Patience by Barbara Hofland (that summer book TXT) 📕

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