Patience, Barbara Hofland [readict books TXT] 📗
- Author: Barbara Hofland
- Performer: -
Book online «Patience, Barbara Hofland [readict books TXT] 📗». Author Barbara Hofland
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,
Comments (0)