighted in the bud, and who 
 sustains existence as a withered plant that 
 decays by slow degrees, unblessing and un- 
 blest. 
 
 Whilst Dora pursued these sad thoughts by 
 the side of her sick brother, it will be con- 
 cluded that those of Stancliffe were also of an 
 afflictive nature — he had indeed been wrunj? 
 to the heart with the touching forgiveness of 
 the poor boy, and called down the bitterest 
 curses on his own head if ever he should again 
 indulge a thought against him ; and with such 
 resolutions he soothed his conscience. The 
 enquiries of the medical gentleman as to the
 
 path: nce. 217 
 
 cause of Frank's distressing situation, the sur- 
 mises of his servants, and the perpetual guesses 
 of Mrs. Judith, harrassed him exceedingly; 
 and as he never stooped to inconvenience, al- 
 though he had so recently bent under the 
 severer inflictions of remorse, or considered 
 for a moment what was due to the dreadful 
 situation of his wife, in the course of the fol- 
 lowing day he declared an intention of prose- 
 cuting his intended journey to Ireland. 
 
 This information was whispered to Dora 
 just at the time when the physician was urging 
 her to send for Harriett, and Frank by a look 
 of intreaty was seconding the request. Con- 
 scious that Stanclitfe had said truly " that he 
 could do no good to Frank/' and fearful that 
 in this season of his allliction he might be 
 tempted to throw himself too much upon the 
 pity of Harriett for his own good name in her 
 family, and perhaps in her kindness find con- 
 solation beyond what she could desire, she 
 considered his removal as equally happy for 
 them all, and stealing out on tiptoe, she repaired 
 to the house to inform him so. 
 
 Stancliffe could not see his wife without ex- 
 treme confusion — he covered his face with his 
 hands, and traversed the breakfast-room, where 
 
 u
 
 218 PATIENCE. 
 
 she found him, with hasty steps, and the air of 
 one who was agitated even to illness. The 
 heart of Dora was penetrated with the sin- 
 cerest pity, and she was even astonished at 
 the tenderness she was still sensible of towards 
 him, as with haste she poured into his ear every 
 thing she could conceive most likely to com- 
 fort and re-assure him, which consisted, (in 
 her opinion,) in a detail of every favourable 
 symptom the invalid discovered. 
 
 Whilst she yet spoke, she was sent for by the 
 person who was with him, and who was alarm- 
 ed — Dora flew out in answer to the summons, 
 yet she stopped a moment, saying, " good bye, 
 Everton," and held out her hand — she could 
 not part in coldness; and hurried and distress- 
 ed as she was at the moment, she thought he 
 would follow her to say farewell. Stancliffe 
 took his hand from his forehead, and waived 
 it as he looked at her, but he did no more ; 
 and before she reached the door which led to 
 her destination, she heard him order a coach 
 by which to depart. 
 
 The circumstance which had excited alarm 
 for poor Frank passed over, and when he found 
 Mr. Stancliffe was gone, it was evident that he 
 was easier, since he knew that Dora could
 
 PAT1ENCF.. 219 
 
 now remain with him unblamed, or uncalled 
 by other duties ; and when her spirits were a 
 little recovered from the shock they received 
 from such a parting, she wrote a few lines to 
 Harriett, which she sent by her own servant, 
 as an escort to her, with whom she could re- 
 turn by an early coach. 
 
 The affectionate sister, alarmed and grieved, 
 lost all her late personal fears, and hastened 
 to the house of mourning ; she travelled in 
 the night, and arrived just as the medical men 
 were about to pay their morning visit. 
 
 " Tis well you are arrived," said Dr. C — 
 " Miss Hemingford, since your sister has left 
 home so suddenly." 
 
 " My sister is at home, sir ; it is Mr. Stan- 
 cliffe who is gone to Ireland." 
 
 " They are both gone, I assure you, they 
 sailed together some hours ago, I saw them 
 take boat." 
 
 At this moment Dora appeared, for she had 
 been so fearful that Harriett should, in the 
 impetuosity of her anxiety, enter the room 
 suddenly where Frank still lay, that she had 
 been watching for her some time. 
 
 " Here comes mv sister," said Harriett, ex- 
 ultingly.
 
 £20 PATIENCE. 
 
 The doctor explained — he perceived "that 
 Mrs. Stancliffe had only seen Mr. S. on board, 
 and returned with the boat ;" all he knew was, 
 " that he saw Mr. Stancliffe and a lady, who ' 
 was wrapped in a large cloak and a veil, and 
 the master of the vessel, who was following 
 them, said, as he passed, that such and such 
 packages belonged to the gentleman and his 
 wife, pointing to the persons in question — 
 thence had arisen his mistake." 
 
 Dora's heart died within her as she heard 
 this ; but she struggled hard with her sensa- 
 
 ' Co 
 
 tions, and kissing Harriett, begged her to sit 
 down whilst she went with the gentleman to 
 visit Frank — on her return, she found, to her 
 great surprise, that she had left the house and 
 had taken the servant with her. 
 
 Dora concluded that some mistake in the 
 luffffage had occasioned this sudden move- 
 ment ; and as she had taken no breakfast, ex- 
 pected her return every minute ; but nearly 
 two hours had elapsed when a coach stopped, 
 out of which Harriett came, looking more dead 
 than alive. At the sight of her sister, she 
 burst into a passion of hysterical weeping, 
 and clinging around her, called her " my poor 
 Dora, my dear deserted sister."
 
 PATIENCE. 221 
 
 " For In aven's sake compose yourself, Har- 
 riett, you are overpowered with grief and fast- 
 ing, my dear," said Dora. 
 
 " Oh ! no, no ! I was sure from what Dr. 
 C. said, there was something particular in 
 Stancliffe's being with a lady so soon in the 
 morning — and / knew what a bad man he 
 was, but never, never would I have given you 
 an uneasy hour by telling of his faults, if he 
 had not thus wickedly, openly, insulted you, 
 deserted you — at such a time too ! — Oh ! it is 
 infamous." 
 
 Dora sunk on a chair — she had thought her 
 cup of suffering was full before, but she felt 
 of how much more it had been capable — twice 
 she opened her lips to speak, but no sound 
 issued thence. 
 
 " I know what you would say," cried Har- 
 riett, " for you always excuse for him; but 
 William has enquired at the right places, and 
 tis all plain enough — yesterday morning two 
 passengers, as Mr. and Mrs. Hemingford, were 
 entered on the Crocodile ; and this morning, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Stancliffe took possession of 
 them — the mistake in the name in the first 
 place, is not surprising — the second explain? 
 
 v S
 
 222 PATIENCE. 
 
 itself, he has taken some woman with him as 
 his wife." 
 
 The extraordinary confusion of Stancliffe, 
 the circumstance of his great rage at Frank 
 being excited by a letter found in his own 
 pocket, never referred to as one of business, 
 tended to confirm this most disgraceful and 
 distressing fact ; yet slowly would Dora ad- 
 mit its possibility even to her own mind, for 
 to her it appeared utterly improbable that any 
 human being could rush from the commission 
 of one crime for which he had evidently suf- 
 fered so much, to another from which he was 
 likely to suffer not less. Reflection on her hus- 
 band's temper, his late habits of estrangement, 
 and the possibility that the connection had 
 btitn long, and the influence powerful, which 
 finally produced this denouement, obliged 
 her at length to conclude that it was but too 
 Hue. 
 
 Dora crept with slow and trembling steps 
 to her chamber, oppressed to the inmost soul, 
 bowed down to the dust by the guilt of ano- 
 ther — the reality of this sensation, the shame, 
 the confusion of face, the intense sorrow of 
 heart it inflicts, have been felt too often to
 
 PATIENCE. '223 
 
 need insisting upon. The tears, the groans — 
 the unuttered prayers of her soul, told of grief 
 which, as it was unseen, is also indescribable 
 — would that there were fewer hearts capable 
 of conceiving it. 
 
 But Dora, whilst she felt as a woman and 
 a wife, bent also to that heavenly Father who 
 saw it good to afflict her; and her ' tribula- 
 tion yet worked patience,' the hour of evening 
 saw her again at the bed-side of poor Frank, 
 from which she dismissed Harriett to that re- 
 pose she needed, with an affectionate assurance 
 " that her spirits were better," and an injunc- 
 tion to secresy on those circumstances " which 
 amounted even yet only to surmise." 
 
 Every day saw Frank gain some little ac- 
 cession of strength, but even when permitted 
 to be removed to his own bed, he was still 
 forbidden to speak ; nor was one word allowed 
 to be uttered in his presence which could be 
 supposed capable of exeiting pain or pleasure. 
 Harriett, with warm affection and the purest 
 good-will, was yet found incapable of retain- 
 ing her thoughts within the discipline required. 
 Dora therefore appointed her to manage her 
 house and take care of Mrs. Judith, as a 
 charge more within her powers ; and she
 
 224 PATIENCE. 
 
 not only undertook these, but instituted herself 
 a correspondent to Mrs. Aylmer, whom she 
 judged a friend, the situation of her ill-used 
 sister at this critical period imperatively called 
 for. 
 
 Harriett possessed in common with many 
 young ladies of the present period, the power 
 of writing a good letter, and she had reason 
 to congratulate herself upon her eloquence, 
 for in a very few days after she had forwarded 
 her clandestine epistle, Mrs. Aylmer, with all 
 the anxiety of a mother depicted in her coun- 
 tenance, appeared in person to prove she had 
 not been applied to as a friend in vain. 
 
 Dora's first emotion on hearing of this ar- 
 rival, was shame and sorrow, and a dread of 
 meeting that beloved countenance in which 
 she had never yet read reproach. The moment 
 she beheld her, dissipated for a time this em- 
 barrassment, and as she was pressed to her 
 maternal bosom, she felt that there is a tie of 
 the heart which as it grew with our growth, 
 may last till our decay, and console us in some 
 measure for those which, though sweeter and 
 stronger, are too often rent asunder by vice, 
 or worn out by indifference. 
 
