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Title: Patience, a Tale
Author: Hofland, Barbara (1770-1844)
Illustrator: Burney, Edward Francisco (1760-1848)
Date of first publication: 1824
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Arthur Hall, Virtue and Co., [January 1856:
   date of publisher's catalogue bound in with the book]
Date first posted: 3 September 2010
Date last updated: 3 September 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #607

This ebook was produced by:
David Edwards, woodie4
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

This file was produced from images generously made
available by the Internet Archive/American Libraries




PATIENCE.

[Illustration: _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 into his cheek--"he loves me," said Dora_. _Page 99_]




PATIENCE.

A TALE

BY

_Mrs. Hofland._

AUTHOR OF

_Africa Described. Integrity. Decision.
Moderation. Reflection. Self-Denial.
Clergyman's Widow. &c. &c._

"Let Patience have her perfect work."

St. PAUL.

A New Edition.

LONDON.
ARTHUR HALL, VIRTUE & C^o
25, PATERNOSTER ROW.




PATIENCE.




A TALE.

CHAPTER I.


"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 addressed, 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 her parents, to whom
I have written, requesting their permission to take her with me to the
south of France, to which place, you know, I am ordered, for the benefit
of my health."

"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?"

"I hope they will not,--yet some of their late letters have indicated
such an intention; and so material a change in my residence may have a
tendency to confirm a wavering resolution."

"In my opinion," replied the good neighbour, "they will act most
ungratefully towards you, and cruelly towards her, if they divide
you;--you have reared her from infancy,--nursed her from a sickly
plant, into a blooming 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, 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 selfishness, 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," continued 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 the chastisements of a
heavenly Father;--this higher, purer, gospel-planted patience, I hope my
Dora is not devoid of; but the quiet tenor of our lives has not hitherto
called it into action:--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 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 recollections, 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 our readers.




CHAP. II.


Mr. Hemingford was a merchant in Liverpool, 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 clergyman 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 afterwards.--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
of a very distinct character, their affection was a bond of union that
controuled 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, contracted by visiting a sick parishioner; he left a
widow, on whose distress it is unnecessary to dilate, since it would be
impossible to describe, 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 perceived with pain, that notwithstanding her
maternal 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."

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 unpleasant to Mr. Hemingford, it
was certainly a pity that he should be thus continually reminded of her.
The child was baptized by both these names; and although a third was
added, in order to reconcile the father, he persisted 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, 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 by sorrow, was full of kindness; and she soon found the
little neglected child the most attractive 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 relationship
which might influence her choice of a home, she eventually fixed upon a
residence in the delightful village of Crickhowel, 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 her infant spirits, were alike forgotten:--she had not
only the advantages of maternal tenderness 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 sisters; and she would have had that
pleasure in the course of the last fourteen years undoubtedly, if her
mother had not intended, from time to time, to visit Mrs. Aylmer. The
excuses she found it necessary to make were 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
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 advice, 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,
giving temporary gloom, and sorrow, to be repaid by fertilizing the
soil, and calling forth flowers and fruit, from the hidden seeds, and
deeply implanted lessons, of early days. Dora rose, in this season of
trial, from a fond, artless, ingenuous child, to a sensible, reflecting,
affectionate young woman; who united to perfect simplicity and
sensibility, the mild fortitude 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 protectress; and when Mrs. Aylmer first ventured 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 guardian, 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 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 aspirations 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 thankfulness; 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 solicitude 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
shining 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 amiable in her character, that which was
virtuous, pious, and solid.

She could not, however, fail to feel even more anxiety on the subject of
the expected letter, than she thought right, in consequence of some
hints which had within the last three months dropped from her mother on
the subject 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 attention, and of
renouncing the pleasures the journey itself promised her, was a double
sacrifice, from which she very naturally shrunk.

This necessary digression brings us again to the expected letter, which,
contrary to all precedent, 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
intended 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, seeing she wrote an excellent
hand, and had doubtless been well instructed in the French language by
dear Mrs. Aylmer, whose knowledge of that tongue they well remembered.
She added, that Mr. Hemingford had very indifferent health; having had a
great loss in his partner, Mr. Stancliffe, whose son was 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
circumstances 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 Gloucester. 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 her 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 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 handsome 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 subdue all
repugnance, to consider cheerful obedience as the test of her faith, the
just submission to her heavenly Father, exacted by her earthly parents,
towards whom she looked with the more affection the nearer she
approached 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 experienced in finding she had
been detained an hour beyond the time he had expected her.

Turning from the man, he at length addressed her, with--

"Well, Dolly,--you're sadly tired, I suppose; 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, "I will
go in, I will see my 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 style of behaviour, that this
child was the indulged Idol of the family. He looked earnestly, yet
kindly at Dora, asked her various questions, and at length said with an
air of patronage, very inconsistent with the dependance indicated by his
sickly looks,

"I shall love you, I am sure, very much, for you are not proud like
Catharine, nor cross like Louisa, and not tired of me as Mama is,--have
you brought me any thing?"

"I will give you some pretty books, and some sea-shells, 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 persuade him to go to bed, which was a
little resisted, in the usual style 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, 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 engaged, 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 interruption 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 daughters, and a visitant, were at
breakfast, seated round a table where Catharine presided; and as all the
ladies were in black, Dora, on casting 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.

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 husband'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 sufficiently
_en bon point_ to preserve her fair, smooth skin, without a wrinkle; and
possessed, 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 bye name of "giggling Kitty." Her dress was precisely the
same with that of her daughters, 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 transplanting the cares of life, and the pressure of time,
from her own face to that of her husband; since it was evident that Mr.
Hemingford looked much older than he really was, and that, contrary to
custom, the difference in their age, which appeared slight on their
marriage, was now become remarkable.

As soon as Dora sate down, her mother turned from her to describe, by
the aid of a corner of the table cloth, a new trimming to her guest; and
Mr. Hemingford exclaimed, as if in surprise, and displeasure, "Dolly,
what makes you out of mourning?" "Dear me, Mr. Hemingford, how can you
ask such a question? don't you remember we agreed to say nothing to her
about--why, my dear, what was Mr. Stancliffe to her? you forget yourself
strangely." "I did; you are right, but she must have a black gown now
she is here."

"Lend her one of yours, my dear Catharine, and try to make her look
decent, poor thing:--but one could not expect she should be like you,"
said the mother, in a coaxing, tone to her eldest daughter.

Catharine rose with an air of haughty nonchalance, which rather
indicated condescension than obedience; she was tall, handsome, and
fully aware of her advantages, having been flattered from her cradle by
the mother:--it was in vain that Dora sought to render her sensible of
the love which she had ever cherished for her, or indeed to enter into
conversation with her on any terms. Cold answers, and supercilious
looks, seemed to throw her affections back upon herself, and she felt
more forlorn than she had done on the preceding day, for then she had
something for which to hope:--ah! how different was the world on which
she had entered, from that which she had left! how solitary was the gay
and busy town, when compared with the silent vale, and the lofty
mountains, which sheltered the only companion she had ever known.

Indeed it soon appeared, that although Mrs. Hemingford was a gay woman,
and continually engaged either in visiting, receiving, or preparing for
company, it was no part of her plan to admit Dora either to sharing her
enjoyments, or partaking even the exercise necessary for her health; for
it was not until the succeeding Sunday that she was able to leave the
house. She then accompanied her father and Louisa to church, it is true;
but alas! the Sunday was nearly as much without religion, as the week
had been without comfort. The morning was all bustle, the evening all
dulness--her mother talked about nothing but flounces, and glass dishes;
her father about keeping his ledger, and writing foreign
letters:--books were never spoken of; all reference to the day, the
sermon, the subjects connected with religion, were carefully avoided.
Poor Dora remembered her late beloved pastor, her Sunday scholars, her
dear associates, and above all, her beloved maternal friend, and her
heart sunk within her.

Frank alone kept up her spirits, which were not merely chilled by an
ungenial atmosphere, in which her heart could not expand, but also by
constant active unkindness on the part of her sisters, perfect apathy
from her mother, who was indeed a thing without a heart, and moroseness
in her father, which was yet least oppressive, because it evidently
proceeded in a great measure from some unknown cause of uneasiness which
preyed on his constitution, and affected his temper. These parties all
by turns quarrelled with each other; but in general the mother and her
daughters made a strong side against the father; but let matters go as
they might, in joy or sorrow, she was never treated as one of the
family:--naturally communicative, because full of sensibility and
frankness, with a highly cultivated mind and vivid fancy, she was
compelled to an unnatural silence, and every effort she made to prove
affection, was treated with contempt that chilled, or ill-humour that
wounded her. Services were exacted from her as if she had been the
general servant of the family, and it appeared a settled point that she
should undertake all the trouble of Frank's education yet she was
frequently upbraided as one who considered herself superior to the rest
of her family, and arrogated to herself importance on the score of
fortune. These accusations were not only false and cruel, but mysterious
at times to Dora; but she soon forgot them in the quickly succeeding
vexation.

When she had been thus situated about a month, Dora was one evening
surprised by a visit from Arthur Sydenham, the eldest son of that family
with whom Mrs. Aylmer was now happily domesticated. Dora could not fail
to see him with pleasure which amounted to agitation; yet she had not
forgotten that Arthur was the only person in his family who had not
lamented her disappointment;--nor had she recollected the possibility
that as he was himself destined to remain in England, it was possible
that he might rejoice that they should continue near each other. For
Arthur, Dora had felt the most lively regard, almost affection, ever
since she remembered any thing;--she considered herself in the light of
a sister to _him_, and was in hopes that he had an equal regard for
_her_:--of a feeling beyond this she had no idea at this time; but poor
Arthur had. He had also a strong impression of the duties he owed to his
family, what was expected of him from an excellent father, and demanded
by his situation in life, as the eldest son of a younger brother.

Mrs. Hemingford expressed great pleasure in seeing him, talked
incessantly of French silks and flowers, but scarcely made, or
permitted, enquiry after Mrs. Aylmer. She spoke of meeting with his
uncle, Sir Lloyd Sydenham, at Blackpool, enquired his destination, his
College, and almost his expectations from his uncle, the baronet; but
she neither adverted, nor permitted him to advert, to the pale looks and
altered air of Dora, whom he perceived to be indeed a stranger in her
father's house; and whilst his heart ached, yet overflowed with
tenderness towards her, he had the additional sorrow of being impressed
with the full persuasion, that his uncle would never consent to any
near connection with such a person as Mrs. Hemingford.

Arthur Sydenham departed under such evident depression of spirits, that
Dora was affected by it; and her sisters, mistaking the cause, sneered
at her, even before he was out of hearing, so indelicately, as to awaken
the indignation of poor Frank, who was rewarded for his interference by
a box on the ear, the first blow he had ever received in his life; it
was therefore no wonder that he screamed aloud, and that even Mrs.
Hemingford was withdrawn from her eager contemplation of the little
parcel Mr. Sydenham had conveyed to Dora.

"Dear me, Catharine, what have you done? why did you strike the child?
when you don't know but a blow may be his death, and are aware what a
loss it would be to the family:--don't cry, Frank, my love.--God bless
me, if his father were to hear him, we should all be ruined."

"But he shan't hear me," said Frank, suddenly stopping,--"I will be like
Dora, and that will please her. I know if I am good, she will be so
happy, so I won't cry any more."

The heart of Catharine was touched, and she resolved on a change in her
conduct towards Dora, to whom she was well aware they were all indebted
for great improvement in the manners of the little spoiled, though good
tempered boy:--before she had time to speak on the subject, Mr.
Hemingford entered the room, evidently so ill, or so unhappy, as to be
incapable of noticing the red cheek, or eyes, even of his darling.

Thoughtless as his wife had ever been, and self-willed as were his
daughters, yet they were aware of his value to themselves at least, and
in great alarm they now crowded around him, asking various questions he
was incapable of answering, and offering cordials he had not the power
to swallow:--the apothecary was sent for, the patient put to bed, and
the whole house a scene of confusion.

By degrees this alarm subsided, and the parties observing to each other,
"that he was only taken the same as he had been before," appeared to
dismiss the case as one of no moment; and Mrs. Hemingford turned over
the patient to Dora, on the supposition that she must have become a good
nurse--that she could sit up with her father, and take the cook to wait
upon her, and do every thing very well.

Dora entered on this office willingly, but fearfully, for she was aware
of the deficiency of her knowledge, and the importance of the charge. In
the course of the night, she became sensible, however, that the disease
lay principally on the mind of the patient, and that he had received
some shock in his business which had produced all his complaints, a
situation which awakened her sincerest sympathy.

On Mrs. Hemingford's appearance she very naturally enquired into the
circumstances which had overwhelmed him so much, but at the same time
observed, "that Dora could leave the room."

"Nonsense," exclaimed the sick man, "she is a good girl, and may, and
must be trusted. Who can I look to for help but her? is there any of you
that would have sate by me all night as she has done?--no, no, she shall
know every thing."

"Not _every_ thing, Mr. Hemingford, not _every_ thing, surely!"

"Well, well,--I know what I am about; my present business is to
prepare--to prepare, I say, for the arrival of Everton Stancliffe."

"Everton Stancliffe!" exclaimed Mrs. Hemingford, her colour forsaking
her cheeks.

"Even so, Mrs. Hemingford; and if announcing his return half kills a
man, I leave you to judge the effect of his appearance:--however, I must
do the best I can--I have been thinking the whole night about it, and
have made up my mind how to act; he will find an embarrassed partner,
but not embarrassed accounts:--all my sins, or rather yours, shall be
self-evident, and he must then act as he pleases."

