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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
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