Patience by Barbara Hofland (ebook offline reader .TXT) 📖

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