Whilst Mr. Hemingford spoke, a clerk he had previously sent for entered
the room with many large books under his arm, and the materials for
writing in his hands, a sight which instantly put to flight all Mrs.
Hemingford's late terrors; for although they were of no less serious
import than the dread of poverty and disgrace, she exchanged them with
wondrous facility for the dread of littered rooms and ink spots on the
carpets, and concluded with wishing "she had never come into the room,
for it had altogether given her the horrors."

The husband commanded her to go, in a loud though tremulous voice; but
the first impulse of anger was soon spent, and he turned his head and
shook his pillow to hide the expression of deep sorrow and bitter
vexation, which he felt upon his countenance, for no habit can render
the wounded heart familiar with the disappointment of thoughtless
unkindness.

"Go to breakfast, child," was his next command, and Dora obeyed; but her
heart was penetrated with pity for her father, which did not subside the
sooner, when she found her mother assuring Catharine and Louisa, in the
easiest manner imaginable, that their father had established himself for
a week or two, which would enable them to see company their own way.

When Dora sate down, all were silent as if in the presence of a spy; for
either mystery, or reproach marked the conduct of every one towards her;
and she was, with all the openness 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 the circumstances incident to living in the land of her
enemies.




CHAP. III.


Mr. 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
interest; 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 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 generally answered, "that really she had no head for
business, she never wished to meddle with affairs above her
comprehension, and hated politics above all things." Did the unfortunate
reasoner shift his ground, and explain to his lady, "the necessity for
people with large families being 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 must have, the more things they must
buy, and the more bills they must run up--it's all a plain case, and if
you haven't 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."

"But how will that benefit us? what way can the injury of my best
friend's property help me who am dependant upon him? I say dependant,
for I run behind hand every year?"

"Well, Mr. Hemingford, you must say what you like, for my part I 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 wasn't
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 invariably
happened that the husband was wrought into an irritability which at
length became habitual, whilst the wife maintained an imperturbility
which she dignified with the name of good temper, but which was
altogether distinct from any other goodness than that which 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 enjoyments, and which soothed the suggestions of
conscience, by setting the husband's ill-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 Catharine, a plan which would, she observed, internally answer to
them all, as Catharine had a good spirit, and would set all to rights by
inducing her husband to renew his partnership with her father.

Mrs. Hemingford at this moment remembered 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
owning "that beauty was very interesting:"--besides, "people changed
when they were married; he was clever, and handsome, and rich, and (most
probably) quite as good as 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 beyond 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 were unceasing.

Yet, alas! these losses, and the corroding nature of interest money,
together with the unrestrained expenditure of his lady, had reduced Mr.
Hemingford's property so much, that it might be termed merely nominal;
and if Stancliffe should refuse to renew a partnership 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 evidently render him highly valuable,
(poor as he was,) to a partner resident abroad; but divided 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. Hemingford, however, exerted himself in the best way he was able, to
meet the evil by a clear exposition, and narrow examination into his
affairs, in which he engaged poor Dora so incessantly, as to threaten
the ruin of her health, by perpetual writing and watchfulness. 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 long 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 reproof, 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 unknown, and surprising
alike to herself and her employer. But neither her ceaseless exertions,
nor her delicate looks, excited praise or attention from her mother and
sisters. Frank alone loved her; but he was already so much improved, 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, however, 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 controul,) 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 indeed an invalid, as his countenance and
thin spare form abundantly testified, she proposed 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 gentleman had entered
the room without being observed 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; I 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 felt her long cherished
fears subside in a moment.

"I was a pet once," said Frank, with bustling 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. Hemingford returned home to exhibit his destined bride, he
"was gone whole ages in love" with that daughter whom she had
predetermined should never marry.

The consequences may be easily foreseen; new anger at the innocent cause
of this mischief, manifested by every species of unkindness, 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 approached her with approbation on
his lip, and kindness in his eye: and had Stancliffe 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, beyond 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 sending her immediately
to Mrs. Aylmer, a resolution poor Dora now heard with as much pain, as
she would formerly have hailed it with gratitude 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 finding hitherto little advantage, she had
been induced to go further south, and was then setting out for Italy,
from whence she would write as soon as she was settled; but intreated
her dear Dora not to distress herself, if her future movements should
prove for some time a bar to their correspondence.

The vexation experienced by Mrs. Hemingford on this occasion, overcame
the small portion 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
father, he determined to secure Dora by a speedy marriage; and since her
ardent desire to consult Mrs. Aylmer was now necessarily 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 agreement was
signed;" and the union, of late so 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 happiness and misery, time and eternity, are
alike involved.




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. Stancliffe admired it also, but it was rather
with the sympathy of a lover, than from natural taste; and when he
proposed returning to their own house, Dora gladly relinquished her
temporary amusements.

The day after their arrival at home, a gentleman of somewhat stately
appearance and precise address, called at the house, and enquired
pointedly for its mistress--on delivering the message, the servant
seemed so impressed 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 scrutinizing eye, which by degrees
relaxed in its expression, as he addressed her with the enquiry of--

"Pray, young lady, is your name Dorothy Downe Rose Hemingford?"

"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
astonishment it produced.--"My name is Blackwell, 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 depend 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
immediately."

"I can send my _servant_," said Stancliffe, significantly.

"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 property?"

"None--he spoke much of her _expectations_, which I understood as
applying to the lady with whom she has resided, and of which I thought
nothing, because I found she was a good looking widow, travelling on the
Continent, of course very likely to find a husband."

"Um--um--um," was for some minutes the reply of the stranger; but after
due deliberation, 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 object"--

"Sir, she _has_ property,--considerable property, after she arrives at
the age of twenty-five; till which time, both principal and interest
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
circumstances might have been desirable."

"Oh! I want no settlements," said Dora, eagerly pressing the hand of her
beloved husband, 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 painfully 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 besides."

"Did she die worth much, Sir?"

"That question depends upon what is deemed _much_; if you mean to ask
_how much_ she died worth, I 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; I 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 certain, that if they had been compelled to relinquish
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 secrecy which had been
observed in an affair of so much importance towards a person so
remarkably open and ingenuous as herself:--this 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. Dorothy had herself expressed a
desire that the young people should not be acquainted with their affairs
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 expectations, 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 Everton 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 her eyes, and she felt only as if entering on a
scene of anxiety and disquietude for which her spirits were utterly
unprepared and inadequate.




CHAP. V.


Mr. 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 execute 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 herself with some country gentleman, and become
the mother of a family who would support the estates she bequeathed, in
a style of independence and respectability suitable to the ancestors
from which they were derived, and far removed from that world of
commerce, whose triumphs she ridiculed, and whose wealth she despised.

Mr. Blackwell 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. Hemingford had been summoned by 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 trust as a
hardship, was not likely to interfere 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
occurrence which thwarted all their plans, than ashamed of the part they
had acted, and fearful 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 would be better to take place with him by whom
they could be most benefitted, and whose future wealth would be in some
measure useful 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 disingenuousness, neglected that power of making 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 dishonest. In the endeavour to make a property of their
daughter, they had reasoned themselves in the first place, into an idea
that it was only right, one so disproportionately endowed, 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 design against her, or any other
person, into execution. They contracted a sense of guilt on their
consciences, subjected themselves 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
integrity for his own intentions; he became confused 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 marriage they had so
lately considered an irreparable misfortune. Mrs. Hemingford brought
with her a reticule full of letters from her husband for his partner to
look over, observing, "she understood most of them were from Smyrna."

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 acquaintance, who bottle up heiresses
in garrets and counting-houses, and leave it to chance whether they fly
out to cobblers, 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 powerful a character, "Soh! so!--then I
suppose he has been telling you what he ordered us to keep a profound
secret; that's some people's 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 don't doubt it, for little Frank told me you called Dora 'heiress'
often in derision; but we both fancied it applied to her expectations
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 robbing and"--

"Robbing!!" exclaimed Catharine in a rage.

"Yes, Catharine, robbing _her_, and cajoling _me_--she has been in the
most distressing situation 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 absolutely ferocious, and so terrified Dora, that although
she rose as if to supplicate him for mercy on them all, she sunk back
pale and almost fainting 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 _you_ have much to be thankful 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.
Stancliffe:--if Dora had remained in Wales, (which was what Mr.
Blackwell very much wished for,) undoubtedly she would have married
young Sydenham, (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 subject 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 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 Haram."

"What can he mean?" said Mrs. Hemingford, as Stancliffe left the room,
and immediately 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 don't sit there as
if you were frightened to death--women an't so soon killed, 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 with her own heart, to
prostrate herself at the throne of Mercy, 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 endurance, the prayer of her heart was
that in her "Patience might have its perfect work."

When Stancliffe 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 suppressed, and the latter unavowed.
Dora concluded that he had seen her father, and she naturally wished to
know what had passed between them, and made every possible excuse in her
mind for the ill-humour her husband was still affected by, but she did
not venture to ask any questions.

At length Everton began to make eager enquiries respecting Arthur
Sydenham--his person, manners, situation, expectations, and intimacy
with her, all passed in review--the answers 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 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 forgotten by him:"--he lamented with
much feeling the errors of his early education, which had nurtured the
faults it ought to have corrected, from which he had become irritable
when opposed, but maintained, "that gentleness never failed to disarm
him." To this Dora replied by an assurance given with firmness 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 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 desire.

But though Stancliffe thus professed to be merely a petulant man, whose
passions subjected him to the ebullitions of rage, blameably indulged,
but speedily removed; it soon appeared that he added to this, _abiding
resentment_; and although Mrs. Hemingford had truly observed, "that he
had little to complain of, in finding his wife rich when he had expected
her to be unportioned," he yet continued 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 excuse them, he reproached her for it,
as arguing affectation, "since it was not in the nature of things that
she could love them," or accused her of ingratitude to himself, who had
proved the _sincerity_ of his regard, by taking her without a portion.

Had he said "the _violence_ of his passion," Mr. Stancliffe would have
used a much better term for his feelings towards Dora, whom it is
certain he would at one time have purchased at any price, and whom he
continued 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 resident
partner at that place was so apparent, as to threaten the ruin of the
house if it were delayed. Stancliffe laid them before Dora, observing
"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."

"I am afraid his health will suffer--it is too late in life for him to
change his climate and his habits, whereas, you are accustomed to it; my
dear, pray think, before you decide."

"I _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.
Hemingford was compelled to see clearly that he must set out
immediately, 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 partner 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 severe 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, Mr. Stancliffe's heart evidently
softened towards 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 money,
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 he 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 circumstances, or describe places connected with his
travels; but yet Frank 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 departure so far
as she dared, continued to affect her; and she bade them farewel under
great depression of spirits, in which her father evidently partook, as
he was extremely agitated, and repeatedly recommended her to the care
and love of her husband in the tenderest manner, together with Frank,
who was not present at their departure, lest his health should be
injured by the stimulus given to his sensibility.

The disorder under which this poor boy laboured, and which had proved
fatal to his brothers, was the occasional rupture of internal blood
vessels, by which his life was frequently 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 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 intelligence, so grateful for
attention, and so humble 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 complection, and almost ethereal slightness of
his form, aided by his mild blue eyes, and a profusion 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. Stancliffe was to remove to the late dwelling of
his partner, on account of its convenience as a house of business; 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
indulgences inconsistent with the daily routine required, as soon as he
became busy, it might truly be said he became indolent; for although he
entered with avidity into all extraordinary duties or pleasures, because
they necessarily proved his powers and excited him to exertions, he sunk
without that stimulus into positive 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 counting-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 interest, Mr. Stancliffe in
a very short time changed 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 maintained that to the services of
Hemingford alone it had been indebted for stability, and that as the
elder Stancliffe had gained money through _his_ diligence, the younger
must preserve it by the same medium, or lose it.

In the mean time Dora attended to her duties with that quiet, but
unremitting vigilance, which is ever effective; and finding 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 although 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 employed in pastry, of which he was particularly fond.

To win his approbation, and feel rewarded by his 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 frequently 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 dedicated 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, I will soon have you in the counting-house--I will make a
man of you by and bye," words which Dora construed into general
encouragement; but she learnt with surprise and almost dismay, that he
really intended to place the poor child there, so soon as he could be
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 necessity 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 provisions made by a husband for the
accommodations 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 direction.

Happily for Dora, she was herself so disinterested and generous, that it
was scarcely possible for her to conceive the opposite principles could
operate in the mind of one she loved; and frequent as the proofs of
meanness and selfishness in Stancliffe's conduct had already been, she
generally imputed them either to deficient consideration, or a habit
contracted from circumstances with which she was unacquainted. She
contrasted the trifling saving he now attempted, with the expence 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 undoubtedly 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 declined, his esteem for her, and
his desire of holding his place in her affection, rose daily. He was
proud of being appreciated by a person of her discernment, and that
vanity which had formerly led him to seek distinction for his personal
advantages, or those accomplishments 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 comprehending quickly, and yet proceeding
systematically, to any given point. His memory was singularly retentive;
and whatever he had taken the trouble to learn, whether momentous 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, inconsistent with his situation
in life and his general habits, but which to the short-sighted looked
like prudence. Altogether, there were those ingredients from which a
clever tradesman, an useful member of society, and a very agreeable
companion, might be extracted, could they have been amalgamated with
religious integrity of principle, well regulated sensibility, and
domestic affection.

In the first weeks of his married life, Stancliffe had paid his young
and lovely wife attentions which bespoke the violence of his passion,
since they proved that he really thought more of her than himself:--the
admiration 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 feelings by reflections on her
parents, or quarrels with the servants, during the former part of the
day, in the evening he hovered round her with the pride of an admirer,
and the tenderness of a lover--he felt her value as his own property,
and was delighted to display his own advantages in her beauty and
accomplishments.

