Patience by Barbara Hofland (that summer book TXT) 📕

“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