 Mrs. Aylmer had always been so much
 
 PATIENCE. 225 
 
 beloved by Frank, that she was immediately 
 admitted to his room with less than the usual 
 interdict ; and as lie was by degrees permitted 
 to speak, she enquired very naturally " what 
 had been the cause of an attack so unexpect- 
 ed, and so contrary to the hopes of his friends." 
 Frank shook his head, but never replied ; and 
 when he perceived she thought he had been 
 blameable in using improper exertion, he 
 looked satisfied and relieved — the feelings of 
 the wife at these moments were agitating to 
 the last degree ; the more of Stancliffe's faults 
 were inevitably exposed, the more she sought 
 to veil the rest, vet how diflicult was it to for- 
 bear thanking Frank, and in the very expres- 
 sion of her grateful overflowing heart, endan- 
 gering the existence which hung on so fine a 
 fibre. 
 
 More than a month had passed, and not a 
 single line had been received from Stancliffe, 
 proof decisive of his guilt, and also of his 
 shame, since policy alone would have dictated 
 enquiries after one with whom he was so nearly 
 connected. The silence was broken by a let- 
 ter received by Mr. Hazlewood, his principal 
 clerk, which was as follows.
 
 22G PATIENCE. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 I am requested to inform you, that 
 in consequence of a meeting which took place 
 between Mr. Stancliffe and lieutenant Grain- 
 ger, the former lies extremely ill, he having 
 received a wound in the shoulder, by which 
 he has lost much blood, and is exceedingly re- 
 duced. He wishes his lady to be informed of 
 this circumstance in the manner you judge 
 best, and that she be earnestly requested to 
 come to his assistance, bringing with her a 
 sum of money adequate to the case. 
 I am, &c. &c. 
 
 J. Eustace, 
 
 Surgeon, &c. &c. 
 
 The contents of this letter were first made 
 known to Harriett, who, although shocked at 
 the circumstance, had no idea that her sister 
 could feel sympathy in the degree a wife, how- 
 ever treated, was sure to experience in such 
 a case ; she therefore ventured, after a short 
 preamble, to place the letter in her hands. 
 
 But scarcely had Dora cast her eyes over 
 it when the light forsook them, her head swam, 
 and she would have fallen but for immediate
 
 PATIENCE. 227 
 
 assistance. She was conveyed to a sofa, and 
 a tiood of tears came to her relief — after which, 
 she sat silent in deep rumination, uninterrupted 
 by those around, who beheld with true com- 
 miseration, a heart so tender and so patient 
 pierced with so many sorrows. 
 
 " Pray keep this sad news from Frank," was 
 the first word Dora uttered, and she was going 
 to give further orders when Mr. Blackwell was 
 announced, and in another moment, to her in- 
 creased dismay, he stood before her. 
 
 Unable to speak, she again sunk back, pale 
 and trembling, and Harriett observed, " that 
 her sister was extremely unwell, and unequal 
 to receiving a stranger." 
 
 " But not to receiving a friend" said the 
 old man, sitting down by her, with a look of 
 pity that relaxed his hard features into gen- 
 tleness. 
 
 " You are indeed a friend," said Dora, as 
 she again respired freely, and wiped away the 
 tears which would flow perforce — " you are 
 come to enquire after our dear Francis." 
 
 " No, I am now come to enquire after his 
 sister; for I am well aware he is under the 
 best hands, and although unfit to see me, yet 
 not unfit to bear the change \ propose, which
 
 228 PATIENCE. 
 
 is that of removing him into the house oppo- 
 site, which I have taken for that purpose." 
 
 " I am glad of that," said Harriett, eagerly ; 
 — " I was born in this house, but I hate it 
 now — Stancliffe has made me loathe it." 
 
 Dora looked up reproachingly to her sister, 
 and Mr. Blackwell resuming: his usual man- 
 ner, said, " You, ma'am, surely can have no 
 wish to remain here ? what has it afforded you, 
 save unkindness, ingratitude, want, and mi- 
 sery ?" 
 
 " Alas !" said Dora, with a deep sigh, " sor- 
 row is to be found every where ; — I shall cer- 
 tainly be glad to have my brother removed, 
 (provided Mrs. Aylmer goes with him, and she 
 will not refuse us,) — as for myself, I have 
 another destination." — 
 
 As Dora spoke the last words, she placed 
 the letter from Dublin in Mr. Blackwell's 
 hands, who scarcely cast his eye over it when 
 he exclaimed, 
 
 " All this I know — the wretched girl who 
 is the companion of his flight, (believing him 
 to be Frank, a single man, and the one to 
 whom she had been taught to look up) on dis- 
 covering who he was, wrote to her mother in 
 extreme distress, a few days ago. Yesterday
 
 PATIENCE. 229 
 
 another letter arrived, to tell of the duel, which 
 was entirely of Stancliffe's provoking, and for 
 which he is properly punished by a severe 
 though not dangerous wound." 
 
 " hlis conduct in this elopement," continued 
 Mr. Blackwell, " gives you a happy oppor- 
 tunity legally to emancipate yourself from 
 worse than Egyptian bondage, and I come as 
 your guardian to take you under my protec- 
 tion, and to prosecute your claims, which I 
 can in fact do better than your own father, of 
 whose concurrence we can have no possible 
 doubt, but. whose situation as Stancliffe's part- 
 ner might have embarrassed him." 
 
 " Part from him for ever — divorce him — 
 make myself his prosecutor — expose him — 
 ruin him ? — oh ! never, never, never." 
 
 The wild agony with which Dora uttered 
 these words alarmed her friends, and Mrs. 
 Aylmer, who had heard all in silence, ap- 
 proaching her, said, " Do not terrify yourself 
 in this manner, Dora, you shall do none of 
 these things, but you will leave for ever a 
 wicked man who is unworthy of you, and with 
 whom you have suffered more than is neces- 
 sary to advert to : — he has in fact divorced 
 you, he has abandoned you, deserted you." 
 
 x
 
 £30 PATIENCE. 
 
 Dora wept in agony. 
 
 " But God has not deserted you, he gives 
 you a mother who has never forsaken you ; 
 and with a bleeding anxious heart, has long 
 watched over you, though at a distance — and 
 a friend, who will be more than your father 
 has ever been." 
 
 " I know all your goodness — I know, too, 
 that I love you, my more than mother, better 
 than any human being : — but my husband is 
 in great distress, he desires to see me, he is 
 doubtless afflicted and repentant — I cannot 
 refuse to comfort and aid him." 
 
 " He suffers justly — let him drink of the 
 cup he has dealt so freely ;" said Mr. Black- 
 well. 
 
 " Ah !" exclaimed Dora, " but if we were 
 all so dealt by, what would become of us ? 
 Our blessed Lord came down to call sinners 
 to repentance ; to die, the just for the unjust, 
 that he might bring us to God ; — ought not 
 I, then, as his disciple, to bear a little longer 
 with the man to whom I have promised obe- 
 dience, and who now invites me to perform 
 my duty ? — ought I not to forgive even se- 
 venty times seven offences, if there is hope that 
 I may save him, as there is now ?"
 
 PATIENCE. 231 
 
 " Dora," said Mr. Blackwell, in a firm but 
 mild voice, " your motives are as pure as your 
 conduct is without fault, but your judgment 
 is wrong — you have adopted ideas neither 
 scripture' nor reason justify ; for though they 
 call for the rational submission and propei 
 obedience of a wife to her husband, it is under 
 the idea that his power is exercised in wisdom 
 and love — if a man acts as if devoid of either, 
 he compels the woman to become her own 
 guardian, and exercise her own judgment, 
 upon those points which concern her happi- 
 ness. Such has long been your case, and I 
 am fully persuaded, that had Stancliffe been 
 married to a high spirited woman, who would 
 have conceded his rights, yet have asserted 
 her own, he never would have played the fool 
 as he has done — your self-denying economy 
 made him extravagant and avaricious, — your 
 abilities and exertions plunged him in indo- 
 lence, and from that very circumstance he be- 
 came a gambler, because, though idle, his 
 mind was active — his violent temper increased 
 from your submission, and he played the tiger 
 because a lamb was always near him ; — na- 
 turally selfish, and having no principle of re- 
 ligious self-controul from within, he certainly
 
 232 PATIENCE. 
 
 required some coercive operation from with- 
 out, which (since the death of his father, and 
 in the absence of yours) you should have en- 
 deavoured to supply, as many women do." 
 
 " Ah !" cried Mrs. Aylmer, " what could a 
 girl so young, so timid, and so affectionate, 
 exact ?" 
 
 " Not that, madam, which your sex are too 
 
 apt to seek, power, but justice — the right to 
 
 be treated with the kindness due to a faithful 
 
 wife, the consideration and respect claimed by 
 
 a gentlewoman. When these are not accord- 
 ed 
 
 ed, what is a wife but a servant without wages ? 
 a slave, whose bondage death or infamy alone 
 can loosen?" 
 
 " The violent should be met by violence — 
 the ungenerous overbearing spirit, repelled by 
 its own weapons ; but gentle and meek as 
 Dora's temper has ever been, she is too high- 
 minded to descend to the language of a scold- 
 ing vixen, or the wheedling of a cunning 
 coaxer — she used perseveringly the only arms 
 her nature, and her principles as a Christian, 
 permitted, long-suffering, patience, forgetful- 
 ness of injury, and cheerful compliance — what 
 could she do more?" said Mrs. Aylmer. 
 
 " Nothing, madam, to win a generous mind,
 
 PATIF.NCE. 233 
 
 even if subject to many errors ; but Staneliffe 
 was not of that description, except by fits and 
 starts : — with considerable abilities, and oc- 
 casionally good propensities, and the promise 
 of virtue, he has been ever unsteady, volatile, 
 and inconstant, in pursuit either of good or 
 evil, shewing a singular deficiency in that 
 property in which his wife excelled. — ' Un- 
 stable as water, thou shalt not excel,' says the 
 patriarch ; and when she saw this disposition, 
 ought she not to have opposed it by every 
 possible means ; and engrafted her own mild 
 firmness on his irresolution, her endurance on 
 his ?"— 
 
 " Impossible, sir — man will not be taught 
 by woman ; ask your own heart, .Mr. Black- 
 well !" 
 