But as passion for her person declined, and the novelty of exhibiting
her lost its charm, Everton Stancliffe relapsed into his former self, a
character in which Dora had never beheld him, since love had from the
first day of their acquaintance given to him its own ameliorating
traits, and transformed a clever, but conceited and petulant young man,
selfish in his feelings, and obstinate as passionate in his temper, into
a gentle though impatient suitor, who, in subduing one passion for the
gratification of another, obtained the praise of generosity, to which he
had in fact little pretension, 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 affections.

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 necessary 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 for those she soon afterwards experienced in
the temper and disposition of her husband; since they enabled her to
perceive that life in general is very different from that she had known
at Crickhowel, 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, for Mrs. Aylmer as a wife had been very differently
placed, nor had her path in the world in any way resembled that which
was chalked out for her beloved _protg_. 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.




CHAP. VI.


Stancliffe 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 received from Mr. Hemingford, which
plainly indicated how valuable his presence had already become, since
they contained important remittances, and guaranteed orders to an amount
which roused the young man into instant activity, by awakening not only
his love for money, but for pre-eminence as a mercantile 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 disgusting in a young man. She thought,
too, that the sensibilities of the heart were frozen 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. Stancliffe 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 according 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, generally 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-commanding wife.

Mrs. Masterman was that dangerous character 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 possessed 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. Masterman 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 considerably younger
than her, (although her ceaseless 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
unquestionably have carried her point, but for the sudden removal of her
husband, and the necessity she was under of accompanying him to Aleppo.

On her return, Stancliffe was gone to England, and thither she
determined on following him; and although generally true to the
_interests_ 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
remuneration of past labours, and return suddenly to his native
country.

The voyage restored her health, and reanimated 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 unequal to the
amusement of a man whose temper 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. Masterman.

The gentleness of Dora's manners, the polished simplicity, and the
genuine warmth of 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 happiness; 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 insinuating
in her manners, of penetrating mind, 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, and
scarcely less so to his sister, who was mortified 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 Dora happy in the belief that she had
now secured the friend she had long desired; but a few 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 friendship to demand. Every day she hoped that a person so
truly friendly as this lady appeared to be, would herself see the
propriety of setting 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 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 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."

Stancliffe knew the conclusion of this speech to be as false as the
beginning was impertinent and cruel; but he had resigned his judgment 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 encouragement, and was bent on revenge. But she had a
two-fold point to carry; she wished to secure 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 contemplation of the unvitiated mind; but, alas! 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 entered
with a smile on her lip, and the language of friendship on her tongue;
but it was certainly the first in which she had failed to render the
wife an offender against her husband by using words of exhortation or
reproach, which when most merited, man never fails to resent from his
weaker partner, and to consider his excuse for even flagrant error.

In a short time Dora's dressing-room became 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."

The very first day he was at liberty, he announced an intention of
setting out immediately 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 deprecating 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--besides, 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
was in hopes, too, that you would have been with me, my friend."

"Perhaps I may--like all wives, I must depend 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 appeared born to reign a queen
over all of his sex whom she deigned to consider her subjects.

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 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
sensations, 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 tender 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 circumstances indicating the more than
friendly attentions of her husband to Mrs. Masterman sprang continually
to her mind, as if to rival 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 beseech 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 perseverance in
love.

But the distress she had suffered, and the solicitude which she could
not conquer, necessarily affected her health; and though she struggled
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 satisfaction 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 rapidity of her amendment, effaced
the circumstance 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 was a constraint and
uneasiness in the manners of the husband, which indicated a heart little
interested in the circumstances so momentous 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 style 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 acquit her of having caused
her to be treated unkindly by her husband, yet she felt the action 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
suffering as her suspicions had caused her to endure.

Every thought of her heart was read in her ingenuous countenance, and
unsophisticated manners, by the woman whose natural penetration had
been improved by experience, and who in the present case could not hate
_her_ whom she determined to use as a creature subservient to her views,
and conducive to her interests. With an air of secrecy she informed 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 secrets, 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 I could not help it."

"How could I so wickedly wrong this woman?" 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 business 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 uneasiness, 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 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 around him, yet unable to
seize an occasion of venting his vexation, lest he should betray the
guilty secret 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 request 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; and say, that he may repay himself by withholding 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 disagreeable 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. Blackwell received Dora after his first
exclamation of surprise, with a courteous, but sincere welcome, and
handed her into his house with an air of fatherly protection, which
soothed the agitation of her spirits, and somewhat compensated for the
fears which had harrassed 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 accommodation of the guests, and for the first time
in her life Dora was treated as a gentlewoman of importance. Mr.
Blackwell soon learnt that she arrived as a suitor to him for money; but
he neither by word or look, indicated any thing repellent, 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
conduce 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 also glad to be delivered from the burden of her presence, to
which he could not in the present state of his mind accustom himself.
Although wearied and somewhat indisposed on the following day, she had
the satisfaction of writing to Stancliffe the consent of Mr. Blackwell
to advance him two thousand pounds on the terms proposed, 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 airings Mr. Blackwell took her over the estates of
her late godmother, anxious to shew the improvements he had made by
enclosures, fences, and buildings, which although they had necessarily
encroached considerably on the present produce, would fully justify his
expenditure. 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, enriched by avenues and terraces,
from whence it looked on a wide-spread smiling country. The eyes of Dora
swam in tears, (but not of 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 occupation,
the friend of the poor, the admiration of the rich, the example to all.

"I must have patience," said Dora internally, "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 anxieties. Her heart was at once purified
and lightened of its load of care, and the freedom she enjoyed from all
present pressure, gave her spirits that elasticity they needed, restored
her health, and bestowed strength to run her arduous race anew.




CHAP. VII.


Mr. Blackwell himself conveyed Dora and her attendant in his own coach
the first two stages of her journey. On parting, he regretted 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 wife 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 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 husband 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 exquisite 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 up to Masterman's, he
will be waiting for me."

"The idea, perhaps _she_ will be waiting," darted through the heart of
Dora; but she repelled it, and said gaily, "well, my love, let 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
describing 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 unkindness and neglect, but there are none
which are felt more acutely, or which the wounded spirit bewails more
bitterly; and though we are 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 sorrow.

Poor Frank was unwell, and had retired before 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
intercourse 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 welcome her home.

"Have you then not been at home?" said Dora, in surprise and inward
alarm.

"Not for some hours--I had an engagement, and not expecting you so soon,
desired Stancliffe would come and play chess with Mrs. M.; you know I
never leave her for an 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 uttered was silencing, from its
loudness and asperity, 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 uninvited,
on a woman who was a constant visitant at all hours in her house; but
under any circumstance she could not fail to see that a decided
preference was given to the company of Mrs. Masterman, and that to
contribute to her 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 I 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, Mrs. Stancliffe--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 _know_ 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 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 answers."

"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_ Masterman, and I am under great
obligations in that quarter that you know nothing of--and in short"--

"If you are 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 you cannot furnish, and prevent you of course from pushing the
excellent mercantile business now so flourishing--here are the bills, my
love; lend them, nay, give them to Mr. Masterman, if you like, I give
them up freely for that purpose; but pray, _pray_ do not become 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 advancing that sum. He set
out for that purpose; and this offer would have been gratefully accepted
by the husband, but on the wife finding that the proposal had originated
with Dora, with that determined ambition to triumph over _her_, which
had already been exercised at the risk of her own ruin, she set eagerly
about thwarting her wishes and contrived to stimulate the avarice of
Stancliffe so adroitly on the one hand, and alarm him 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 prospect 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 progress of virtue in his
conduct, and prosperity in his affairs:--he had left his business in
Smyrna _half_ established, and his late commission 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 pleasure 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 indirectly, managed
entirely by Mrs. M. whose pleasure it was to tie the young mother
entirely to her nursery, to controul her expences 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 of all his suffering partner's mortifications, and Dora felt
them only 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 Stancliffe, 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 established 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
meekness could not bend to the dishonesty of feigning regard. But Dora
was now little seen--her child pined beneath the distresses which
silently consumed the mother's heart, and her 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 imagined, for Frank was an intelligent, as well as affectionate
companion; and as reading was at once his sole employment and amusement,
his mind had become stored with a variety 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 appear
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 the perpetual labours of
Mrs. Masterman to act two parts in life, joined to the irritability of
her own temper, and the violence of Stancliffe's, there was a
solicitude, toil, and anxiety, that wore her constitution, and injured
that beauty, which was to her an object of idolatry;--even the
gullibility of Dora had its inconvenience. She was perpetually
suspecting 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 criterion 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 off the
mask of submission she supposed assumed for a season, and expose her
openly. She could not conceive that a woman 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 consolations from on
high, which enabled her to submit 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. Masterman adroitly and industriously
spread a report, "that Mrs. Stancliffe, young as she was, had
unfortunately contracted such a love for money, 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 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
Stancliffe 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
comfort he enjoyed at _her_ house in the society of her husband."

Under this view of the case, it occurred to Stancliffe, 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 whatever 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 without 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. Stancliffe; Mrs. Masterman, who knows much
better than I do, whispers every where about your wife's
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 any one."

The lady was justly astonished, and perhaps justly offended also, since
the gratuitous scandal she had spread was intended for his benefit; and
as it had long appeared a tacit agreement 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 bickerings which
unbridled passion produces between 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 Stancliffe was fully
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 bolting into
her room, evidently in terrible disorder; she let her gown fall from her
hands, and stood trembling before him, in the expectation that she had
failed to obey some of 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, 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 wasted form, and these pale
cheeks--they are my answer."

"You do, indeed, look very ill; very different 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 I
ask you."

He struck his clenched hands on his forehead, 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 fighting were all that were required, I
should be easy--but it is other things which torture me."

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 horrors; 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 questions, you can't
think, sister."

"What questions?" said Stancliffe, jumping 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, forgetting 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 me if you loved my sister; 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 husband; but they said again, it was very satisfactory,
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 gratitude, 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 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 thankfulness 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, Stancliffe 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 opportunities of offending, and
restrict his intercourse with Mr. M. to their unavoidable connections 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 wife indifferent to him--he could not
endure the pain of reflecting upon 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 compensations
for sacrificing his wife's happiness, his own ease of conscience, and
chance of disgrace, 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 escaping 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. Masterman saw only in his conduct the same
effects which had agitated herself, and doubted not, when his fears had
subsided, that he would contrive some means of seeing her, and condoling
with her on their mutual sufferings; but when she found that he still
kept aloof, that he had the insolence 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 despised 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 presented her
in any other view to his mind, than as a woman who had misled him for
the purpose of inveigling him into a convenient partnership with her
husband. Thus doth sin graft sorrow on the vices it has
planted.--Innocence hath no need to seek vengeance for the injuries it
may receive, they rarely fail to be punished even where they escape
detection.

It had been so self-evident that Mr. Masterman's business could be
carried on in London 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 approved the suggestion, and sought so earnestly 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 accommodation he offered, for the final separation 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 thrown
at so great a distance from his cognizance, she would not fail by her
expences to involve both her husband and himself in one common ruin.

Stancliffe 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 insidious 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
prepared to receive her share of the burden without 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, or her wants dispensed with, that Stancliffe 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.

Amongst the various ways in which his late 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 large,
was more than sufficient to her wants, which were now principally those
of an aged invalid. She had many years resided with two maiden sisters
in a neighbouring 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 importance. 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 garrulous conversation; and from long habit, and naturally
affectionate disposition, really attached to her person:--it was evident
that it was their interest to be kind to her, and preserve 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 increasing
ones, she had the charge of a brother, whose health ever hung on so
slender a thread, as to make him, even in his best days, an object of
unceasing anxiety; and her excellent abilities rendering her occasional
exertions 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 inhabitant in his house who could hardly
fail to be disagreeable, she should the more effectually 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 Stancliffe was stimulated by the profusion of her, who,
in prompting him to deny necessaries to his wife, did not fail to draw
expensive presents for herself--he was told, "that the old lady would
leave her property 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 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--besides "when a wife was tied to the house, she could
spend nothing out of it."

This advice was acted upon, and the dutiful nephew was properly seized
with a great desire to contribute to the comfort of his great 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 persuaded,
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 expired, 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 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 forbade the
formation of that esteem and veneration which ought "to accompany old
age."




CHAP. VIII.


At the appointed time, Stancliffe himself brought Mrs. Judith Everton,
and her indissoluble 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 except 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, and considering novels either as unworthy of her dignity, or
injurious in their tendency, she abjured them altogether, and became an
historical reader of immense magnitude, sweetening this solid fare by
all the fashionable poets of the day, whom from henceforward she quoted
and misquoted, with all the facility 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
knowledge and lumber which occupied her brain, and turned the whole into
a confusion the more lamentable, because from that very period 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 worthlessness of the commodity. To this faculty,
she added also a great taste for turning all she said into doggrel
rhymes, for aiming continually at making a pun, or a jest, which she
repeated 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 not tell to the ear, it never
failed to seize the eye.

"What a dreadful time have I gone through, we have been five hours on
the road!" exclaimed Stancliffe.

