The Doctor's Wife
THE END OF GEORGE GILBERT'S HOLIDAY.
The two men very upon that in Mrs. Sleaford's message. The maid-of-all-work to the greengrocer's, and returned in company with a dirty-looking boy—who was "Mrs. Judkin's son, please, sir"—and a truck. Mrs. Judkin's son the trunks, portmanteau, and carpet-bag on the truck, and with his load, which was to be in the of the Judkin family until the next morning, when Sigismund was to take the away in a cab. When this had been arranged, Mr. Smith and his friend out into the garden and talked of the that had upon them.
"I always they were of leaving," Sigismund said, "but I they'd go away like this. I cut up about it, George. I'd got to like them, you know, old boy, and to as if I was one of the family; and I shall be able to partial-board with any else."
George to take the as as his friend, though his with the Sleafords was little more than four-and-twenty hours old.
"They must have to-day that they were going," he said. "People don't go to America at a hours' notice."
Sigismund the dirty maid-of-all-work, and the two men her to a very cross-examination; but she tell them very little more than she had told them all in one in the instance.
"Mr. Sleaford 'ad 'is at upon one o'clock, she put on the for the boys' dinner she 'is egg; and then he out, and he come tarin' 'ome in one of these 'ansom at three o'clock in the afternoon; and he told to pack up, and he told the 'ansom to send a four-wheeler from the he passed at six o'clock precise; and the best part of the was sent to the greengrocer's on a truck, and the was took on the of the cab, and Master 'Orace alongside the cabman, and would one of them pickwicks, which they always 'im bilious; and Mr. Sleaford he didn't go in the cab, but walked off as as possible, his stick, and 'olding his 'ead as 'igh as hever."
Sigismund asked the girl if she had the address to the who took the family away.
"No," the girl said. Mr. Sleaford had no address. He the to drive over Waterloo Bridge, and that was all the girl heard.
Mr. Smith's no bounds. He walked about the house, and up and the the espaliers, until long after the moon was upon the lawn, and every branch and its on the ground.
"I of such a thing in all my life," the author cried; "it's like numbers. With the of their going away in a four-wheeler of through a and passage, it's for all the world like numbers."
"But you'll be able to out where they've gone, and why they away so suddenly," George Gilbert; "some of their friends will be able to tell you."
"Friends!" Sigismund; "they had any friends—at least not friends that they visited, or anything of that kind. Mr. Sleaford used to home some of his friends now and then of an evening, after dark generally, or on a Sunday afternoon. But we saw much of them, for he used to take them up to his own room; and for his wanting French and fetched, and and cooked, and at the girl over the if the plates weren't enough, we shouldn't have that there was company in the house. I his were in the law, like himself," Mr. Smith added, musingly; "but they didn't look much like barristers, for they had moustachios, and a of would-be way; and if they hadn't been Sleaford's friends, I should have them raffish-looking."
Neither of the men think of anything or talk of anything that night the Sleafords and their departure. They about the garden, at the long and the neglected flower-beds; at the arbour, dark under the of a vine, that was half-smothered by the of wild hops,—the in which the their home, and where, upon the bench, Izzie had sat through the hours of days, reading her novels, and of a life that was to be like the plot of a novel.
They into the house, and called for candles, and from room to room, looking at the chairs and tables, the open drawers, the furniture, as if from those objects they might obtain some to the little that them. The house was by of paper, of and string, of and muslin, hair-brushes in the of the bedrooms, of and straw, tin-tacks, and old kid-gloves. Everywhere there were of and hurry, in Mr. Sleaford's room. That was wide open now, and Mr. Smith and his friend into it and it. To Sigismund a newly-excavated in a long-buried city have been more interesting. Here there was no of haste. There was not a single of waste paper in any one of the half-dozen open on either of the desk. There was not so much as an old upon the floor. A great of upon the cold the that Mr. Sleaford had himself in papers his departure. The that Isabel had him upon the previous night upon his desk, with the to the socket. George having his host's up and the room; and the occasional opening and of drawers, and of the of boxes, which had mixed with his all through that summer's night. It was all now. Mr Sleaford had of been making his for Camberwell—for England; if it was true that the family were going to America.