 " I am a bachelor, madam, and not one of 
 the initiated, I confess ; and the reply my 
 heart makes, would be to own myself a stub- 
 born subject — nor can I say that I should 
 wish my daughter to stoop to conduct unwor- 
 thy of herself, in order to manage her husband; 
 yet when I look round the world, and see wo- 
 men every way far inferior to Dora, preserve 
 spouses originally inferior to Stancliffe also, 
 without suffering the open injuries, or the 
 
 \ >>
 
 234 PATIENCE. 
 
 secret miseries which have afflicted her, how 
 can I help concluding that she has ' loved not 
 wisely, but too well?' and that suffering mar- 
 tyrdom with the patience of a saint, is not the 
 way to reform a sinner." 
 
 " You are right, sir," said Dora, slowly, as 
 under the influence of full conviction, "per- 
 fectly right — poor Stancliffe's mind, ruined by 
 excessive indulgence in childhood, and the 
 unhappy liberty given to his youth by a resi- 
 dence abroad, required a very different help- 
 mate to what I have been. Alas ! I have in- 
 jured whilst I sought to bless him — God for- 
 bid that I should forsake him now he is sunk 
 in the abyss where my weakness and blindness 
 have helped to plunge him — oh ! no." 
 
 As Dora spoke, she rose from the sofa, as- 
 suming a strength she was far from feeling, 
 and indicating by the action as well as by her 
 words, her intention of going to Stancliffe. 
 As nothing could be farther from Mr. Black- 
 well's intention than to increase the bias of her 
 mind this way, he now began strongly to de- 
 scant on the faults of Stancliffe towards her 
 and others, and insist on the folly, madness, 
 indelicacy, and even wickedness, of again, by 
 such an action, re-uniting herself to a bad
 
 PATIENCE. 'l.)j 
 
 man, and thus giving a sanction to his pro- 
 fligacy. A conclusion made by Mrs. A\ liner 
 in language equally strong, and more persua- 
 sive, as she added, 
 
 " Surely, Dora, you will not so disgrace ilie 
 education I gave you, nor so wound the heart 
 of her who loves you as a mother, as to coun- 
 tenance adultery by your presence ! — to share 
 your husband with a wanton." 
 
 Dora started — her pallid cheeks became 
 crimson, and she covered them with her trem- 
 bling hands, whilst her bosom heaved with 
 thick-coming sobs. — Mrs. Aylmer, pierced to 
 the heart with grief and compassion, added, 
 
 " I see you will not leave me, Dora, you 
 will return to the friend of your youth — the 
 pious, happy path, in which your early days 
 were passed." 
 
 " Oh ! no, no, do not tempt me — he is my 
 husband, and with all his faults I know he 
 will not expose me to the evil you fear — he is 
 too proud so to degrade the woman who bears 
 his name — he may not love me, but surely he 
 cannot despise me." 
 
 Dora wept long and bitterly, but she per- 
 sisted in her determination, repeatedly ob- 
 serving, " that Mr. Blackwcll had judged
 
 0,36 PATIENCE. 
 
 rightly, he had opened her eyes to the de- 
 ficiency of her own conduct, which had been 
 prejudicial to the vacillating mind of one so 
 impatient of restraint, and injured by indul- 
 gence, she therefore owed him reparation for 
 the past, as well as compassion in his present 
 distress." 
 
 The very word " reparation," as applied by 
 her, could not be endured by those friends 
 who knew that her husband never had, never 
 could deserve her ; and deeply as they felt for 
 her present distress, both became seriously 
 angry ; and Mr. Blackwell solemnly assured 
 her, that if she joined Stancliffe again, let her 
 distress be what it might, she should never 
 receive a shilling from him till the moment 
 when she could legally claim it, and he now 
 informed her that he was aware Stancliffe had 
 forfeited his bond to her father since his ar- 
 rival in Dublin, by frequenting a gaming- 
 house, in consequence of which she must ex- 
 perience soon the most abject poverty. 
 
 " Alas !" said Dora, internally, " here is a 
 new reason surely why I should fly to him, 
 wretched as he must be ;" but she did not re- 
 ply further than to look earnestly towards Mrs. 
 Aylmer — to that beseeching look she answered,
 
 PATIENCE. C37 
 
 '* Dora, though 1 perfectly approve of all 
 Mr. Blackwell lias said, and can by no means 
 blame the resolution he has made — yet — 1 am 
 a woman, you have been that to me which 
 you cannot be to him, a child fed at my board, 
 a daughter bound to my very heart, should 
 you be in actual want I must relieve you — 
 my last morsel must be shared with you — but 
 my competence is not riches, I have nothing 
 to squander, you know 1 have not." 
 
 Dora did know this ; she knew also that her 
 friend was charitable and generous, and at the 
 present moment low in the purse, not having 
 been prepared for this painful, unexpected 
 journey. Exhausted with the dreadful ex- 
 citation of the hour, and aware that she had 
 still much to think of and to suffer, she slowly 
 withdrew to look up in solitude to that power 
 which alone could give the strength and com- 
 posure so necessary to her trying situation. 
 
 When Frank was informed that Stancliffe 
 was unwell and had sent for Dora, contrary to 
 the fears of those around him, he readily 
 agreed that she ought to go, only begging he 
 might see her alone for a single moment: — 
 they then proposed removing him, saying, " it 
 would be soon done, and the room prepared
 
 238 PATIENCE. 
 
 for him much pleasanter." — " If she says it is 
 right, take me any where, without her, all 
 places are alike to me," was his answer. 
 
 Dora was interrupted in her retirement by 
 Harriett, who called her to Frank ; and she 
 hastily wiped her tears, put on a bonnet to 
 shade her swollen eye-lids, and forced herself 
 to speak in a calm if not a cheerful voice as 
 she approached the bed, and stooped down to 
 catch his whispered words. 
 
 " My dear sister, be quite easy about me, 
 I will be very still, and shall get better in time 
 — but, Dora, whether I live or die, I will not 
 betray our secret — you can rely upon me, can- 
 not you ?" 
 
 Her look and her kiss answered for her, for 
 her heart was too full to allow her to speak, 
 ind her resolution to go was now really shaken 
 — she felt that if her removal should prove 
 prejudicial to Frank, she could never forgive 
 herself, since it was impossible for her not to 
 see that a stronger claim on her attentions was 
 made by the injured and unoffending brother, 
 than by the cruel, unworthy, and self-divorced 
 husband. 
 
 Frank read the struggle of her mind in her 
 countenance, and he again assured her, lie
 
 PATIENCE. 23Q 
 
 should do well, and directed her where to find 
 his little (very little) stock of pocket money. 
 Dora was roused by this to consider the diffi- 
 culties of this nature by which she was sur- 
 rounded, and an enquiry at her banker's soon 
 informed her that Mr. Black well's information 
 was but too true. Stancliife had drawn every 
 thing out in his power, and had subjected him- 
 self to the conditions imposed in such a case 
 by her father; but her immediate wants were 
 supplied at length by poor Mrs. Judith, for 
 whose personal comforts she engaged Mrs. 
 Aylmer to provide during her absence. 
 
 Dreading the increase of expenses, poor 
 Dora set out on the only voyage she had ever 
 adventured, without a servant; and so great 
 were the inconveniences she suffered on her 
 landing, that could she have beheld them in 
 prospect, they would have been too appalling 
 for a woman of her description to have en- 
 countered ; but truly as our great poet said, 
 " when the mind's at ease the body's delicate :" 
 — the intense anxiety, the sorrowful reflec- 
 tions, the touching remembrances, and the 
 fearful prospect before her, so filled up every 
 power of thought, and so occupied her feel- 
 ings, that lesser evils lost their usual effects
 
 240 PATIENCE. 
 
 and even pain and weakness yielded to the 
 stimulus of sorrow and solicitude. 
 
 At length Dora reached the place from 
 whence her guiding letter was dated, and was 
 thankful to find the situation was quiet, and 
 so far suitable for an invalid; and in answer 
 to her first inquiry, she had the satisfaction to 
 find, that although Stancliffe still kept his 
 bed, his case was considered no worse, and her 
 informer, the mistress of the lodgings, added : 
 
 " And if so be, ma'am, you're the sister, or 
 the likes of that, which he have bin expicting, 
 I hopes you'll jist interfere a bit for the young 
 cratur his wife, for she's crazy, ye see, by rea- 
 son he won't see her at all, any how, for this 
 fortnight, but jist sends down the nurse to say 
 'tis no use coming at all, for that the doctors 
 say as he mistn't be distarbt by her." 
 
 " His wife?" gasped Dora. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, miss, quite a dacent young body, 
 but not a gintlewoman, that's for sure ; and 
 sure any body may see she's not come o' the 
 likes of him and you, who are brother and sis- 
 ter, I doubt not all the world over; but a wife's 
 a wife, and a man's best friend in the hour o' 
 trouble, and to my thinkings," — 
 
 Dora, feeling as if she could bear no more,
 
 PATIENCE. 241 
 
 used the little strength her agitation left her, 
 to request that Mr. Standi lie, or at hast his 
 nurse, might be informed " that the lady from 
 England had arrived." 
 
 " Oh ! to be sure I will go up, and will [ 
 not make bould too jist to stip in myself? 
 why not? seeing his frind has bin with him 
 these two hours — never's the time he's denied 
 for sure." 
 
 " What friend ?" said Dora. 
 
 " Oh ! ma'am, it's not I that shall say a word 
 aginst him, for an angel I take him to be, 
 that's for sure ; yet, as I said before, a wife's 
 a wife, and to kip her away, and to lit oder 
 people in, it's not to my mind." 
 
 These observations continued till the soft 
 voice of the truly Irish hostess was lost from 
 the closing of the door after her : — her infor- 
 mation, and the train of new and distressing 
 thoughts it had awakened, had so completely 
 overpowered Dora, that she now felt as if she 
 had indeed undertaken that which she could 
 not perform ; and the denunciations of Mr. 
 Blackwell and Mrs. Aylmer, again sounded in 
 her cars : — twice had the landlady invited her 
 into the room before her shaking limbs per- 
 mitted her to accept the summons ; and when 
 
 Y
 
 242 PATIENCE. 
 
 at length she stepped forward, it was with the 
 breathless trepidation of one who enters on a 
 scene of terror. 
 