"I am very sorry you have had so bad a journey, my love," replied Dora;
"but you 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 preceded by Fury, whom she essayed to soothe by an
assurance that the change he experienced 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 I grant,

    '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. Hemingford'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 languished 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, isn't 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 accepted a snug 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 varying in subject, the same perpetuity of sounds, either in
prose or verse, continued to break, generally uttered in soliloquy, but
always addressed to some person so pointedly, that they must be heard,
whether comprehended or not, and _seen_ also, from the grimace and
contortions, 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 I 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 may have great faults, and a great man
little 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:

    'Adieu, adieu, my dear Miss Roath,
    Since Tyburn tree must part us both.'

now I call hanging a really affecting circumstance; 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 goose thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
    Had he thy reason, he would fly away.'"

"So will I," cried Stancliffe, starting up; and casting a significant
glance at Dora, he instantly left the room.

"My dear sister," said Frank, casting a look full of pity on Dora, "what
will become of _you_?"

"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 Alexander 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 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 people do; master Frank, don't you
think so, my dear?"

During this harangue, the speaker had seized on the hands of poor Frank,
who, unable 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 encounters, 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, Everton, 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 very proper, because
we are never long 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 off 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 Leonidas, 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 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 monstrous 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 ignoramus. 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 something about singing and bringing,
and sighing and crying; it is all very fine, and what they call
'immortal verse,' my dear, which means verse that will last for ever;
you understand master Frank--the proper way to make it, is to do as I
did with your sister's name, to say Dolly, choly, folly, jolly, and so
on; but after all, if people haven't a natural genius, they never make
out much. I 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 castle. Dick Everton,
my father's sister's eldest son, spent a very handsome fortune in
finding the longitude; 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
understanding, 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 I insist on sending my brother to bed, he looks
very pale, and 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 motions were necessarily slow, Dora heard her voice all the
way up-stairs, pursuing its customary 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 circumstances she had acquired, that she would
immediately 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 appearance; 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 half intoxicated, and whilst he inveighed
with bitterness against Mrs. Judith, he yet expressed 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 husband's society, had the farther mortification of finding that
his evenings were spent generally 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 various causes,
especially the demands made by Mr. Masterman for increased advances for
his hitherto unprofitable concern; but he again ceased to make her the
confidant of his affairs, although she was the necessary partaker of
his troubles. Cold in his manners, severe in his house-retrenchments,
and daily assuming the sternness of age, whilst he allowed himself all
the licence of youthful pleasure, it would have been impossible for Dora
to have borne up against the complicated difficulties by which she was
surrounded, and have preserved that equanimity which distinguished her,
if her mind had not had one subject on which her heart could dwell, and
to which it could have recourse for temporary comfort. This was the
expected return 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 refuge of a
distressed heart, that like the wandering dove sought for any
resting-place, however 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 Stancliffe
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 ardently 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 respectability of Mrs. Aylmer's character, the
superiority of her mind, the maternal rights she undoubtedly had in
_her_, and even the expectations which she blushed to remember her
husband 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 for him
to whom her heart still clings, worthless as he may be? and as the green
tendril imparts its own freshness to the withered spray round which it
winds, so does she impart 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 received, announcing Mrs. Alymer's return to England, and
her intention of visiting Liverpool before her settlement at Crickhowel
or 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 awakened 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 common out-of-door's expences plainly called for cash of which he
always appeared to have plenty, and therefore though he undoubtedly had
great difficulties in affairs of magnitude, it was evident that he did
not personally encounter those daily wants, those petty, but pressing
grievances, to which he constantly exposed his wife, and which are
undoubtedly a species of trial which subject their victim to
indignities, mortifications, and impositions, of such a nature as to
equalize her situation with that of the wife of the day-labourer, who
literally wants bread. He is unworthy the name of _man_ in either
situation, who voluntarily subjects the woman he has bound himself to
protect to such misery.

In the present case, Mr. Stancliffe had not recourse to any of the above
methods of refusal:--after assuming the appearance of deep reverie for
some minutes, he said with that gentleness which never failed to affect
the heart of his wife,

"My dear Dora, you must want money for many things, certainly, nor can I
do without it--you must go over to old Blackwell again, and get
something out of him--he will not refuse you."

Dora shook her head, with an air of doubt.

"I tell you he will _not_;--he will see you are again in the family way,
of course increasing my expences; he will be aware that Frank grows
bigger every day, and remember that this year I have no income for
either of you, and--but in short, I want a thousand pounds immediately,
and I _will_ have it."

"Let us go _together_, my love, and I have no doubt you will obtain it,
although it is certain there could not be a worse time for landed
property to produce it."

"I will not go; I hate that man, and I won't submit to his prosing
humbug, or answer his impertinent enquiries."

"But I promised him, you know, that"--

"Promise! _you_ promise, indeed! what is the promise of a married woman
worth, think you? he is lawyer enough to know that your promise of a
single shilling by no means ensures your powers of payment, and by the
same rule, that your actions and your petitions are equally under my
governance:--you must go, that is resolved; so you may ask the old woman
for a little money, and send William to take you a place in the coach
to"--

"Indeed, my dear, that will never do; for the last words Mr. Blackwell
said to me, were the hope that when I came next I should be in my own
carriage."

An outrageous flood of abuse followed this declaration, though made in
the most humble manner, and for the express purpose of facilitating the
errand on which she was sent:--when the ebullition had exhausted its
rage, and the speaker's strength, he then confessed that "it was
necessary to keep up appearances," and even proposed, "Frank as her
companion in a post-chaise, as the roads were fine, and with her care
the journey might be as serviceable as amusing to him."

Dora durst not venture on this step, though she felt the want of a
companion, and dreaded leaving behind one who would be unquestionably
considered her representative, in all cases where ill-humour sought a
vent, and required an object. Frank intreated her to keep up her
spirits, gave her his especial promise, "that he would watch the child,
and listen to Mrs. Judith, and take care of every thing;" adding, in a
whisper, "and if my guardian should send me another note, pray take it
yourself, dear Dora."

Dora's eyes filled with tears, not less of affection than memory, when
she recalled to mind how long it was since the poor boy had received any
pocket money, and how entirely his little store had been expended on her
and her child, to whom he had become attached so fondly, that she
doubted not he would supply her presence to it. She endeavoured, by
thinking on objects so precious, to beguile the way, and gain courage
for an interview which she dreaded, as considering her errand degrading
to her husband, and shrinking from the investigation connected with it,
and the first interview justified the presentiment which had oppressed
her.

"Either your husband is doing well, or ill, in the world," said Mr.
Blackwell sternly, in reply to her application--"if _well_, he cannot
want money for the support of his family at a time when its claims are
very limited--if _ill_, it would be folly to throw away more money upon
a losing concern; I feel myself justified, therefore, in adopting the
course I gave you reason to expect I should, in case of a second
application, so irregular and unprecedented."

"Our principal business is doing exceedingly well; the other, though
unproductive, is full of promise, and has ceased to require a farther
capital. I am really warranted in saying this."

"Um--um--yet you evidently labour under an artificial poverty, as
distressing as the sad realities I see around me. I am sorry for it,
but I cannot relieve it; I have already done too much, since it has
answered no end."

Dora started from her seat, her hands clenched, her eyes full of tears,
as her lips almost involuntarily exclaimed,

"Surely, dear Sir, you will give me something; I must not--that is, I
cannot"--

"Say rather, Mrs. Stancliffe, you _dare not_; for that is the word
struggling at your heart--you dare not go home again without money."

"Oh, no! indeed, Sir, you mistake," said Dora, a quick blush passing
over her pallid countenance, and receding as quickly, for she felt
faint, and threw off her shawl.

Mr. Blackwell cast his eye over her slight form and somewhat altered
shape--her flushed cheek and fevered lip, bespoke the inward struggle of
a heart resolved to hide its sorrow lest it should betray their author,
yet too deeply moved, and naturally too ingenuous to effect its purpose;
and his soul was touched with the tenderest, the sincerest pity--the
stern accents, the harsh features, ceased to appal her; and her late
alarm was turned into astonishment, on seeing the tears gush from his
eyes, and feeling that he had taken her hand, as he answered,

"My poor girl, you shall not be so circumstanced, nor will I wound you
farther by questions which could give me little information--I know more
than enough already, and will give you the money you ask, though it is
very inconvenient and improper."

"God bless you!" exclaimed Dora, as her over-pressed heart took refuge
in tears that would not be forbidden to flow.

Mr. Blackwell had been surprised that he could feel so much; but he was
not less so on reviewing the transactions of the day on his pillow, when
he remembered the powers and attractions his guest had displayed, when
her anxiety being eased, and her agitation subsided, she had in
gratitude exerted herself to amuse him through the evening by
conversation, notwithstanding her past fatigue and recent solicitude. In
the warmth of her affectionate description of her brother, her delicate
endeavours to introduce her husband favourably, the playful good-humour
with which she touched on the peculiarities of Mrs. Judith, and the
lively regard with which she adverted to Mrs. Aylmer, she displayed to
him those treasures of the heart and the understanding, (those gems
which are woman's only valuable treasures,) and which rendered her in
his opinion so attractive, as to leave the husband who could slight her,
much less misuse her, without excuse. The retirement in which he lived
had prevented him happily from hearing many reports; but he had been
displeased with the appearance made on her first visit, was alarmed by
the second, and determined the following spring to investigate further.
Not only the letter, but the spirit, of his guardianship demanded him to
attend to every thing connected with her happiness; and although love
diverted into new channels will not return to refresh the soil it has
deserted, nor can the unkind, or the vicious, be melted by reproof, or
reformed by admonition, yet power to check open misconduct ought to be
used wherever it exists; and since guilt is always cowardly, refractory
spirits may be shamed into quiescence, where they cannot be moulded into
goodness. We may neutralize the acid we cannot sweeten--such was
evidently his duty.

Though poor Dora only returned with the precise sum for which she had
been sent, yet her own consciousness of the difficulty she had inwardly
experienced in prosecuting her errand, the pain she had suffered, and
the gratitude she felt, induced her to believe that her husband could
not fail to accept the money with thankfulness and pleasure, that would
have the most beneficial effects on his mind and conduct. She persuaded
herself, that all which had of late been to blame in him had arisen from
uneasiness, which would now subside; and busied herself with various
plans by which Mrs. Judith should be amused without intruding on him,
and looked finally to the arrival of her beloved friend, as an event
which would not fail to place every thing on the happiest footing.

Thoughts, it is true, would intrude, which told her "that the first
visions of her heart were dispelled, that she had been deceived in her
estimate of Stancliffe's character, that her views of happiness were
blighted, her affections misplaced, as well as trampled upon;" but these
thoughts were treated as intruders. Dora struggled against them, prayed
against them, and by turning her mind resolutely to consider the
blessings which she really possessed in her lovely child, and her
interesting brother, she succeeded in dispossessing them, and reached
her home in that happy frame of mind which disposed her to receive her
husband with ardent love, and meet her family with her usual kindness
and complacency.




CHAP. IX.


When Dora drove up to her own door, she became sensible that the house
was in great confusion, as there were lights in many rooms, and people
running about in all directions.

The fears of a mother are easily awakened, and as the little boy was at
that time cutting his teeth, Dora's mind naturally adverted first to
him; and as soon as she gained admittance, her first enquiry was after
him.

"Oh, ma'am! he is quite safe, poor little lamb; but to be sure he has
had such a 'scape, and for my part I thinks better he had gone poor
thing, than them as must go for his sake."

Before this mysterious speech could be developed by the hearer,
Stancliffe appeared himself, to "curse the housemaid for her blabbing
tongue," and with much less circumlocution, proceed to elucidate the
matter himself.

"Yes, truly, you find us in pretty confusion, for my part I left the
house as soon as I got up, and a fine hunt I find they had after me--did
you find old Blackwell at home?"

"I did--all is well _there_, but what is the matter up-stairs? what has
been the matter?"

"Why, as far as I can learn, all went on very comfortably yesterday; but
this morning, the old woman fancied herself dull, and insisted on going
into the nursery, and when there, would needs nurse Everton, who has
cried confoundedly, and in my opinion wants whipping."--

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

"Well, what's his teeth to me? however, that's not the story; Mrs. Judy
takes it into her head that she could nurse him, and Williams was such a
fool as to put him into her arms whilst she went down stairs for some
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 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 expected 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.

Poor Dora lost her expectations of being again a mother, and was reduced
to a degree of alarming weakness; but she had the satisfaction 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 succedaneum for that exciting 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 perpetually
affected even to tears, by the taunts of her nephew, whose talents at
every description of scolding, from the scornful sneer, progressively to
the loud remonstrance and overwhelming 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 presence was
so much required in her family, that she hastened to descend to the
breakfast parlour, where Frank was delighted to receive 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 Associations, (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, I 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 for an angel, it is you; not
that I am like my grand-nephew, I don't therefore wish you to be one,
not I, indeed."

"Nor does Stancliffe, my dear ma'am, you quite mistake him--you don't
understand him at all."

"Oh! yes, yes, I do, my dear Dolly. I 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 pepper.'"--

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
habiliments.

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 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 remembered; but after thus
welcoming _her_, he suddenly 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 rapture. He was reproved by a frown of such withering
severity from Stancliffe, that the 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 necessaries 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 explained 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?"

"No, he is alone--he said his great object was to see his boy; but I
have my doubts of that--you will be very 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."

