Patience by Barbara Hofland (that summer book TXT) 📕

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,