 In a bed supported by pillows, in the same 
 state apparently as she had often seen him, 
 appeared Stancliffe, looking less ill than might 
 have been expected ; for it is certain that a 
 deep hue of shame suffused his face, and a 
 person standing close by him looked the paler 
 of the two. Dora thought she had seen this 
 person before ; but her head swam, her eyes 
 refused the light, and she sunk senseless on 
 the bed, ere she had the power of speaking. 
 
 When Dora came to herself, she was on the 
 chair occupied lately by the stranger, who 
 was holding something to her lips — the light 
 fell full on his face, and looking on him, she 
 exclaimed in a faint voice, 
 
 " Arthur Sydenham !" then, recollecting 
 herself, said, " I beg pardon, I am confused." 
 
 " No, no, you are right, Dora," said Stan- 
 cliffe, stooping over her as well as he was able, 
 " it is Mr. Sydenham, who, I believe, knew 
 you when you were a child in Wales — to him 
 you are indebted for my life — (so far as it is 
 a debt") he added in a low and broken voice. 
 
 " I shall resign my office of head nurse, now
 
 PATIENCE. 243 
 
 Do — now Mrs. Stanclitle has arrived," said 
 Sydenham, in a tone intended to be cheerful, 
 but by no means answering to the speaker's 
 w ishes. 
 
 " How have you left Frank, Dora?" said 
 Stancliffe, with a look of great anxiety. 
 
 " Extremely weak, but doing well." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! — that is what they say of 
 me — I have lost a great deal of blood, but 
 nothing compared with his loss, so he may 
 well be weak — but I deserved it — he — ah ! 
 how very different is his situation to mine; 
 lie is, as I have told you, Sydenham, so often, 
 the very best creature that ever was born — the 
 most generous." 
 
 StanclifTe's head sunk on his pillow, ami 
 Dora thought he wept ; her heart was touched 
 with the deepest sympathy, and she felt thank- 
 ful now that she had undertaken a journey 
 which already repaid her by the hopes it held 
 out of a change for the better, in him with 
 whom " she had garnered up her soul ;" —so 
 rapidly do circumstances change the feelings 
 of the female so situated. In the relief thus 
 offered to persons of great sensibility, the 
 power of enduring its inflictions is in a mea- 
 sure obtained, the very acuteness of our tor
 
 244 PATIENCE. 
 
 tures compels us to look round for aid, and 
 seize on the first shadow which can cheat us 
 into ease. 
 
 Mr. Sydenham went away very soon, and 
 after his departure Standi ffe was eloquent in 
 his praise — he recapitulated the circumstances 
 of his duel, which appeared to have sprung 
 from a slight difference in opinion with a gen- 
 tleman in a coffee-house, from which he had 
 been led to use that insulting language to 
 which his habitual treatment of his own fa- 
 mily subjected him, and which the customs of 
 the country he was visiting by no means per- 
 mitted. As he was not deficient in personal 
 courage, and was decidedly so in those qua- 
 lities which lead to explanation, it was no 
 wonder that the event which chastized him 
 took place ; but as his antagonist was a man 
 of much feeling, it was softened to him as far 
 as possible, since he had lost no time in pro- 
 curing for him the friendly offices of an Ens;- 
 lish gentleman then passing through Dublin, 
 from a tour to the Irish lakes, and who, on 
 learning his name, entered with increased in- 
 terest into the offices of humanity. 
 
 This gentleman, our readers will perceive, 
 was Arthur Sydenham, the playmate in child-
 
 PATIENCE. 245 
 
 hood, and the friend in youth, to the ill-used 
 and now deserted Dora ; of whom he had 
 thought much too often for his happiness, but 
 not for his virtue, for his manhood at this 
 time displayed the promise of his youth ; and 
 although a more than ordinary degree of 
 thoughtfulness was remarked in him, and stran- 
 gers wondered " why any shade of melancholy 
 should rest on the mind of one so happily 
 situated, and so highly gifted ;" his parents, 
 sisters, and friends, could scarcely desire him 
 to be other than they found him. 
 
 Of the character and manners of Mr. Stan- 
 di tie, Sydenham knew nothing, beyond the 
 folly and madness which had led to his pre- 
 sent situation, and which was loudly spoken 
 of, and of course gave him a pang beyond 
 what his compassion could inflict for the hus- 
 band, by compelling him to feel for the wife. 
 Indeed the offender himself, when reduced to 
 weakness, and stretched on the bed of pain, 
 was fully aware that his conduct had been 
 most reprehensible ; and as he could not tell 
 the world how many causes had combined to 
 awaken the irritation which in fact amounted 
 to madness, and thence produced such terrible 
 results, (since these causes were combined with 
 
 y 8
 
 246 PATIENCE 
 
 the crimes which he shrunk from exposing) it 
 was evident that he must continue to suffer 
 the penalties he had drawn upon himself, and 
 be denied even that pity generally accorded 
 to the suffering. 
 
 In the frame of mind produced by such re- 
 flections, and in a state of extreme bodily 
 weakness from the loss of blood, (a circum- 
 stance which drew reflections on the state to 
 which he had reduced poor Frank, of the most 
 heart-rending nature) he was found by Syden- 
 ham. So cheering and consolatory was the 
 voice of kindness in such a moment, to one 
 who was a " stranger in a strange land," and 
 conscious of meriting punishment beyond 
 what he suffered, that it unlocked all the sluices 
 of feeling, and presented him to Sydenham in 
 the light of an erring but most interesting man, 
 whose person and manners were indeed well 
 calculated to impress even the heart of Dora, 
 young and inexperienced as she had been at 
 the time of her marriage, and also unhappily 
 situated in her family. Stancliffe confirmed 
 this impression by speaking most handsomely 
 )f his adversary, alluding to remote causes for 
 his own awakened irritation, and wishing for 
 the assistance of his wife as the only person
 
 PATIENCE. 247 
 
 on whose care and skill he could rely for his 
 recovery ; yet observing, " that as she was 
 engaged in nursing her sick brother, he could 
 not blame her it' she did not obey his sum- 
 mons." 
 
 As Stancliffe uttered the last words, he was 
 evidently in great confusion, and uttered them 
 with difficult respiration ; but as the feelings 
 of his hearer were also awakened into a state 
 of solicitude, and almost alarm, it passed un- 
 noticed. Sydenham endeavoured to fulfil the 
 wishes of the mcdieal attendants in soothing 
 the mind of the wounded man ; and either from 
 his kindness, his reasoning, or the weakness of 
 the patient, it was certain he left him at least 
 more tranquil than he found him. 
 
 A very short time had sufficed to cool the 
 guilty passion of Stancliffe for the poor girl 
 who was its victim, and whom at length he 
 had taken away more in consequence of a pre- 
 concerted plan than the dictates of vicious 
 love ; since the consequence of his rage towards 
 the innocent object of his suspicion, had nearly 
 destroyed every sensation save that of fear for 
 the consequences. He left home under an 
 alarm of spirits, an agitation of nerves, which 
 rendered him incapable of rejoicing in the
 
 248 PATIENCE. 
 
 success of his enterprise ; and his eyes had 
 been so forcibly opened to the wickedness of 
 his own conduct, and the difficulties with 
 which it had environed him, that he could not 
 close them to it — if he endeavoured to forget 
 his own thoughts by conversation, he was 
 compelled to find that the few ideas, and the 
 ignorance of his companion, soon exhausted 
 his hopes of relief from that quarter ; and in 
 the present state of his mind, the poor girl ap- 
 peared much more deficient than she really 
 was; he cursed his blindness for having tied 
 himself to a fool, and lamented that his suc- 
 cess afforded no triumph, his sin no pleasure. 
 Wine was the next resource — and good 
 wine and gay companions may be had in Dub- 
 lin in perfection ; but their stimulating powers 
 were little likely to aid in tranquillizing a mind 
 already too much excited, and which was the 
 more affected from the novelty of the appli- 
 cation. Hitherto, when out of humour with 
 himself and the world, or fatigued with busi- 
 ness, he had shut himself up in his chamber, to 
 indulge disgust or exclude intrusion ; and in- 
 toxication was never his resource, which was 
 certainly the worst an irritable man like him 
 could adopt. He awoke a fever in his frame
 
 PATIENCE. '2M) 
 
 which threw him into a state little short of de- 
 lirium, led him again to play, where, although 
 he lost no sum of importance, because he play- 
 ed only for that which he had about him, he 
 yet injured himself irreparably by forfeiting 
 his bond, and thereby subjecting himself to 
 complete dependance on Mr. 1 lemingford, a 
 state most galling to his proud and irritable 
 spirit, and which in a cooler moment he would 
 never have incurred. The ill-humour arising 
 from this incident led to that provocation wh ich 
 produced the challenge. 
 
 It may be readily conceived that the un- 
 happy creature who had left her humble home 
 in the hope of becoming a grand lady, and 
 perhaps honourably so, partook largely of 
 these miseries ; and as he was conveyed to the 
 nearest house where he could be accommo- 
 dated after his wound, she was left in a most 
 distressing state of anxiety, which was only 
 exchanged for the knowledge of a misfortune 
 which left her exposed to every possible evil, 
 lie had revealed her real claims upon him to 
 the surgeon, but from the moment of Syden- 
 ham's visit became anxious to the utmost to 
 keep her very existence a secret from him ; 
 and such was his solicitude, that it greatly
 
 250 PATIENCE. 
 
 increased the illness under which he laboured, 
 and for some days placed him in considerable 
 danger. 
 
 During those days, the attendance of Sy- 
 denham was unremitting, and conceiving, from 
 something that occurred, that he was in want 
 of money, he readily supplied pecuniary aid, 
 and had been receiving warm thanks for it at 
 the very time Dora arrived : his relief from 
 this source, and his amendment, gave him the 
 spirits he evinced by his warm praises of Syden- 
 ham ; but when they had subsided, he sunk 
 into extreme dejection, and a state of nervous 
 inquietude so great, as to threaten the return 
 of all those bad symptoms from which he had 
 so lately escaped. 
 