Whilst Stancliffe spoke, Dora was silently thanking God, that the poor
father 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
husband 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 memory of his antient relative, the provoking
and unfeeling remarks he had showered upon her in the day of trouble.
The very tenderness 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 attractions become stronger than ever by the
allurements of dress, the aids of opportunity? must not his very wants
render him more interesting to the woman who was conscious of having
injured him? and would he not be compelled from that cause to shew
himself a 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 cheerfulness, and
prepare 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 deception, a firmness of integrity in religious principle,
that refused every shade of a lie, and a simple ingenuousness of nature
which forbade the power of dissimulation, she yet felt impelled by all
her received notions of a wife's allegiance, and all the remains of
lingering love to the only man who had ever awakened 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
strippling, who appeared too fair a flower for such a blighted root. It
was, however, soon evident 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, may God bless you; but I cannot say to your husband, he has
made a woman of my girl, for 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 sickly family,
but I shall soon be 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 down 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 cherished or acted upon by Dora, and when she felt them, it only
rendered her the more vigilant in guarding her expressions, and exerting
that patient forbearance, which, if it could not retrieve the past,
would yet soften its effects on the future. Though her heart was very
full, she compelled herself to speak by enquiring 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 example. Louisa is rather cross, but she is active, and makes a
very fair housekeeper; by the way, how does Harriet go on?"

"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 benefit 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, 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 I 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 instances of bad conduct towards you, which I
    intreat you to forgive. I grieve to hear many things of
    Stancliffe, which prove him unworthy of goodness like yours.
    Mrs. Masterman, in her letters to friends in this place,
    describes his conduct in so many little particulars
    indicative of a thorough knowledge of your domestic concerns,
    that I 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 English purchases;
    but pray, my dear Dora, use it in any way most conducive to
    your own comfort, not forgetting that I must insist 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
    Everton, has not availed in hiding your situation from us; we
    all feel for you deeply and sincerely. 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 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, &c. &c.

Dora could not peruse this letter without tears of joy, and feelings of
true sisterly regard 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 Everton, 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 improper
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 never 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 consideration, without
remembering that the industry of thirty years of my life had been
helping 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
me forth with a constitution injured by toil and sorrow, to lay down my
grey hairs in a foreign grave--may God"--

"Father! _father_, do not curse him! he is my husband; him to whom you
gave me willingly, nay, thankfully--he _will_ repent--he _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 remembered 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 all 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, fills his poor wandering brain with
a thousand schemes, and habituates him to think on things he would have
scorned to entertain for a moment in his prosperity."

"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 labour 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
myself equal to do that which I have done--altogether, Stancliffe was my
master--I thank him, he has taught me how to govern--the tables are now
turned, and it was time."--

Dora 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
business 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 protection, and the confidence, his
presence ought to have afforded her.




CHAP. X.


Mr. 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 particular 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. Hemingford when he comes;
I'll say to him, says I,"--

"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?"

"I hear my father's step," said Frank, and in a moment afterwards Mr.
Hemingford entered, not indeed to take his place at his daughter'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 Stancliffe 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, I believe."

"Yes! there he goes, and there he stays, after all decent people are
gone--in short, he 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 you 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 mischief; he is gone to receive money, and it is evident he
cannot be trusted to bring 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 husband, and prove to you that he is
calumniated--I will"--

Alas! the will was good, but not the power, 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
apartment spent in tears and prayers, again entered her usual sitting
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 numerous 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-meaning 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 _that_ person.--When the terror of the interview had
subsided, and, after sitting on thorns for an hour, the unwelcome
visitant had disappeared, or the prying servant was withdrawn, and the
liberated sufferer 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, suspense 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 could 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 Stancliffe:--but whatever
were his faults, she yet pitied and loved him; and she would have
sought for sympathy in her sorrows, if she could have revealed them
without revealing also faults, for which she was unable to offer 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 evidently written
in great trepidation, and contained only two lines.

    "I have found him, and, I trust, saved him; but all my fears
    were well founded--he says he is ill; I shall not leave him a
    moment,
                                                         &c. &c."

The letter was without date, and Dora therefore 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 off. The
idea of their contention was terrific to her; yet she was compelled to
see that her father was the only person who could interpose to save them
all from ruin and disgrace, under this new and terrible infliction; but
so much did she dread the time of his departure, under circumstances so
likely to irritate her husband, that she sincerely wished he might be
prevailed upon to remain, and send Stancliffe 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 followed, but within a week Mr. Hemingford arrived in a
post-chaise accompanied 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 oppressed him, well
aware that no word would escape her own lips that could add to his
distress, and that her heart was open to his confessions and his
complaints, when he chose to utter them, and till then she could attend
him in silence and tenderness.

Stancliffe was, in all things which concerned himself, a man of acute
feelings; and so sensible was he of the error of his past conduct, that
he shrunk from beholding Mr. Hemingford, not only as a son-in-law and a
partner, 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 ignorant 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 reward his cares, and offer an abundant harvest in return
for the money expended, and the care bestowed; but it had not hitherto
produced profits which warranted the expensive style in which his lady
conducted her household. Stancliffe therefore dreaded the further
development of his affairs, prosperous as they appeared; but on
explaining the difficulties in which he was placed by the arrival of his
father-in-law, Mr. Masterman readily promised to supply 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 _first_
friend, dear Stancliffe; I can never forget what I owe you."

A pang shot through the heart of the conscious 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 circumstantially
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 investigation, and he
continued to say, "besides, do you think Mr. Enfield will find the
money for 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
occasion between the parties about to meet, that she exerted her
influence so effectually over her new _friend_, 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 him 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 welcome, closed for ever a connection with a man whose confidence
and kindness inflicted a torture he could not endure.

Had Dora been with him at this moment, perhaps her thankfulness for such
a termination 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--but, alas!
Stancliffe was alone, no eye was upon him, (save that he no longer
remembered), and in looking at the cash and securities he held for a
large sum, that demon of avarice, which is the gamester's deity,
influenced 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 induced him to use language so insulting, as to be only borne by the
successful, who found their power of revenge increased by this
intemperance. At the moment when Mr. Hemingford forced his way into the
apartment where he had spent the night, he found him in all the frenzy
of rage, yet nearly exhausted by the irritation and overwhelming
solicitude in which he had been suffering for so many hours, and exposed
to the insults of two ferocious looking attendants of a place now nearly
deserted by its usual frequenters. His first emotion on the sight of Mr.
Hemingford was joy, for he felt after all that he was a 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 flash 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 preserved; and Mr.
Hemingford not knowing the real situation of his affairs, therefore
concluded that he had been the mere loser of loose cash taken from home
for his expences.

Even under this persuasion, Mr. Hemingford 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 actually thrown away almost three thousand
pounds, the sum he had originally advanced to Mr. Masterman, he became
so depressed as to yield unquestioning 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. Hemingford
was ready, and they proceeded homeward accordingly, both parties
probably relieved by the presence of Harriett, whose many enquiries, and
artless exhibition of pleasure, relieved 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, endured his rebukes, or soothed his
self-upbraidings, assisted his plans of improvement, and revived his
hopes for the future.

Mr. Hemingford, too busy to waste time in fruitless messages, and
unheeded expostulation, 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 distribution.

At length all things were ready for Mr. Hemingford's departure, and Dora
hoped that her invalid husband would exert himself to bid him farewell;
but this he positively refused, although he sent a kind message, and a
proposal of exchanging situations with him the following year, provided
his health permitted it.

"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 won't despair, Dora;--only remember this,
that when I am gone, you _must_ see after things--my sleeping partner
must have an active representative; at the end of my term you will have
a double release, so keep up your spirits."

Mr. Hemingford uttered this farewel exhortation 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, looked
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; 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 disappointment, and the weariness, the soul
sickness, 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 deem them eternal, to look to their
re-union, is indeed the greatest, sweetest, contemplation 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
exhortation 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 other means; but since man ought to be
her guide, as he is her head, in general there is 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 abundant."




CHAP. XI.


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 complaint 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 annoyed 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 uncertain whether it
was best to fix her residence near her or not.

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 occupations--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 by 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
presents for her old neighbours and Sunday scholars, and forced upon her
with a parental command, 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 appeared to
consider in the light of a parent or future benefactor, whom he 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 remove 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, sullenness, 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 dependance.

It will be easily supposed that in this situation Stancliffe soon
completely lost his appetite, 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
recollections of the most painful kind, which in his present
disposition, failed to awaken the sorrows of a penitent heart, but
renewed perpetually 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," frequently worked
himself into a state of agitation 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 misfortunes, 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 flourishing circumstances, 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 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 display
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 representation of the
beauties of the country, he declared that he would have a lodging
procured, and remove thither immediately--he proposed dressing, and
thought he could venture into the drawing-room.

With joy and tenderness, even sincere gratitude to him for this
exertion, Dora made every arrangement that could tend to his
accommodation; she took care to place poor Mrs. Judith and her dog out
of hearing, and so to contrive every circumstance, and combine every
motive for exertion, that he might be stimulated to use it. In another
day he was persuaded to take an airing; and as his pale and interesting
countenance naturally attracted attention, there was reason to believe
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 desired would really be
hers--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 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 prophesy, 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 I 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, because _she_ thought it dull, he invited company, 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 _expos_ of her husband'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
volatility 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 absorbed 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 an intention of setting out for
Preston immediately, being already engaged to pay a visit there, a
measure Dora considered very prudent; but when Stancliffe professed a
determination to accompany her thither, she could not forbear to insist
"that he could not possibly 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 Stancliffe 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 condolences 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 gratification, 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 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 humour
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. Stancliffe 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 evidently in a state of considerable mental
inquietude 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 approached 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.

The coldness and unfeeling stoicism assumed by Stancliffe at this time
of severe suffering, gave a shock to the spirits and the affections of
Dora, such as she had never experienced 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 present
unkindness was the result of pride, mortification, 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
conscience 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 endeavouring to amuse him, and reproved by every memorial of
her regard for him for 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
incognito 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 farmhouse, where he bargained for oats for his
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 persuasion, together probably with that interest
the pleasing person and manners of Stancliffe naturally 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 profound respect that pity and tenderness the strange gentleman's
supposed illness excited, was extremely flattering to the vanity of
Stancliffe, and the more gratifying at a time when he was still 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
perceiving 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 arranged this plan, he became excessively embarrassed
respecting its execution; and in order to hide the guilty secret which
no one suspected, returned suddenly to his own house, and applied
himself with new and extraordinary 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 declined 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 continual opportunities of finding fault
with him in the most rude and unjustifiable manner, that his life was
rendered miserable. Dora perceiving him look unwell, advised him to
remain in the house; but on his doing so, the temper of Stancliffe
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 Dr. ---- 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 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
defeated, 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
mentioned 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, unless he could be assured
that Stancliffe's dislike 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 mention this to Stancliffe, and saw
with an astonishment which moved her pity, that he was agitated by the
bare mention of Mr. Blackwell's name--he begged her, in the utmost
trepidation, to say no more on the subject; adding, "Frank knows my
temper, and so do you, and I 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 Everton'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
anxieties."




CHAP. XII.


Every day, every hour, was now observed to increase the irritability of
Stancliffe's temper, 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 embarrassment upon his mind of which she was
ignorant, and the thoughts of which affected his temper and spirits in
this 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 suppose that the ill-humour and
evident desire to quarrel with her, which actuated her husband, arose
from the perpetual struggle of his conscience with his inclinations, his
remains of good principle with a selfish passion, which demanded a
double sacrifice.

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
quotations, and her affectation of being knowing and mysterious. One day
he observed, in rather an indeterminate manner, "that he believed 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 portmanteau 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,
    And eat your pudding, slave, and hold your tongue.'"

Stancliffe frowned.

"You think that is not Shakspeare," continued Mrs. Judith; "well, then,
this is:

    'Heaven first taught letters for some madman's aid,
    Some _raving_ lover, and some _rural_ maid.'"

Well as Stancliffe was acquainted with the perpetual blunders made by
the poor old lady, and certain as he must be that no person in his
senses would ever entrust her with even the shadow of a secret; yet the
guilty recollection of having written a letter of the utmost importance
two hours before, and in doing which he had been twice interrupted,
filled his breast with rage and alarm. In the confusion, 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 exhibiting 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
immediately followed him.

Dora gazed round with surprise as the servant closed the door, and
looked to him for explanation.

"My master went out, and Mr. Francis followed him; I 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 instantly followed them, dreading
she knew not what--the loud and angry voice of her husband 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 essayed 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
convulsive 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, 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 sight of blood calmed in a moment the fury of Stancliffe; he plucked
his handkerchief 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 servant 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 circumstance--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 resolution.

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
before, (although from a far inferior cause,) was 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 restored,
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 feelings.

Francis, accustomed to submission, resigned to death, and happy in the
belief, that his full and free forgiveness of Stancliffe was understood
by him, and would eventually have a happy effect upon him, gave himself
every chance of recovery his deplorable case admitted. 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 bent upon him; yet fearful of looking too
tenderly, lest she should disturb that placid fortitude which was his
only medium for recovery, and perhaps his best preparative for removal.
Dora well knew that her young patient could learn from her no new
lesson; she was aware that his humble 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 calmness
was the result of effort rising out of necessity 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
herself, her child, and even her husband--whose misfortunes, gentleness,
and goodness, rendered him an object of such singular interest and
affection.

When she reflected on the bitter sorrow Stancliffe had evinced, she
wept and forgave him; but she could not but feel aware that 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 certain hold upon her affections, as well as a claim upon her
duty, it was utterly impossible for her either to regain past feelings,
or establish 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 unblest.

Whilst Dora pursued these sad thoughts by the side of her sick brother,
it will be concluded that those of Stancliffe were also of an afflictive
nature--he had indeed been wrung 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 cause of Frank's distressing situation, the
surmises of his servants, and the perpetual guesses of Mrs. Judith,
harrassed him exceedingly; and as he never stooped to inconvenience,
although 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 following day he declared an
intention of prosecuting 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. Conscious that Stancliffe had said
truly "that he could do no good to Frank," and fearful that in this
season of his affliction 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 consolation 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 extreme confusion--he covered
his face with his hands, and traversed the breakfast-room, where 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 sincerest 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 comfort 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 alarmed--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 distressed 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 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 return 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. Stancliffe 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 my sister," said Harriett, exultingly.

