Patience - Barbara Hofland (red novels txt) 📗

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,