 In truth, the sight of his wife, calm and 
 gentle as she was, awoke in him so many pain- 
 ful remembrances, and so many fears for the 
 future, that he bitterly repented having sent 
 for her ; and he soon began to shew towards 
 her, that ill-humour which was in him the un- 
 failing accompaniment of self-reproach. He 
 was in continual fear that she should learn 
 more respecting his conduct than he appre- 
 hended she knew ; and when from the nurse 
 he found that she was informed by the mistress
 
 pati j:n< p.. 25 J 
 
 of the house of the visits of Alice, and that 
 she termed herself " his wife," the persuasion 
 that Dora despised and hated him, took such 
 full possession of his mind, that every action 
 of her life only tended to confirm it : — every 
 time she began to speak he expected it was to 
 reproach him, and he was almost angry that 
 she did not, that he might in her words find 
 some excuse for the temper he indulged, and 
 he imputed her silence only to the excess of 
 her contempt. Although considerably better, 
 he positively refused to part with the nurse, 
 and manifested a kind of horror at the idea of 
 being alone with his wife for a moment, and 
 never ceased wishing for Sydenham. 
 
 Sydenham now came seldom, but his visits 
 had ever a most salutary effect ; during the 
 whole time he stayed, Staneliil'e was calm if 
 not cheerful, and even after he was gone, his 
 mind would for some time retain the impres- 
 sion, and seem as if struggling v.ith himself, 
 and endeavouring to make himself worthy the 
 friendship of one whom he loved and admired. 
 At these times he would fix his eves swimming 
 in tears on Dora, take her hand, and lament 
 that he had spoken so hastily, bit exclaim, 
 " you must hate me, I know you do, Dora !"
 
 252 'PATIENCE. 
 
 In her extreme anxiety to guard his health, 
 she generally evaded any answer that could 
 have a tendency to increase his agitation, and 
 never failed to speak soothingly and kindly. 
 She would say, with a smile, " I came here to 
 do you good, not to dispute with you, my 
 dear :" — or " get well, my love, and then we 
 will talk about these things ;" but she made 
 no violent protestations of that she could not 
 feel — the pity and anxiety to do him good, 
 which were the governing motives of her con- 
 duct, appeared in every word and action ; re- 
 proach was alike distant from her thoughts 
 and her eye, and her attention to his every 
 comfort was unremitting, but she could go 
 no farther at the present period. 
 
 The power to continue her awful and wea- 
 risome duties soon became much more diffi- 
 cult ; for although her friends blamed her for 
 loving her husband too well, it was an object 
 of no little care to her to nurse the love she 
 still felt in her heart, and keep the flame, so 
 long and so cruelly damped, from utter extinc- 
 tion. Perceiving how much better he was 
 always made, in every sense of the word, by 
 the visits of Mr. Sydenham, and fearful lest 
 his pleasant and varied conversation should
 
 PATIENCE. 253 
 
 in time prove not less desirable to herself, she 
 determined t<> seize the opportunity of his stay 
 lor getting the little air which had hitherto 
 been denied to her ; and as both the gentlemen 
 approved her proposal, for several successive 
 days she took a short turn in the Phoenix park, 
 always avoiding all conversation with her 
 hostess. One morning on her return, how- 
 ever, this person way-laid her as she passed 
 through the hall, and so pressed her to enter 
 the adjoining parlour, that she could not re- 
 fuse, being indeed apprehensive that she wish- 
 ed for payment of their lodgings. 
 
 Yet the moment of her entrance Mrs. Mac- 
 o illan vanished, but as speedily returned, lead- 
 ing, or rather dragging, a young woman in a 
 dirty white gown, whose whole appearance 
 bespoke wretchedness, if not want, and who 
 advanced with a reluctance seldom exhibited 
 by those who beg, in a country where elo- 
 quence is indigenous. The landlady pushed 
 her forward, and then retired, saying, as she 
 shut the door, " I've done my duty to the poor 
 cratur any how — God help the mother of her, 
 
 ID 
 
 These words struck Dora as applying to her 
 tor whom the speaker had already evinced so
 
 254 PATIENCE. 
 
 much pity, though under a mistaken idea, and 
 who was the last person on earth whom she 
 would willingly have seen — she tried to pass, 
 but the young woman by an effort, stepped 
 between her and the door, and clasping her 
 hands, said beseechingly, 
 
 " Oh ! ma'am, I beg pardon, but pray, 
 pray," — 
 
 The look of humility, the voice of intreaty, 
 in which the words were uttered, would have 
 disarmed Dora, even if she had felt towards 
 her the strongest indignation, for she was one 
 " who never, never turned her ear away" from 
 a suffering fellow-creature ; but she had con- 
 templated the fate of this poor girl as one more 
 sinned against than sinning; and although 
 her mind revolted from the idea of meeting 
 her, it was less from anger and jealousy than 
 a dread of finding in Alice a new accuser of 
 her husband, and of a sense of embarrassment 
 from the peculiarity of her situation. 
 
 The beauty of Alice had consisted in a fair 
 and florid complection, which gave softness 
 and vivacity to features of a common descrip- 
 tion : — she was now pale and haggard, her 
 eyes were red with weeping, and the cleanly 
 smartness of her rustic dress exchanged for
 
 PATIENCE. 
 
 dirty finery, which she cared not to arrange, 
 and had the sense to despise. Shame and sor- 
 row were imprinted in her person, attitude, and 
 voice, so strongly, that a heart much harder 
 than poor Dora's would yet have stopped for 
 a moment to listen to her tale of sorrow ; it 
 Was UO wonder, therefore, that she said in tre- 
 mulous but pitiful accents, 
 
 " What can I do for you ? — what were you 
 going to ask me '." 
 
 Simple as the words were, their effect on the 
 petitioner was affecting, almost alarming — 
 she dropped instantly on her knees, and throw- 
 in'; out her arms, caught the skirts of Dora, 
 which she pressed with convulsive motion to 
 her lips and to her breast, saying, as well as 
 tears and suffocating sobs permitted, 
 
 " Forgive me, madam, forgive me —I didn't 
 know — indeed I didn't know he was married ; 
 1 was a wicked, foolish girl, but not so bad as 
 you think me — and I have suffered since then 
 
 every thing — I have indeed my own mo- 
 
 ther would hardly know me." 
 
 Dora cast her eyes on the faded lace before 
 her, and doubted not the truth of the assertion, 
 and tears of the deepest compassion coursed 
 down her cheeks ; but so fully did the enor-
 
 266 PATIENCE 
 
 mous cruelty, deception, and wickedness of 
 Stanclifl'e towards this unhappy being, strike 
 upon her mind at the same moment, that the 
 flush of indignation covered her countenance 
 — she hastily raised the poor creature, or ra- 
 ther sought to raise her, for Alice would not 
 rise till, comprehending her motive, she said 
 solemnly, 
 
 I do forgive you — I do sincerely ; and if 
 you will be a good girl, and return to your 
 mother, I will befriend you — I will, indeed." 
 
 " May God in heaven bless you — Oh ! maj 
 he bless you for ever." 
 
 As Alice uttered this adjuration, she arose, 
 but was evidently unable to stand ; and Dora 
 taking hold of her arm, supported her to a 
 chair, and fearful of exposing the shocking 
 business still further, went herself, though 
 with trembling steps, to fetch her some wine ; 
 but the action, as one of unmerited kindness, 
 so affected the poor creature she sought to re- 
 lieve, that she went into a fit of hysterical 
 weeping, which alarmed the whole house, and 
 reached even the chamber of the invalid. 
 
 Terrible as was the presence of any third 
 person at such a moment, Dora could not aban- 
 don the object of her compassion till she had
 
 PATIENCE. 257 
 
 recovered composure ; when, fearful of hearing 
 any detail of wrongs she could not redress, and 
 sins she could not forgive, she hastily pressed 
 her to say what were her present wants, and 
 to offer her the money she might need for her 
 return to England. 
 
 " I have nothing — nothing at all, I gave 
 my last guinea and nearly all my clothes, to 
 pay for our lodgings — the doctor gave me 
 ten pounds, and said I must come no more, 
 and that the gentleman would send and pay 
 the lodgings, but he never did send ;— so they 
 took every thing from me : — Oh! what 1 have 
 suffered ' and then to be told 1 must come no 
 more, to be left in this heathen land, and the 
 wide seas between me and my own home — I 
 have thought a thousand times my heart would 
 break, but dear heart ! I couldn't die." 
 
 How often had this been her own experi- 
 ence ; every word, every look of this unfortu- 
 nate creature, only presented her husband in a 
 more reprehensible point of view ; and his 
 carelessness, (although somewhat softened by 
 the illness which had increased at the period 
 to which Alice alluded,) as to her situation, 
 was so selfish and base, as to render him more 
 hateful than even the insane rage which had 
 
 z J
 
 258 PATIENCE. 
 
 once placed him on the verge of murder. 
 The terrible agitation of spirits these thoughts 
 brought upon Dora was such, that she found 
 it necessary to close a scene which threatened 
 to overwhelm all the little strength she had, 
 and to produce a confusion of intellect which 
 had many times assailed her and threatened 
 loss of reason. She therefore opened her purse, 
 and gave with " no niggard hand," the means 
 of returning home to Alice, and requested the 
 mistress of the house, (who was already too 
 much in the secret for further disguise,) to for- 
 ward her views, promising also that she would 
 write a letter to Mr. Blackwell, which should 
 insure her a kind reception at home, and also 
 provide for the restoration of her clothes by 
 regularly discharging the arrears of rent at 
 their late lodgings. 
 
 Alice was thankful even to speechless gra- 
 titude, but yet she lingered — she held her be- 
 nefactress by the gown — she had evidently 
 something to say which she could not utter, 
 and which Dora dreaded to hear, for she felt 
 that she could grant no more. 
 
 " And I must go," said Alice, at last ; " and 
 I must see him no more." 
 
 Dora was silent.
 
 PA I I I.NCF.. 
 
 " He has ruined me, and made me mi 
 ble, and I ean never shew my face again in 
 my own country, and I mustn't tell him of hi* 
 wickedness ! I mustn't say, see what a wretch 
 you have made of me !" 
 