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 sensations, 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 luggage had occasioned this
sudden movement; and as she had taken no breakfast, expected 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."

"For heaven's sake compose yourself, Harriett, you are overpowered with
grief and fasting, 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
_I_ 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 Harriett, "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 explains 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 admit 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 suffered so much, to another from which he was likely to
suffer not less. Reflection on her husband's temper, his late habits of
estrangement, and the possibility that the connection had been long, and
the influence powerful, which finally produced this denouement, obliged
her at length to conclude that it was but too true.

Dora crept with slow and trembling steps to her chamber, oppressed to
the inmost soul, bowed down to the dust by the guilt of another--the
reality of this sensation, the shame, the confusion of face, the intense
sorrow of heart it inflicts, have been felt too often to 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 'tribulation yet
worked patience,' the hour of evening saw her again at the bed-side of
poor Frank, from which she dismissed Harriett to that repose she needed,
with an affectionate assurance "that her spirits were better," and an
injunction to secrecy on those circumstances "which amounted even yet
only to surmise."

Every day saw Frank gain some little accession 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 exciting pain or pleasure. Harriett, with
warm affection and the purest good-will, was yet found incapable of
retaining 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 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 countenance, appeared in person to
prove she had not been applied to as a friend in vain.

Dora's first emotion on hearing of this arrival, 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
embarrassment, 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 beloved by Frank, that she was
immediately admitted to his room with less than the usual interdict; and
as he was by degrees permitted to speak, she enquired very naturally
"what had been the cause of an attack so unexpected, 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, yet how difficult was it to forbear thanking Frank, and in the
very expression of her grateful overflowing heart, endangering 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 letter received by
Mr. Hazlewood, his principal clerk, which was as follows.

         Sir,

    I am requested to inform you, that in consequence of a
    meeting which took place between Mr. Stancliffe and
    lieutenant Grainger, the former lies extremely ill, he having
    received a wound in the shoulder, by which he has lost much
    blood, and is exceedingly reduced. 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, however 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 assistance.
She was conveyed to a sofa, and a flood of tears came to her
relief--after which, she sat silent in deep rumination, uninterrupted by
those around, who beheld with true commiseration, 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 increased 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 gentleness.

"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 I propose, which is that of removing him into the
house opposite, 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 manner, said, "You, ma'am, surely can have no wish to remain
here? what has it afforded you, save unkindness, ingratitude, want, and
misery?"

"Alas!" said Dora, with a deep sigh, "sorrow is to be found every
where;--I shall certainly 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 discovering who he was, wrote to her mother
in extreme distress, a few days ago. Yesterday 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."

"His conduct in this elopement," continued Mr. Blackwell, "gives you a
happy opportunity legally to emancipate yourself from worse than
Egyptian bondage, and I come as your guardian to take you under my
protection, 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 partner 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, approaching 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 necessary to advert
to:----he has in fact divorced _you_, he has abandoned you, deserted
you."

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. Blackwell.

"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 obedience, and who now invites me to perform my
duty?--ought I not to forgive even seventy times seven offences, if
there is hope that I may save him, as there is now?"

"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 proper 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 happiness. 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 indolence, and from that very
circumstance he became 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;--naturally selfish, and
having no principle of religious self-controul from within, he
certainly required some coercive operation from without, which (since
the death of his father, and in the absence of yours) you should have
endeavoured 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 accorded, 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 scolding 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, forgetfulness of injury,
and cheerful compliance--what could she do more?" said Mrs. Aylmer.

"Nothing, madam, to win a generous mind, even if subject to many
errors; but Stancliffe was not of that description, except by fits
and starts:--with considerable abilities, and occasionally 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.--'Unstable 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. Blackwell!"

"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 stubborn subject--nor
can I say that I should wish my daughter to stoop to conduct unworthy of
herself, in order to _manage_ her husband; yet when I look round the
world, and see women every way far inferior to Dora, preserve spouses
originally inferior to Stancliffe also, without suffering the open
injuries, or the secret miseries which have afflicted her, how can I
help concluding that she has 'loved not wisely, but too well?' and that
suffering martyrdom 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, "_perfectly right_--poor Stancliffe's mind, ruined by
excessive indulgence in childhood, and the unhappy liberty given to his
youth by a residence abroad, required a very different helpmate to what
I have been. Alas! I have injured whilst I sought to bless him--God
forbid 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, assuming 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.
Blackwell's intention than to increase the bias of her mind this way, he
now began strongly to descant 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
man, and thus giving a sanction to his profligacy. A conclusion made by
Mrs. Aylmer in language equally strong, and more persuasive, as she
added,

"Surely, Dora, you will not so disgrace the education I gave you, nor so
wound the heart of her who loves you as a mother, as to countenance
adultery by your presence!--to share your husband with a wanton."

Dora started--her pallid cheeks became crimson, and she covered them
with her trembling 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 persisted in her determination,
repeatedly observing, "that Mr. Blackwell had judged rightly, he had
opened her eyes to the deficiency of her own conduct, which had been
prejudicial to the vacillating mind of one so impatient of restraint,
and injured by indulgence, 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 arrival in Dublin, by
frequenting a gaming house, in consequence of which she must experience
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 reply further than
to look earnestly towards Mrs. Aylmer--to that beseeching look she
answered,

"Dora, though I perfectly approve of all Mr. Blackwell has said, and can
by no means blame the resolution he has made--yet--I 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_ I 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 excitation 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 composure 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 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, cannot you?"

Her look and her kiss answered for her, for her heart was too full to
allow her to speak, and 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, he 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 difficulties of this nature by which she was surrounded,
and an enquiry at her banker's soon informed her that Mr. Blackwell's
information was but too true. Stancliffe had drawn every thing out in
his power, and had subjected himself 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 expences, 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 encountered; but truly as our great poet said, "when
the mind's at ease the body's delicate:"--the intense anxiety, the
sorrowful reflections, the touching remembrances, and the fearful
prospect before her, so filled up every power of thought, and so
occupied her feelings, that lesser evils lost their usual effects 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 reason 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 sister, 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, used the little strength
her agitation left her, to request that Mr. Stancliffe, or at least his
nurse, might be informed "that the lady from England had arrived."

"Oh! to be sure I will go up, and will I 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
information, 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
ears:--twice had the landlady invited her into the room before her
shaking limbs permitted her to accept the summons; and when 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 Stancliffe, 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 Do--now Mrs. Stancliffe
has arrived," said Sydenham, in a tone intended to be cheerful, but by
no means answering to the speaker's wishes.

"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; he is,
as I have told you, Sydenham, so often, the very best creature that ever
was born--the most generous."

Stancliffe's head sunk on his pillow, and Dora thought he wept; her
heart was touched with the deepest sympathy, and she felt thankful 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 measure
obtained, the very acuteness of our tortures 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 Stancliffe 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
gentleman in a coffee-house, from which he had been led to use that
insulting language to which his habitual treatment of his own family
subjected him, and which the customs of the country he was visiting by
no means permitted. As he was not deficient in personal courage, and was
decidedly so in those qualities 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 procuring for him the friendly
offices of an English gentleman then passing through Dublin, from a tour
to the Irish lakes, and who, on learning his name, entered with
increased interest into the offices of humanity.

This gentleman, our readers will perceive, was Arthur Sydenham, the
playmate in childhood, 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 strangers 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. Stancliffe, Sydenham knew nothing,
beyond the folly and madness which had led to his present situation, and
which was loudly spoken of, and of course gave him a pang beyond what
his compassion could inflict for the husband, 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 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 reflections, and in a state of
extreme bodily weakness from the loss of blood, (a circumstance which
drew reflections on the state to which he had reduced poor Frank, of the
most heart-rending nature) he was found by Sydenham. 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 of his
adversary, alluding to remote causes for his own awakened irritation,
and wishing for the assistance of his wife as the only person 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 if
she did not obey his summons."

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 unnoticed. Sydenham endeavoured to fulfil
the wishes of the medical 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 preconcerted 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
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 appeared much more deficient than she really was; he
cursed his blindness for having tied himself to a fool, and lamented
that his success afforded no triumph, his sin no pleasure.

Wine was the next resource--and good wine and gay companions may be had
in Dublin 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 application. Hitherto, when
out of humour with himself and the world, or fatigued with business, he
had shut himself up in his chamber, to indulge disgust or exclude
intrusion; and intoxication was never his resource, which was certainly
the worst an irritable man like him could adopt. He awoke a fever in his
frame which threw him into a state little short of delirium, led him
again to play, where, although he lost no sum of importance, because he
played 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. Hemingford, 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 which produced the challenge.

It may be readily conceived that the unhappy 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 accommodated 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. He had revealed her real claims upon him to the surgeon,
but from the moment of Sydenham's visit became anxious to the utmost to
keep her very existence a secret from him; and such was his solicitude,
that it greatly increased the illness under which he laboured, and for
some days placed him in considerable danger.

During those days, the attendance of Sydenham 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
Sydenham; 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 painful 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 unfailing
accompaniment of self-reproach. He was in continual fear that she should
learn more respecting his conduct than he apprehended she knew; and when
from the nurse he found that she was informed by the mistress 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, Stancliffe was calm if not
cheerful, and even after he was gone, his mind would for some time
retain the impression, and seem as if struggling with himself, and
endeavouring to make himself worthy the friendship of one whom he loved
and admired. At these times he would fix his eyes swimming in tears on
Dora, take her hand, and lament that he had spoken so hastily, but
exclaim, "you must hate me, I know you do, Dora!" 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 conduct, appeared in every
word and action; reproach 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 wearisome duties soon became much
more difficult; 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 extinction. 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 in time
prove not less desirable to herself, she determined to seize the
opportunity of his stay for 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, however, this person way-laid her as she passed through the
hall, and so pressed her to enter the adjoining parlour, that she could
not refuse, being indeed apprehensive that she wished for payment of
their lodgings.

Yet the moment of her entrance Mrs. Macgillan vanished, but as speedily
returned, leading, 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 eloquence 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, say I."

These words struck Dora as applying to her for whom the speaker had
already evinced so 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 contemplated 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
description:--she was now pale and haggard, her eyes were red with
weeping, and the cleanly smartness of her rustic dress exchanged for
dirty finery, which she cared not to arrange, and had the sense to
despise. Shame and sorrow 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 no
wonder, therefore, that she said in tremulous 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 throwing 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; I 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
mother would hardly know me."

Dora cast her eyes on the faded face 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 enormous cruelty, deception, and
wickedness of Stancliffe 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 rather 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! may 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
relieve, 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 abandon the object of her compassion till she had 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 I have suffered! and then to be told I 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 experience; every word, every look of
this unfortunate 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 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 forward 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 gratitude, but yet she
lingered--she held her benefactress 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.

"He has ruined me, and made me miserable, and I can never shew my face
again in my own country, and I mustn't tell him of his wickedness! I
mustn't say, see what a wretch you have made of me!"

Dora, unable to undergo more, hastily withdrew, and finding that she was
utterly incapable of resuming composure, retired to her own bed-room,
which was a small chamber at the 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 meditation and reflection,
succeeded in giving tranquillity 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 become) that her labour would not be
in vain.

So completely had Dora been absorbed in the painful reflections, and
severe schoolings of her heart, that when aroused by the tapping 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 forget even necessary food. She descended with
a determination to bury all the past in oblivion, as far as it was
possible; but the first glance she had of the countenance of Stancliffe,
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 different to his general conduct, that Dora,
like most of her sex on similar occasions, was soon relieved from the
new and distressing sensations of anger towards him, which had so lately
harrassed her. She could not forget the face and voice of Alice--they
haunted her perpetually, and conjured up that of Frank also, and every
other association by which Stancliffe stood in the light of a violent,
unfeeling, capricious, or dissolute man--a man, too, from whom the wise
and the good would have separated her. But she looked again upon him,
and beheld him as one suffering and penitent, and she felt that she
could yet pardon and perhaps love--might not the time come when she
should even rejoice over him and be proud of him?

Her thoughts were interrupted by her husband, 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 presence, and whom he never desired to
see again." Dora made little answer beyond desiring him to compose
himself, for although sincerely desirous 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 injustice, and to lament his crimes to God rather than towards
herself; but she could not "break the bruised reed," and she was
thankful for any thing which looked like feeling in the right way.

Some days passed in dejection but calmness, which had so salutary an
effect upon the health of the invalid, that he left his bed, called in
his accounts, and prepared for his return to England, from whence very
favourable accounts of Frank had been several times received; 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 sought
to restrain him, in the hands of his attorney. That person had now
ascertained the fact, together with other particulars which were of a
nature, in his own apprehension, 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 perplexing and distressing.

Dora read the letter in surprise to her husband. "It is all right," said
Stancliffe, "your father has such power; he can take all I have in the
world and hold it until the partnership has expired, and he has paid
himself all it owes him. I cared not then how strong the bond was made,
for I was wretched and ashamed, and I dictated it myself."

"But what is to become of us? how are we to exist for the next two
years?"

"Will Mr. Blackwell do nothing, think you?"

"No;--he has solemnly declared that he will not; he will do any thing
for _me_, if--but"--

"_If_--_but_--what do you mean? tell me, Dora, for as soon as my arm is
better, I will do any thing; I will, indeed--you shall see how I will
exert myself."

Dora wept abundantly.

"Tell me what he said, Dora, I beseech you?"

"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 wretch, a most miserable wretch--no, no--I do not ask it, Dora,
you have suffered enough, you shall go to the friends who love you."

"But you love me, _now_?" said Dora, eagerly gazing upon him, as if she
thought he would die in the act of evincing, for the first 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 meaning in the expression conveyed; and although Dora durst not
place the reliance on them natural to a heart so confiding as hers, (for
disappointment so severe and reiterated as she had experienced, must
damp the most sanguine, and chill the most loving heart,) yet still
something 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 trode on their native shore
almost pennyless, though indebted considerably for their accommodation
to Mr. Sydenham, who left Dublin the week before them. The loss of his
late excellent 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 appeared 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 became, to the
most distressing degree, jealous of her leaving him, and determined to
watch her continually.

The meeting between this affectionate brother and sister was affecting,
though both supprest 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 his amendment, and though
well aware that the sight of him, and the occasional enjoyment of his
company, would be her best solace in the sad change to which she was now
subjected, she earnestly urged him to seek the comforts offered under
Mr. Blackwell's protection, as soon as he was capable of bearing
removal.

To this Frank consented, under the full persuasion that he should, by
some means connected 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 physician 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, rushed 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 repeating over and over again,
this determination.

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 unquestionably 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 discourse 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 subjugated spirits, would it be right to try
the weak efforts of infant virtues by so severe a test?"

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 on the other, Mrs. Aylmer and Harriett entered together,
Frank being then sufficiently recovered 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 poverty 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 present apartment.

This offer was accepted by Dora with much thankfulness, as one which,
in their circumstances, 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 counting-house."

"And what have I to do there?"

"You have still property there, and may be employed usefully and
profitably--at least I 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
affectionately 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 comfortable.

"Yes, yes, I see all that, the poor old soul has a right to be
considered, undoubtedly; I 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 weakness,
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 confirmed invalid. She placed
her little household on the most economic footing possible, consistent
with the comforts of her aged boarder, and her ailing husband, and then
waited on Mr. Hazlehurst to enquire how far the proceedings of the
attorney were sanctioned by her father, and whether she could be allowed
to receive aid from the concern in return for personal services.

The worthy old man was in the first instance overcome with sorrow, to
receive as a suppliant the daughter and wife of his employers; but he
readily granted all she requested for herself, observing, "that he was
confident, when Mr. Hemingford knew further particulars 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. Blackwell, and as he himself had understood the
same, it was surely unnecessary to trouble herself further."

Dora was compelled reluctantly to undeceive 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.
Stancliffe 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 negotiation with pleasure; but so
eager did Stancliffe appear to close with the proposal, that she almost
dreaded mentioning the latter assurance, 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 secrecy, he soon became so
immersed in business, and alive to the pursuit of that wealth which he
had no immediate prospect of enjoying, that he forgot all caution 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
witness, 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 past, than it was by the unwise, inconsistent industry of the
present time; and every hour she besought him earnestly to take the care
so necessary for his reduced state of health. She considered the great
change he had so suddenly 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
inadequate, that he was frequently brought home in a state of exhaustion
that threatened immediate 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 employed in affairs
connected with it, and all her ceaseless cares as a nurse, and her
intreaties as an anxious wife, were disregarded. The vanity of
displaying those talents for business he had so long suffered to lie
dormant, unquestionably mingled with a resolution arising from better
motives, and together hurried him into a new species of error which was
of the most painful nature to poor Dora, as she continually foresaw that
when he became most worthy to live, it was probable he would die.

She judged but with too much certainty, for in addition to the extreme
weakness contracted by stretching his constitution beyond its powers, he
caught a cold by standing in the large warehouse, which, though slight,
fell with fatal effect on his attenuated frame, and though slow, was
soon sufficiently marked to alarm every person who witnessed its
effects, save the sufferer himself. All confinement was now become so
irksome to him, in consequence of the accession of spirits he had been
sensible of during the late bustle, that his ill-humour again returned;
alas! it was at the best "scaithed, not killed," for very imperfect were
his ideas of religious self-controul; and every day, and almost every
hour, told Dora that all her work was to do over again, notwithstanding
all that had been suffered or gained.




CHAP. XIII.


Dora had the satisfaction about this time of seeing Harriett for an hour
or two previous to her setting out for Smyrna, having, by her father's
direction, joined a respectable person going out as a governess. From
her she learned many particulars respecting Frank's present state of
health and comforts of the most satisfactory nature, and she endeavoured
strongly to impress on the mind of Harriett such a belief of the
improvement in Stancliffe's conduct, and such pity for his present
state, as might influence her report of him to her family. The utmost
she could obtain on this head, was a promise to say not a single word
which she could avoid, and Dora felt that with this she ought to be
satisfied, for silence was indeed a great kindness in a case where there
was so much obvious to condemnation. Little as she had known of
Harriett, yet the parting was very painful, for never had she felt so
much the want of a friend to whom she might look for consolation and
assistance, and to whom she could open her heart in perfect confidence
as to its feelings, without adverting personally to her situation. With
Frank alone could she enjoy this--with him, she could reason, or pray,
or weep; and, young as he was, so thoroughly could he enter into her
thoughts, and participate her wishes, and so deeply was his mind embued
with devout feelings and religious knowledge, that he might be said to
perform to her the patriarch's office, and support the enfeebled hands
stretched out to beg for mercy on another.

Short as her absence had been, Stancliffe commented upon it with much
unkindness, but in a manner which implied such an entire dependance upon
her, as to move compassion rather than blame. He had lost his appetite
since his present confinement, more than at any former period, and it
was very difficult to procure any food that could tempt him to eat, yet
he perpetually urged the necessity of doing it, saying, he should never
otherwise recover his strength. As Dora had now only one servant,
besides a little damsel whose duty it was never to quit the apartment of
Mrs. Judith, their food was not always prepared with the attention
necessary to tempt the appetite of an invalid; and although Dora knew
little of the actual duties of a cook, she did her best to obviate these
evils, and became, by care and practice, so far a proficient, that
Stancliffe would not attempt to taste any thing but what she had
prepared. Yet rarely did it happen, that her utmost efforts succeeded;
and when she had satisfied herself the best, and entirely destroyed her
own appetite by bending over a hot fire, with that solicitude peculiar
to a learner, (conscious that a minute too much or too little, may ruin
all her labours) she had, nine times out of ten, the mortification of
seeing her dishes rejected with disgust, and hearing a pathetic
lamentation on the hardships a man experienced who was hungry and had
nothing to eat which he could possibly take.

This evil became one of a growing nature, and included another of great
importance in their present situation, that of expense. Stancliffe, laid
upon the sofa, recollected not only what dainties he used to like, but
the places where they might be purchased, and he never failed to send
for them; but aware also of the expense, busied himself no less in
contriving ways and means whereby the necessary expenditure of his
family might be curtailed. He urged Dora to such various duties, and
such a ceaseless round of employment to this end, that although she was
thankful that the loud and angry tone, and the oath which had formerly
shocked her, were discarded, she yet saw that selfishness held its old
place in the heart, and that he who thought nothing too much for
himself, thought every thing too much for her and the aged relative who
contributed to his support. He was truly penitent for grosser sins, and
sincere in his resolutions for the future, should his health be
restored; nor could she doubt that she now held the first place in his
heart, but even the _first_ was a low seat in a region so devoted to
self-love, so blind to duty, so dead to the demands of gratitude and
affection.

Again Frank, though distant, became the sharer of her cares, and her
effectual assistant, for the commencement of the shooting season enabled
him to supply his sister pretty constantly with game; and the arrival of
Frank's baskets, or even the expectation of them, broke agreeably on the
wearisome monotony of Stancliffe's life, whilst his letters cheered the
heart of Dora. Even the old lady partook this pleasure; for at those
times the invalid was in good humour, admitted her visits, and listened
to her regular quotation from Thompson, beginning at the "whirring wing"
of the partridge, and ending no one knew where.

Yet it was observed with mingled feelings of satisfaction, and sorrowful
sympathy, by Dora, that after the first pleasure was past on the receipt
of these presents, Stancliffe usually sunk into deep thought, and by
degrees he happily became more anxious about the donor than his gift,
and the first enquiry was after the letters of Frank--this was succeeded
by the wonder of "how he looks? what he is reading? and whether that
stately old square-toes made him really comfortable?"

"It is evident that he does," Dora would answer, "from the facility with
which he is enabled to prove kindness to us:--poor fellow! how happy
does it make him to do these things, and if he had money, how gladly
would he send that also."

Money was unhappily an object which Dora was compelled to desire, as the
reward given to her husband's short though efficient services, together
with the payment of Mrs. Judith's annuity, was long since expended, and
although she continued to receive a salary from Mr. Hazlehurst for
certain writing which she could do in her own house, yet her utmost
economy could not enable her to meet the extraordinary expences incurred
by her husband. Every day increased the pressure on her spirits, and her
health was much affected, yet she struggled incessantly to appear
cheerful, and prevent the settled dejection which now oppressed
Stancliffe, from becoming habitual, and to preserve the old lady in her
usual state of childish enjoyment and supposed importance.

Long and melancholy was the winter thus passed; there were no letters
from her father to relieve their pecuniary necessities, no change
occurred to diversify the scene, no friend looked in to cheer them, and
books, those silent but most precious companions, could be rarely
adopted; for poor Dora's time, when not devoted to the active cares
demanded by her decided invalid, and her elderly charge, was given to
writing tedious translations, which frequently puzzled but never amused
her; and although Stancliffe had generally a book near him, he was
really too poorly, or his mind too much occupied, to derive amusement
from it, or the power of abstracting himself. "Read this to me, Dora,
immediately"--"finish those letters for Hazlehurst"--"warm me this
jelly"--"I wish you would go to the fish-market, directly; every thing I
like will be gone, if you are not quick:" such were the requisitions
which alone varied an existence which it is certain was too busy for
_ennu_ on her part. When, completely overpowered with toil or anxiety,
she was compelled to take a short respite, Stancliffe always appeared in
much alarm, and shewed her at this period more of that kind attention so
endearing to the heart of woman, than he had done since her bridal
days--it was ever received with thankfulness; but unhappily the eyes of
Dora were opened to her husband's character, and the general motives
which actuated him; and she feared the value of her life and her
services, not his love or gratitude, were most probably operating in
moments like these. How such fear affects a warm and tender heart,
conscious that it has merited the returns of love, and feeling itself
still capable of full forgiveness of the past, and free confidence for
the future, may be estimated, but can never be described--many a heart
is wrung by it, but few have spoken of the sensation. Dora strove
against these agonizing thoughts, she remembered that there is no state
of mind so dark, but it may be enlightened, so vile, but it may be
purified, so cold and dull, but it may be warmed and quickened.

One Sunday morning, when the invalid appeared something better than
usual, she ventured to propose going to church, to which, contrary to
long precedent, he cheerfully assented. As Dora crept along the most
unfrequented streets, almost with the downcast air of a guilty thing,
envying every woman she passed, who leaned on the arm of a husband or
brother, and walked in peace and happiness to partake the blessings of
social worship, she was led to look back to those happy sabbaths of her
early days at Crickhowel, when the sunshine that lighted up the paradise
around her was reflected from the calm devotion, the untroubled peace,
that made a paradise in her bosom. It was the sacrament day, and she
resolved again to partake of that bread and that cup, which might
strengthen her to pass through the "vale of tears" before her; but the
contemplation of this hallowed refreshment brought so strongly to her
mind the recollection of those sublime emotions which affected her the
first time she approached the table of our Lord, that she felt
astonished to think that within seven years any person could be so
altered as she felt herself to be. "A long life seems to have passed
over me," said Dora to herself; "and the apathy of age, the exhaustion
of the soul, is come upon me--I will, and I can lament my sins, and
listen in humility to exhortation; but to rejoice even in the glad
tidings of salvation is no longer in my power--I may smile in the face
to man, but I cannot lift up my heart in the triumph of holy joy to
God--the last tear of holy rapture has visited my eyes thus early."

Dora was mistaken.

We will not presume to speak farther of those aspirations of the
Christian's soul which in worship, whether private or public, unites the
creature in some measure to the Creator, and gives it a foretaste of
that immortality which has always the blessed effect of rendering our
severest duties easy, and our sharpest sorrows less painful. When Dora
left the church, she felt strong and prepared for every trial; but as
she drew nearer home, the recollection of her lengthened absence, the
fear that it should prove the cause of anger and of sin in her husband,
the consciousness that not only his new-born virtues, but his life, hung
on a slender thread, and the solicitude she felt to preserve and cherish
both, filled her with anxiety; and although one moment she trusted her
prayers would be heard, the next she trembled for the consequences of
her conduct.

Such must ever be the feelings of a married woman so circumstanced, and
her dependance should be a matter of serious consideration to him who
holds in his power a responsibility so awful: to the great relief of
Dora, at present her little household were all in a tranquil state, her
husband received her without any comment, and after informing her that
he had taken some blanc mange, began again to turn over the leaves of a
large Bible, which lay on the table before the great chair in which he
now always sat.

"I have had two visits from my aunt during your absence, (for really the
time seemed very long;) poor woman, she is worse than ever, she repeated
the same words over each time, again and again--I must own they struck
me much, and I am looking in the Bible for them; I suppose they are
there, but I am not certain."

"Do you recollect them, my dear?"

"I cannot forget them--she said perpetually, 'tho' woo'd, chastized, a
flagrant rebel still.'"