 Dora, unable to undergo more, hastily with- 
 drew, and finding that she was utterly incapa- 
 ble of resuming composure, retired to her own 
 bed-room, which was a small chamber at th< 
 top of the house, where, having fastened the 
 door, she knelt down, and in earnest prayer 
 besought Almighty aid in quelling the deep 
 indignation, the repelling contempt, which 
 had arisen in her breast, and which incessantly 
 urged her to quit for ever the presence of a 
 man whom she should henceforward behold 
 with loathing. 
 
 Tears, prayers, and still more, long medita- 
 tion and reflection, succeeded in giving tran- 
 quillity to her wounded spirits, and renewing 
 in her the resolution to attend with patience 
 and persevering vigilance to the present and 
 eternal welfare of her husband, and still watch 
 over him in the hope (weak as that hope was 
 Income) that her labour would not be in vain. 
 
 So completely had Dora been absorbed in 
 the painful reflections, and severe schoolings
 
 260 PATIENCE. 
 
 of her heart, that when aroused by the tap 
 ping of the nurse at her door, she was surprised 
 to find how long a period had elapsed since 
 she had entered her room, and that the busy 
 anxious state of her mind, had made her for- 
 get even necessary food. She descended with 
 a determination to bury all the past in ob- 
 livion, as far as it was possible ; but the first 
 glance she had of the countenance of Stan- 
 cliffe, told her that the secret was discovered, 
 and she doubted not the interference of the 
 landlady had extended to procuring Alice even 
 the interview she had desired, and which it 
 was but natural to suppose the poor girl had 
 persisted in requesting. 
 
 Stancliffe was evidently ill, and averse to 
 meeting her eyes ; but he was uncomplaining 
 and gentle, and submitted to the punishment 
 under which he suffered in a manner so dif- 
 ferent to his general conduct, that Dora, like 
 most of her sex on similar occasions, was soon 
 relieved from the new and distressing sensa- 
 sions of anger towards him, which had so lately 
 harrassed her. She could not forget the face 
 and voice of Alice — they haunted her perpe- 
 tually, and conjured up that of Frank also, 
 and every other association by which Stancliffe
 
 PATIENCE. 26] 
 
 stood in the light of a violent, unfeeling, ca- 
 pricious, or dissolute man — a man, too, from 
 whom the wise and the good would have se- 
 parated her. But she looked again upon him, 
 and beheld him as one suffering and penitent, 
 and she felt that she could yet pardon and per- 
 haps love — might not the time come when 
 she should even rejoice over him and be proud 
 of him ? 
 
 Her thoughts were interrupted by her hus- 
 band, who, calling her to his bed-side, thanked 
 her with great emotion for her kindness to one 
 " whose name he would never utter in her pre- 
 sence, and whom he never desired to see again."' 
 Dora made little answer beyond desiring him 
 to compose himself, for although sincerely de- 
 sirous to accept of any thing in the way of 
 apology or promise for the future, she could 
 not help deeming him cruel towards the 
 wretched victim of his lawless passions, even 
 in the assurances thus tendered to herself. 
 She wished him to be sensible of his own in- 
 jusl ice, and to lament his crimes to God ratlin 
 than towards herself; but she could not " break 
 the bruised reed," and she was thankful for an) 
 thing which looked like feeling in the right 
 waj
 
 262 PATIENCE. 
 
 Some days passed in dejection but calmness, 
 which had so salutary an effect upon the 
 health of the invalid, that he left his bed, call- 
 ed in his accounts, and prepared for his return 
 to England, from whence very favourable ac- 
 counts of Frank had been several times re- 
 ceived ; but a letter now reached them of a 
 very different description. 
 
 Mr. Hemingford had left the bond given 
 by Stancliffe with directions how to act, in 
 case he should fall again into the error from 
 which it souo-hf to restrain him, in the hands 
 of his attorney. That person had now ascer- 
 tained the fact, together with other particulars 
 which were of a nature, in his own apprehen- 
 sion, to justify any rigour the law authorised, 
 and in consequence had proceeded to take 
 possession of Stancliffe's house as tangible 
 property, specified as forfeited to his partner, 
 and Mr. Hazlehurst wrote in great anxiety 
 for directions how to proceed in a case so per- 
 plexing and distressing. 
 
 Dora read the letter in surprise to her hus- 
 band. " It is all right," said Stancliffe, " your 
 father has such power ; he can lake all I have 
 in the world and hold it until the partnership 
 has expired, and he has paid himself all it
 
 P \ I I I.N ( E. 263 
 
 owes him. 1 cared not then how strong the 
 bond was made, for 1 was wretched and 
 asharn< d, and I dictated it myself." 
 
 " But what is to become of us? how are 
 
 we t<> exist lor the next two years .'" 
 
 " \\ ill Mr. Blackwell do nothing-, think 
 you ! 
 
 "No; — he has solemnly declared that he 
 will not; he will do any thing lor me, if- — 
 but"— 
 
 " If — but — what do yon mean '. tell me, 
 Dora, for as soon as my arm is better, 1 will 
 do any thing ; I will, indeed^ — you shall see 
 how 1 will exert myself." 
 
 Dora wept abundantly. 
 
 " Tell me what he said, Dora, I beseech 
 
 vou r 
 
 " He wanted me to leave you — that is, he 
 thought me wrong in coming here, for he knew 
 all about Alice, whose mother it seems is his 
 tenant — and" — 
 
 StanclifFe turned his face on the pillow and 
 groaned bitterly. 
 
 " I am not going, my dear ; — I refused him 
 and Mrs. Aylmer too ; therefore you cannot 
 doubt but I shall remain, and be" — 
 
 " Be a u reteh, a most miserable wretch —
 
 264 PATIENCE. 
 
 no, no — I do not ask it, Dora, you have suf- 
 fered enough, you shall go to the friends who 
 love you." 
 
 " But you love me, now ?" said Dora, ea- 
 gerly gazing upon him, as if she thought he 
 would die in the act of evincing, for the fire 1 ; 
 time, true generosity and self-renunciation. 
 
 " Yes, Dora, I do love you," said Stancliffe, 
 after a long pause ; " and if it please God to 
 give me strength, I will prove that I know 
 your value, we will shew them all what we can 
 do, my love." 
 
 There was an earnest tenderness in these 
 words, which went beyond their simple mean- 
 ing in the expression conveyed ; and although 
 Dora durst not place the reliance on them na- 
 tural to a heart so confiding as hers, (for disap- 
 pointment so severe and reiterated as she had 
 experienced, must damp the most sanguine, 
 and chill the most loving heart,) yet still some- 
 thing was evidently gained — the humbling of 
 a proud spirit is a great and difficult step ; it is 
 the first breaking of that rock from which the 
 tears of true repentance may flow, to fertilize 
 a barren soil. 
 
 As soon as possible they returned, and trade 
 on their native shore almost pennyless, though
 
 l'ATIENCK. 265 
 
 indebted considerably for their accommo- 
 dation to Mr. Sydenham, who left Dublin the 
 week before them. The loss of his late ex- 
 cellent home did not appear to give Stancliffe 
 any comparative concern, with that which he 
 suffered from the fear of seeing any person; 
 and so earnest was he to get into a house, and 
 when arrived at an inn, to take possession of 
 a bed, that notwithstanding all the promises 
 he had of late been in the habit of making to 
 himself and her, Dora felt extremely afraid that 
 he would again seek to shroud himself in that 
 asylum, and for several days her fears ap- 
 peared realized ; but the moment she declared 
 " that she could not bring herself to live any 
 longer without seeing Frank, now she was so 
 near him," he declared himself ready to attend 
 her ; and it was evident from that time he be- 
 came, to the most distressing degree, jealous of 
 her leaving him, and determined to watch her 
 continually. 
 
 The meeting between this affectionate bro- 
 iher and sister was affecting, though both sup- 
 prest the emotions which swelled at their 
 bosoms. Frank was shocked to see how ill, 
 and even aged, his beloved Dora appeared; 
 but she had great satisfaction in perceiving 
 
 A A
 
 '2.66 PATIENCE. 
 
 his amendment, and though well aware that 
 the sight of him, and the occasional enjoy- 
 ment of his company, would be her best solace 
 in the sad change to which she was now sub- 
 jected, she earnestly urged him to seek the 
 comforts offered nnder Mr. Blackwell's pro- 
 tection, as soon as he was capable of bearing 
 removal. 
 
 To this Frank consented, under the full per- 
 suasion that he should, by some means con- 
 nected with this change, be enabled to assist 
 her on whom he was continually thinking, and 
 for whom he could consent to any thing. Mr. 
 Blackwell had been gone some weeks, Mrs. 
 Aylmer was anxious to go, and it had been 
 settled that the housekeeper of the former 
 would accompany his ward whenever the phy- 
 sician permitted him to undertake the journey. 
 
 Harriett was not at home, Mrs. Aylmer did 
 not appear, but poor Mrs. Judith, who had 
 been long excluded from the sick room, rush- 
 ed from the parlour on hearing Dora descend, 
 and seizing her round the neck, wept over 
 her, with the fondness of childhood, and the 
 imbecility of dotage, persisting, however, with 
 a pertinacity resembling neither, that she 
 never would lose sight of her more, and re-
 
 PATIENCE. 267 
 
 peating over and over again, this determina- 
 tion. 
 
 Pure affection, wheresoever it is manifested, 
 is dear to the heart, and the kiss was as warm 
 as the tear of Dora, when she returned the 
 poor old woman's fond embrace, but nothing 
 could exceed the embarrassment she felt on 
 her account. Something must unquestion- 
 ably be settled respecting her, and it was 
 imperative on those who had taken her from 
 her " pleasant home," to provide one for her 
 — besides, her annuity was their only means 
 of help, she was the last person who gave them 
 money, and the first to offer them more. " But 
 would Everton be kind to her ? would he in 
 narrow lodgings, endure that wearisome dis- 
 course which he bore so ill in a large house 
 where he was so seldom subjected to it ? and 
 in his present state of weak health and sub- 
 jugated spirits, would it be right to try the 
 weak efforts of infant virtues by so severe a 
 test r 
 
 There was no reasoning with Mrs. Judith, 
 who insisted on returning with her Dora, " the 
 delight of her eyes, the comfort of her age :" 
 whilst they both stood thus overwhelmed with 
 sorrow on the one hand, and embarrassment
 
 2G8 PATIENCE. 
 
 on the other, Mrs. Aylmer and Harriett entered 
 together, Frank being then sufficiently reco- 
 vered to admit their going out for a short walk 
 in comfort. 
 
 The sight of her beloved friend, her more 
 than mother, was a cordial to Dora's heart, 
 for she had not dared to hope she should see 
 her, and, " perhaps the interview was even 
 now undesired," crossed her mind ; but the 
 consequences of Stancliffe's faults had gone 
 so far beyond Mrs. Aylmer's expectations in 
 depriving him of his house, and his power as 
 a partner, and of course his rank in society, 
 that although she was more offended with him 
 than ever, she could not fail to feel increased 
 pity for the unhappy being thus determinately, 
 and therefore indissolubly, linked to his po- 
 verty and disgrace. On understanding the 
 subject in dispute, she persuaded Mrs. Judith 
 to resign her young friend for the present, and 
 observed, that as the whole family were about 
 to separate, and the house had been taken for 
 a year, Mr. and Mrs. Stancliffe were welcome 
 to come into it for the remainder of that time, 
 in which case the old lady could remain in her 
 ! resent apartment. 
 
 This offer was accepted by Dora with much
 
 PATIENCE. 
 
 thankfulness, as one which, in their circum- 
 stances, was of great moment; but when she 
 got home, and told Stancliffe, he made her a 
 hasty assurance, confirmed by an oath, that 
 he would never enter it; he would never live 
 in a street at all, and especially one so near 
 his own house." 
 
 " Yet, although a painful situation, it has 
 great conveniences, as it is close to the count- 
 ing-house." 
 
 " And what have I to do there ?" 
 
 " You have still property there, and may 
 be employed usefully and profitably — at least 
 1 can get something to do there which will 
 help to support us; and my convenience in 
 such a case ought to be consulted — I am sure, 
 Everton, you will think so by and bye." 
 
 This was the first claim Dora had ever made 
 upon consideration for herself; it was received 
 with silence, but after a while he spoke very 
 ailectionately of Frank, and enquired after 
 aunt Judith. Dora candidly told him all her 
 fears for the future, but added, how much she 
 considered it their duty to render her com- 
 fortable. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I see all that, the poor old soul 
 has a right to be considered, undoubtedly ; I 
 
 A A 3
 
 270 PATIENCE. 
 
 will do my best — and Dora, if I live a whole 
 month without kicking Fury, or d — ing her 
 quotations, surely I may have some hope of 
 myself." 
 
 " And you will do both, my love, never fear, 
 if you not only make a resolution to do your 
 best, but in conscious fear of your own weak- 
 ness, look earnestly to heaven for assistance." 
 
 No further objection was made, and when 
 poor Frank was gone, and Mrs. Aylmer had 
 given a parting present to the daughter her 
 heart still bled over, they took possession of 
 the house, to the great joy of Mrs. Judith, 
 who did not see Stancliffe on his first entrance, 
 for Dora, with her usual delicate foresight, 
 ushered him into a back room, and spoke of 
 him (as indeed she might justly do) as a con- 
 firmed invalid. She placed her little house- 
 hold on the most economic footing possible, 
 consisting with the comforts of her aired 
 boarder, and her ailing husband, and then wait- 
 ed on Mr. Hazlehurst to enquire how far the 
 proceedings of the attorney were sanctioned 
 by her father, and whether she could be al- 
 lowed to receive aid from the concern in return 
 for personal services. 
 
 The worthy old man was in the first instance
 
 PAT I EN CE. 271 
 
 overcome with sorrow, to receive as a sup- 
 pliant the daughter and wife of his employers; 
 but he readily granted all she requested for 
 herself, observing, " that he was confident, 
 when Air. Hemingford knew further particu- 
 lars of the case, that every thing would at her 
 intreaty be restored, although denied to her 
 husband :" he observed, " that the attorney 
 was assured she received a handsome income 
 from Mr. Black well, and as he himself had un- 
 derstood the same, it was surely unnecessary 
 to trouble herself further." 
 
 Dora was compelled reluctantly to unde- 
 ceive him, and inform him how she stood with 
 her guardian ; and he then earnestly entered 
 into her views, and even offered to fit up a 
 small chamber in the place, where Mr. Stan- 
 eliffe might engage as a clerk, and receive 
 wages from him without being subjected to 
 be seen by any one, save when he chose to 
 appear to strangers, in his proper place, as the 
 first person in the firm. In any capacity, he 
 observed, help would at that time be welcome, 
 for never had they been more busy. 
 
 Dora related the former part of her negoti- 
 ation with pleasure; but so eager did Stan- 
 di tie appear to close with the proposal, that
 
 272 PATIENCE. 
 
 she almost dreaded mentioning the latter as- 
 surance, lest it should occasion him to make 
 those exertions of which he had said so much. 
 Nor was the conclusion wrong ; weak as he 
 was, and with his wound still in a state of 
 great irritation, he entered with avidity into 
 employment ; and although it was at first done 
 with an air of great secresy, he soon became 
 so immersed in business, and alive to the pur- 
 suit of that wealth which he had no immediate 
 prospect of enjoying, that he forgot all cau- 
 tion of disguise, and now he was no longer 
 master of the place, fulfilled all the duties 
 properly which belonged to the character. 
 His readiness, activity, and ability, rendered 
 him the moving spring which set all others in 
 due order and action ; and every person about 
 the place spoke of his appearance as a kind 
 of resurrection they had never hoped to wit- 
 ness, and he was astonished to find that he 
 could take so much interest, and feel his mind 
 so agreeably excited by the very circumstances 
 of hurry, and multiplicity of claims, which 
 he had hitherto constantly shunned, in those 
 days when his services were most valuable. 
 
 But never had the patience of Dora been 
 more tried by the idleness of days pa^t, than
 
 PATIENCE. 273 
 
 it was by the unwise, inconsistent industry 
 of the present time ; and every hour she be- 
 sought him earnestly to take the care so ne- 
 cessary lor his reduced state of health. She 
 considered the great change he had so sud- 
 denly adopted, and the total absorption he 
 evinced, as a species of self-immolation ; and 
 while she rejoiced in perceiving the vigour 
 of his mind unimpaired, and the resolution he 
 exhibited, she yet trembled for the effects of 
 exertions to which he was so evidently inade- 
 quate, that he was frequently brought home 
 in a state of exhaustion that threatened imme- 
 diate dissolution. 
 
 Before the task was completed, Stancliffe 
 was literally unable to leave his bed, but his 
 anxiety still prevented him from repose ; and 
 although in a different spirit from that with 
 which he formerly harrassed his wife with 
 business, he still kept her perpetually employ- 
 ed in affairs connected with it, and all her 
 o 'useless cares as a nurse, and her intreaties 
 as an anxious wife, were disregarded. Tb.2 
 vanity of displaying those talents for business 
 he had so long suffered to lie dormant, un- 
 questionably mingled with a resolution arising 
 from better motives, and together hurried him
 
 274 PATIENCE. 
 
 into a new species of error which was of the 
 most painful nature to poor Dora, as she con- 
 tinually 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 con- 
 tracted 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 conse- 
 quence 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, notwith- 
 standing all that had been suffered or gained.
 
 27a 
 
 CHAP. XIII. 
 
 JDora had the satisfaction about this time 
 of seeing Harriett for an hour or two previous 
 to her setting out for Smyrna, having, by her 
 lather's direction, joined a respectable person 
 going out as a governess. From her she learn- 
 ed many particulars respecting Frank's pre- 
 sent 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 Standing's 
 conduct, and such pity for his present state, as 
 might influence her report of him to her fa- 
 mily. 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
 
 270 PATIENCE. 
 
 look for consolation and assistance, and to 
 whom she could open her heart in perfect con- 
 fidence 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 feel- 
 ings 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 ser- 
 vant, besides a little damsel whose duty it was 
 never to quit the apartment of Mrs. Judith, 
 their food was not always prepared with the
 
 PA I I EN I E. 277 
 
 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 Stand iile 
 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 see- 
 ing her dishes rejected with disgust, and hear- 
 ing 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. Stan- 
 cliffe, 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 ex-
 
 "78 PATIENCE. 
 
 penditure 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 con- 
 tributed to his support. He was truly peni- 
 tent for grosser sins, and sincere in his resolu- 
 tions for the future, should his health be re- 
 stored ; nor could she doubt that she now held 
 the first place in his heart, but even the Jirst 
 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 con- 
 stantly 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
 
 PATIENCE. 279 
 
 Uiis pleasure ; tor at those times the invalid 
 was in good humour, admitted her visits, and 
 listened to her regular quotation from Thomp- 
 son, 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, Stancliile 
 usually sunk into deep thought, and by de- 
 grees he happily became more anxious about 
 the donor than his gift, and the first enquiry 
 was after the letters of Frank — this was suc- 
 ceeded by the wonder of " how r he looks ? what 
 he is reading ? and whether that stately old 
 square-toes made him really comfortable 1" 
 
 " It is evident that he does," Dora would 
 answer, '* from the facility with which he is 
 enabled to prove kindness to us : — poor 
 lellow ! 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 ser- 
 vices, together with the payment of Mrs. 
 Judith's annuity, was long since expended j
 
 280 PATIENCE. 
 
 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 ex- 
 traordinary expenses 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 op- 
 pressed Stancliffe, from becoming habitual, 
 and to preserve the old lady in her usual state 
 of childish enjoyment and supposed import- 
 ance. 
 
 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 look- 
 ed in to cheer them, and books, those silent 
 but most precious companions, could be rarely 
 adopted ; for poor Dora's time, when not de- 
 voted to the active cares demanded by her de- 
 cided invalid, and her elderly charge, was given 
 to writing tedious translations, which fre- 
 quently 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
 
 P A T I I . N ( E . C 2H 1 
 
 it, or the power of abstracting himself. " Read 
 thi.^ to me, Dora, immediately" — " finish those 
 letters for 1 lazlehurst" — " warm me this jelly" 
 — " I wish you would go to the fish-market, di- 
 rectly ; every thing I like will be gone, if you 
 arc not quick :" such were the requisitions 
 which alone varied an existence which it is 
 certain was too busy for ennui 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 operat- 
 ing 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 
 
 B n •>
 
 282 PATIENCE. 
 
 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 warm- 
 ed and quickened. 
 