"They are in Young's Night Thoughts--he speaks of man as disobedient to
his Creator, and says, he is,

    'Tho' woo'd, chastized, a flagrant rebel still,
    A rebel--to the thunders of his throne,
    A rebel--to the pleadings of his love.'--

I will find you the passage."

"Don't trouble yourself--it has given me food for reflection--I am that
rebel, if ever man was, for I have rebelled alike against mercy and
judgment; goodness has not drawn me--suffering has not warned me--no one
has had more to be thankful for, and few, very few, have been less
grateful."

Dora did not answer, for her heart was too full to speak--she could not,
she durst not, contradict this short, true statement, of his past
conduct; she knew that to "speak peace, when there is no peace," is
cruelty in the garb of kindness; yet pity, commiseration, tenderness,
penetrated her heart for him, and had the precepts of her faith admitted
the idea, there was no pains she could not have endured, no action she
could not have performed, to render his penitence availing.

"What is the conclusion given to this passage?" said Stancliffe, after a
long pause--"yes! find it for me, Dora--yet I know not whether I am now
able, or whether reading or thinking will do me any good--how much I
have thought, how deeply I have lamented, God only knows; yet I fear I
am just what I was!"

"I will read the Gospels to you, my dear; it is only in the New
Testament that we can find rest to our souls, under the burthen of
conscious guilt."

"I must read for myself," was the reply, followed by profound silence;
and Dora feared to break in upon a salutary train of thought even by
good words--slow as was his progress, frequent as were the relapses of a
mind so blind to the higher duties, and so devoid of the sensibilities
of a Christian, it was yet to her a constant consolation that Stancliffe
had never sought to deaden the reproaches of his conscience by recurring
to the arguments of infidelity, or denying his responsibility at the
great tribunal which he evidently approached with just alarm, and an
increasing sense of his own unworthiness not only in deed but in
thought.

The time arrived at length when she might say, "behold, he
prayeth:"--need we say of such a wife, that she prayed with him, and for
him; that she watched over him with the fond broodings of the parent
bird over its half-fledged young, happy when at length her holy
solicitude prevailed upon him to conquer false shame, and lingering
pride, so far as to admit the visits of a clergyman in their
neighbourhood, who kindly entered his chamber as a friend, and exercised
the duties of a pastor day after day, during the succeeding winter.

Stancliffe, sensible that the _actions_ of a repentant sinner are the
only sure criterion of his sincerity, was deeply troubled that the state
of his health prevented him from proving his humility, faith, and
virtuous intentions. Dora soothed him in this, by an assurance "that
submission to this infliction was in itself no little proof of obedience
in a mind so subject to all extremes;" she told him, "that patience
included a self-subjugation, which required the aid of many Christian
virtues, and in his state, humble endurance, and cheerful acquiescence,
was required in lieu of more active virtues."

"But there are some things I must do, weak as I am--Dora! Dora! by all
your past unequalled patience, think what it is which I would do! which
I ought to do! speak for me to your own kind heart."

"I blame myself much for not having done so before; but, alas! your
sufferings have at times been so great, I feared to awaken them--Alice
is a mother; she has been comfortably provided for, and has recovered
her health; Frank's pocket-money, and my ornaments, provided the means."

"And if I die, Dora, you will not suffer a poor wretch to lay not only
his birth, but the sins of his unprotected youth, to my long and
terrible account? Oh! if you knew how this thought haunts me"--

"I beseech you to be quite easy on this head--why did you suffer it to
haunt you, Everton?"

"Why, indeed!--I ought to have known and trusted you--but mine, Dora,
has been a cold, selfish heart, and it cannot easily comprehend the
conduct and the feelings of a better--I see it all now--my parents
indulged me till I fancied all things should yield to my will; and as
far as I was able, it has been the business of my life to make
them--there lay the great evil--thence arose the pride, the sin, the
anger, the cruelty of my nature."

At this period, poor Mrs. Judith was seized with a paralytic affection,
and after a few days' confinement, sunk, without struggle or pain, into
the grave. Though her speech and her limbs were affected, she was
evidently sensible, and looked for Dora's attendance in the most anxious
and affecting manner. Stancliffe evinced the sincerity of his repentance
at this time in a striking manner, for he entirely resigned Dora to the
sick room of his aunt, although her absolute necessity for his
happiness, and his personal comforts, had never been half so great, and
the presence of death in the house was in itself an affecting
circumstance. Mrs. Judith left no will, and of course her property
devolved to Stancliffe: his first observation upon the subject was, "we
will devise a legacy for her, Dora, to the Miss Lawrences."

During Mrs. Judith's illness, Mr. Sydenham came to Liverpool, and was
received with as much pleasure by Stancliffe as could be experienced by
one whose mind was so perpetually employed on the most awful subjects,
and harrassed by conflicts with his own feelings and propensities, which
much pain and weakness rendered him little able to bear. It is not on
the bed of death, amid the flutterings of a fevered pulse, the weariness
of aching limbs, trembling nerves, a confused brain, and an enfeebled
mind, that man should enter on the duties of examining his heart,
reforming its errors, and "preparing to meet his God:" one was "called
at the eleventh hour," that no one might utterly despair, but only
one--therefore none should presume.

With Sydenham, Stancliffe held many long and affecting conversations,
when his rapidly increasing weakness permitted it; and in consequence of
his request, after Mrs. Judith's funeral, that gentleman set out for
Frank. A desire to see him had been the single point in which Dora had
failed to indulge the invalid, judging that the interview would be too
affecting to them both, and perceiving also that Stancliffe's weakness
now rendered him subject to slight delirium, which she exceedingly
dreaded to increase.

It was a satisfaction to Dora to see Frank, though very pale, yet much
stronger than he used to be, for the country had agreed with him; and
though he had thought much of his sister, the daily sight of her trials
had not pressed upon his spirits as they used to do, and he was aware
that her present afflictions were relieved greatly to her from the hope
which accompanied them. When he approached Stancliffe, to his painful
surprise, a faint hectic rose to the cheek of the patient, and he looked
disturbed and alarmed.

"Do you not know me, dear Everton? it is Frank, whom you wished for, and
expected to see; your brother Frank."

"Then you are not dead! give me your hand!" Frank took that thin wasted
hand, and pressed it to his lips, and Stancliffe became soon more
composed, though he remained silent--by degrees resuming his memory, and
silently wiping away the tears that slowly filled his glistening eyes.

From this time he could not bear Frank out his sight, yet he urged both
him and Dora to relieve each other. Sydenham was again absent, but he
returned soon, accompanied by Mrs. Aylmer; after which, he was obliged
to set out to the continent with his father.

Dora was thankful for the presence of her friend, but apprehending that
her arrival might agitate the invalid, she would not have mentioned it
if Sydenham had not done it, in accounting for his own unwonted
desertion of the sick room, on taking leave of him.

"I am glad she is come--very glad," said Stancliffe; "she is a good
woman, I had need have such about me--how many mercies are granted _me_,
who deserve only punishment--I do not understand this, it distresses and
alarms me."

Frank endeavoured to soothe him; he spoke of the goodness of God, the
perfection of redeeming grace, the efficacy of repentance, and
faith:--there was an eager grasping of the mind after the hope thus
offered, but the wandering intellect, the deeply troubled conscience,
the pain-worn body, refused repose--the quick glancing, the troubled
tossing, the anxious sighing, told the sympathising comforter that his
labour was in vain.

"Mrs. Aylmer!--where is Mrs. Aylmer?" said the invalid, hastily.

She came immediately up-stairs, and approached him with that
compassionate air his present deplorable condition inspired.

"Forgive--forgive me for using Dora, _your_ Dora, so ill--take her again
to your heart--your home--restore her--comfort her--do not lose sight of
her again."

"I will not," said Mrs. Aylmer, with solemn earnestness.

"But do not teach her to forget me--not _quite_ forget me--no! my heart
cannot yield that--'tis a selfish heart yet--very selfish--very hard,
even now--'a rebel still.'"

"Do not say any more, my love, just now," said Dora, putting her arm
under his head, to assist his breathing, which was short and difficult.

"Yes, yes, I must speak--I must conquer--dear Mrs. Aylmer--in
time--prevail on her to think of Sydenham--he is good and--I can say no
more--I have made my sacrifice, none of you can tell what it has cost
me."

His head sunk on Dora's shoulder, and she thought he had fainted; but in
another moment there was a convulsive motion of the whole body, and in a
thick altered voice he cried hastily, "Dora! Frank! where are you? pray
for 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.




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 tender
and considerate mother, and that beloved brother who had not only
sorrowed with her sorrow, but been the partaker of her affectionate care
and long-suffering; in obedience to 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 overcome alike the
energy of youth, and the fortitude 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
bestowed 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 turpitude in conduct: alike
subduing anger, repelling 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 comfort in these letters, and still more in the prospect
that her father would end his days in his own country, and probably have
his eyes closed by that darling son whose past danger had hastened his
return--her meditations were broken upon by the arrival of Mr.
Blackwell.

The old man gazed upon the young widow with a look of such deep
sympathy, that it appeared 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 me, 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 I may
rejoice in that satisfaction 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 the dictates of a mistaken compassion,
you renounced an awful, painful, but most imperious duty; and your
example is the more dangerous, 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 example 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 and PATIENCE."


THE END.


LONDON:

R. CLAY, PRINTER, BREAD STREET HILL.



  +--------------------------------------------------------------+
  | Transcriber's note:                                          |
  |                                                              |
  | Punctuation errors were corrected.                           |
  |                                                              |
  | The following apparent printer's errors have been addressed. |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 4 'mariner' to 'manners'                                |
  | 'the mind and manners of'                                    |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 17 'anything' to 'any thing'                            |
  | This is to match ten other instances of the separated        |
  | syllables in the book.                                       |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 21 'abo' to 'about'                                     |
  | 'her father about keeping his ledger'                        |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 31 'its'' to 'it's'                                     |
  | 'it's all a plain case'                                      |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 55 'coblers' to 'cobblers'                              |
  | 'fly out to cobblers'                                        |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 62 'continned' to 'continued'                           |
  | 'he continued to gaze'                                       |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 75 'protogee' to 'protg'                              |
  | 'her beloved protg'                                        |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 76 'CHAP. V' to 'CHAP. VI'                              |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 90                                                      |
  | 'unsophiscated' to 'unsophisticated'                         |
  | 'and unsophisticated manners'                                |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 95 'repellant' to 'repellent'                           |
  | 'indicated anything repellent;                               |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 109 'women' to woman'                                   |
  | 'that a woman could exercise'                                |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 147 'wilt' to 'will'                                    |
  | 'you will give me something'                                 |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 179 'developement' to 'development'                     |
  | 'the further development'                                    |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 192 'sullenless' to 'sullenness'                        |
  | 'of shame, sullenness and self reproach'                     |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 203 'arrenged' to 'arranged'                            |
  | 'had arranged this plan'                                     |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 260 'sensasions' to 'sensations'                        |
  | distressing sensations of anger'                             |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 274 'consisting' to 'consistent'                        |
  | 'consistent with the comforts'                               |
  |                                                              |
  | Several instances of 'stile' have been changed to 'style'    |
  | to agree with a majority of instances of 'style'.            |
  |                                                              |
  +--------------------------------------------------------------+




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HOW TO WIN LOVE;
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LAWRENCE'S (MISS) STORIES FROM THE OLD AND NEW TESTAMENTS. New
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[Illustration]


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ARTHUR HALL, VIRTUE & CO. 25, PATERNOSTER ROW.




THE

HOFLAND LIBRARY;

FOR THE

INSTRUCTION AND AMUSEMENT OF YOUTH.

Illustrated with Plates, and handsomely Bound in Embossed Scarlet Cloth,
with Gilt Edges, &c.


FIRST CLASS, in 12mo.--Price 2_s._ 6_d._


1. MEMOIR of the LIFE and LITERARY REMAINS of MRS. HOFLAND. By T.
RAMSAY, Esq. With Portrait.

2. ALFRED CAMPBELL; or, Travels of a Young Pilgrim.

3. DECISION; a Tale.

4. ENERGY.

5. FORTITUDE.

6. HUMILITY.

7. INTEGRITY.

8. MODERATION.

9. PATIENCE.

10. REFLECTION.

11. SELF-DENIAL.

12. YOUNG CADET; or, Travels in Hindostan.

13. YOUNG PILGRIM; or, Alfred Campbell's Return.


SECOND CLASS, in 18mo.--Price 1_s._ 6_d._


1. ADELAIDE; or, Massacre of St. Bartholomew.

2. AFFECTIONATE BROTHERS.

3. ALICIA AND HER AUNT; or, Think before you Speak.

4. BARBADOS GIRL.

5. BLIND FARMER AND HIS CHILDREN.

6. CLERGYMAN'S WIDOW AND HER YOUNG FAMILY.

7. DAUGHTER-IN-LAW, HER FATHER, AND FAMILY.

8. ELIZABETH AND HER THREE BEGGAR BOYS.

9. GOOD GRANDMOTHER AND HER OFFSPRING.

10. MERCHANT'S WIDOW AND HER YOUNG FAMILY.

11. RICH BOYS AND POOR BOYS, and other Tales.

12. THE SISTERS; a Domestic Tale.

13. STOLEN BOY; an Indian Tale.

14. WILLIAM AND HIS UNCLE BEN.

15. YOUNG CRUSOE; or, Shipwrecked Boy.


_Published_ (_by Assignment of_ A. K. NEWMAN & CO.) _by_

ARTHUR HALL, VIRTUE, & CO. 25, PATERNOSTER ROW.

R. CLAY, PRINTER, BREAD STREET HILL.




[End of _Patience, a Tale_ by Mrs. Hofland]