 One Sunday morning, when the invalid ap 
 peared something better than usual, she ven- 
 tured to propose going to church, to which, 
 contrary to long precedent, he cheerfully as- 
 sented. As Dora crept along the most unfre- 
 quented 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 sun- 
 shine that lighted up the paradise around her 
 was reflected from the calm devotion, the un- 
 troubled 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 refresh- 
 ment brought so strongly to her mind the
 
 I'ATIENCE. 283 
 
 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 eould 
 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 — 1 
 will, and 1 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 rap- 
 ture 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 render- 
 ing our severest duties easy, and our sharpest 
 sorrows less painful. When Dora left the 
 church, she felt strong and prepared for every 
 trial ; but as she drew nearer home, the recol- 
 lection of her lengthened absence, the fear that
 
 284 PATIENCE. 
 
 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 anx- 
 iety ; and although one moment she trusted 
 her prayers would be heard, the next she trem- 
 bled for the consequences of her conduet. 
 
 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 sup- 
 pose they are there, but 1 am not certain."
 
 PATIENCE. 285 
 
 " Do you recollect them, my dear?" 
 
 " I cannot forget them — she said perpetual ly, 
 
 ' tho' vvoo'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, tender- 
 in ,s, penetrated her heart lor him, and had 
 the precepts of her faith admitted the idea. 
 there was no pains she could not have endured,
 
 286 PATIENCE. 
 
 no action she could not have performed, to 
 render his penitence availing. 
 
 " What is the conclusion given to this pas- 
 sage ?" said Stancliffe, after a long pause — ■ 
 " yes ! find it for me, Dora — yet 1 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, fol- 
 lowed by profound silence; and Dora feared 
 to break in upon a salutary train of thought 
 even by good words — slow as was his pro- 
 gress, 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 ot 
 infidelity, or denying his responsibility at the 
 great tribunal which he evidently approached 
 with just alarm, and an increasing sense of his
 
 PA 11 KM E. 287 
 
 own uuworthiness 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 
 hi in ; that she watehed over him with the fond 
 broodings of the parent bird over its half- 
 Hedged 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 neighbour- 
 hood, 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 re- 
 pentant 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 hia 
 state, humble endurance, and cheerful ac-
 
 288 PATlliiNCE. 
 
 quiescence, 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 un- 
 equalled 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 comfort- 
 ably 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 compre- 
 hend the conduct and the feelings of a better —
 
 PATIENCE 289 
 
 ee it all now — my parents indulged me till 
 I fancied all things should yield to my will; 
 and as far as 1 was able, it has been the busi- 
 ness 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 seiz< d 
 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 sen- 
 sible, and looked for Dora's attendance in the 
 most anxious and affecting manner. S tan- 
 el iffe evinced the sincerity of his repentan < 
 at this time in a striking manner, for he en- 
 tirely 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 circum- 
 stance. 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 Law- 
 rences." 
 
 During Mrs. Judith's illness, Mr. Sydenham 
 came to Liverpool, and was received with as 
 
 c c
 
 290 PATIENCE. 
 
 much pleasure by Stancliffe as could be ex- 
 perienced by one whose mind was so perpe- 
 tually employed on the most awful subjects, 
 and harrassed by conflicts with his own feel- 
 ings and propensities, which much pain and 
 weakness rendered him little able to bear. It 
 is not on the bed of death, amid the flutter- 
 ings 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 con- 
 sequence 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 affect- 
 ing to them both, and perceiving also that 
 Stancliffe's weakness now rendered him sub- 
 ject to slight delirium, which she exceedingly 
 dreaded to increase.
 
 PATIENCE. C9 1 
 
 It was a satisfaction to Dora to see Frank, 
 though very pale, yet much stronger than he 
 used to he, 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 
 Standi tie, to his painful surprise, a faint hec- 
 tic 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 be- 
 came soon more composed, though he remain- 
 ed 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 ab- 
 sent, but he returned soon, accompanied by
 
 2»J'2 PATIENCE. 
 
 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 men- 
 tioned it if Sydenham had not done it, in ac- 
 counting 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 re- 
 deeming grace, the efhcacy of repentance, 
 and faith : — there was an eager grasping of 
 the mind after the hope thus offered, but the 
 wandering intellect, the deeply troubled con- 
 science, the pain-worn body, refused repose — 
 the quick glancing, the troubled tossing, the 
 anxious sighing, told the sympathising com- 
 forter that his labour was in vain. 
 
 " Mrs. Aylmer ! — where is Mrs. Aylmer?" 
 said the invalid, hastily
 
 PATIENCE. '2[):j 
 
 She came immediately upstairs, and ap- 
 proached 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. Ayhner, 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 diffi- 
 cult. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I must speak — I must conquer 
 — -dear Mrs. Aylmer — in time — prevail on 
 her to think of Sydenham — he is good and — 
 1 can say no more — I have made my sacrifice, 
 none of you can tell what it has cost me." 
 
 His luad sunk on Dora's shoulder, and she 
 thought he had fainted ; but in another mo- 
 ment there was a convulsive motion of the 
 whole bodv, and in a thick altered voice he
 
 294 PATIENCE. 
 
 cried hastily, " Dora ! Frank ! where are you ! 
 pray for me." 
 
 " We do pray for you, earnestly, ardently," 
 said Frank ; " We trust our prayers are heard," 
 whispered Dora, in a tender but tremulous 
 voice. 
 
 " A little time — a little longer time, my 
 mind is clear again ; now I see it all — and I 
 want, I pray — I — a little more time." 
 
 As Stancliffe spoke, he eagerly, though 
 feebly, pressed the hand of his wife ; suddenly 
 his hold was relaxed, a quick start, a long 
 drawn sigh succeeded, and the immortal spirit 
 fled to its eternal audit.
 
 205 
 
 CHAP XIV. 
 
 Dora was blessed with the presence of a 
 true friend, and a sympathising brother, on 
 this awful occasion. She was neither troubled 
 with the visitant who might at some times 
 have wondered why she wept so much ; at 
 others, been surprised that she could speak so 
 calmly. They well knew how closely the 
 heart still clings to that object over which it 
 has watched so long and so tenderly ; and they 
 knew also, that since Dora took hope to her 
 heart as to the eternal concerns of her husband, 
 (a hope which, whatever might be their own 
 opinion, they desired her to possess) it was 
 not possible that she could long lament him. 
 
 Happily, when the first ebullition of feeling 
 had subsided, and Dora felt the full claims of 
 that friend who had never ceased to be a ten- 
 der and considerate mother, and that beloved 
 brother who had not only sorrowed with her 
 sorrow, but been the partaker of her affection- 
 ate care and longsuffering ; in obedience tj
 
 296 PATIENCE. 
 
 their wishes, she prepared herself to seek in a 
 scene distant from that of her sorrows, and 
 dear to her memory, for restoration of health 
 destroyed by that unceasing succession of cares 
 which had so long harrassed her, as to over- 
 come alike the energy of youth, and the forti- 
 tude of mind. 
 
 Christian patience alone had sustained her, 
 it had shed the light of cheerfulness over many 
 a gloomy hour, and given the tranquillity of 
 resignation to many a day of sorrow. It had 
 preserved the comforts of peace in a situation 
 full of incentives to domestic warfare, and be- 
 stowed the power of reflection and personal 
 activity in the midst of every provocative to 
 irritation, and the various inquietudes arising 
 from embarrassment in circumstances and tur- 
 pitude in conduct : alike subduing anger, re- 
 pelling jealousy, and controuling grief — such 
 patience is the offspring of that faith " which 
 overcometh the world." 
 
 Before Dora set out, she had the satisfaction 
 of receiving letters from her father, informing 
 her " that he was returning," and giving the 
 necessary orders for her accommodation and 
 that of the late sufferer. She felt much com- 
 fort in these letters, and still more in the pros-
 
 PA II EN ' E. 'J;) 7 
 
 pect that her father would end his days in his 
 own country, and probably have his eves closed 
 by that darling son whose past danger had has- 
 tened his return -her meditations were broken 
 upon by the arrival of Mr. Black well. 
 
 The old man gazed upon the young widow 
 with a look of such deep sympathy, that it ap- 
 peared as if her pale face and attenuated form 
 wounded his heart beyond endurance — he took 
 her hand in silence, which Dora broke. 
 
 " Do not look upon me so mournfully, my 
 dear Sir, for there is reproach in your sorrow 
 — often has my heart been wrung with pain 
 from the idea of having offended you ; but 
 since my sad task is over, and i have reaped 
 from it satisfaction of the most consolatory 
 kind, I trust you will pardon ine, and believe 
 that I have, by patient and active kindness, 
 atoned for my deficiencies in wisdom and 
 
 energy 
 
 " If, Dora, I should live to see you live and 
 be happy, perhaps 1 may rejoice in that satis- 
 faction of which you speak, but of which I 
 cannot partake. But even in that case, (which 
 is one I scarcely dare to hope) never ask me 
 for approbation of your late conduct, since it 
 is not in my power to bestow it. In pursuing 
 
 i> n
 
 29S PATIENCE. 
 
 the dictates of a mistaken compassion, you 
 renounced an awful, painful, but most impe- 
 rious duty ; and your example is the more dan- 
 gerous, because it is combined with so many 
 virtuous feelings, and attended with apparent 
 success, (since from what Frank tells me, some 
 earnest was given of sincerity in repentance, 
 reform in principle and feeling") — 
 
 " That, Sir, is my consolation — my reward 
 — I presume not to argue ; you may be right, 
 (considering the matter on a broad basis,) but 
 I am an humble individual, and I trust my ex- 
 ample will do no harm." 
 
 " It will certainly not injure your own sex, 
 child, but" — 
 
 "Thank you, dear Sir ; you have conceded 
 enough to satisfy my feelings, if not to justify 
 my conduct ; on that subject I can, and ought, 
 to hear your strictures with humility ana 
 Patience." 
 
 THE END. 
 
 J.o.mion : 
 K. (.LAV, PRIMER, bREAJ) STREET HILL.
 
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 This book is DUE on the last 
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 1980 
 
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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
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 1850 
 
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