Early the next there came a very from the Albany Road. This was the of the neglected mansion, who had just of the Sleaford hegira, and who was in a of those three quarter's rent which he was likely to behold. He walked about the house with his hands in his pockets, kicking the doors open, and his late in very language. He into the parlour, where George and Sigismumd were taking French and French eggs, and at them, and something to the that it was like their to be making themselves so "jolly comfortable" in his house when he'd been by that of theirs. He used other that word "disreputable" when he spoke of the Sleafords; but Sigismund got up from the dirty table-cloth, and protested, with his mouth full, that he in the of the Sleafords; and that, although under a cloud, Mr. Sleaford would no make a point of looking up the three quarter's rent, and would post-office orders for the amount at the opportunity. To this the replied, that he his—Sigismund's—head would not till Mr. Sleaford did send the rent; which was about the only thing the of the said to either of the men. He about the rooms, the with his stick, and his into the to see if any of the had been therefrom. He over the rents in the carpets, the and upon the mahogany, the entire of and it was possible for or to be wanting; and every time he out any new in the room where the two men were taking their breakfast, he as if he would have come upon them for the cost of the damage.
"Is that the best you're a-having your out of? Where's the Britannia metal as I gave thirteen-and-six for seven year ago? Where did that twopenny-halfpenny blown-glass sugar-basin come from? It ain't mine; mine was di'mond-cut. Why, they've done me two hundred mischief. I to 'em the rent. The rent's the least part of the they've done me."
And then the too to be recorded in these pages, and then he about the garden; George and Sigismund their toilet-apparatus, and such as they had for the night's use, and them into a carpet-bag, and and fearfully, after the servant-maid a of half-crowns, and a to to Sigismund at his address in the Temple if she should any of the Sleafords.
So, in the morning, George Gilbert saw the last of the old house which for nearly seven years had Mr. Sleaford and his wife and children, the garden in which Isabel had away so many hours of her early girlhood; the under which she had over the open of her novels.
The men a at the nearest cab-stand, and to the of the who had to their goods. It was well for them, perhaps, that the and had been to that sanctuary; for the was in no to at trifles, and would have very Sigismund's wardrobe, and the bran-new which George Gilbert had to London.
They a small upon Mrs. Judkin, and then to Sigismund's chambers, where they encamped, and to make themselves comfortable, in a of way.
"You shall have Morgan's room," Sigismund said to his friend, "and I can make up a in the sitting-room; there's of and blankets."
They late in the at a in the near of those where law and have their head-quarters, and after dinner Sigismund the "Law List."
"We may out something about Mr. Sleaford in that," he said.
But the "Law List" told nothing of Mr. Sleaford. In Sigismund and George took it in turn to the long of legal names with the S. There were St. Johns and Simpsons, St. Evremonds and Smitherses, Standishes and Sykeses. There was almost every of appellation, and plebeian; but the name of Sleaford was not in the list: and the men returned the document to the waiter, and home how it was that Mr. Sleaford's name had no place among the names of his brotherhood.
I have very little to tell the days which the of George Gilbert's ticket left him free to in London. He to the theatres with his friend, and sat in upper boxes, in which there was a of the "order" element, these evenings. Sigismund also took him to al entertainments, where there were fireworks, and "polking," and stout; and in the George was to about the by himself, at the shop-windows, and and at for walking on the of the pavement; or else to on the window-seat in Sigismund's apartment, looking into the below, or his friend's pen across the paper. Sacred as the of may be, they must yet give way the of the press; and Sigismund was a for a man from the country who was upon a week's of London life.
For very of employment, George to take an in his friend's labour, and asked him questions about the that so from his pen.
"What's it all about, Sigismund?" he demanded. "Is it funny?"
"Funny!" Mr. Smith, with a look of horror; "I should think not, indeed. Who of numbers being funny? What the public want is plot, and of it; surprises, and of 'em; mystery, as thick as a November fog. Don't you know the of thing? 'The clock of St. Paul's had just eleven hours;'—it's a translation, you know, and St. Paul's for Notre Dame;—'a man came to appear upon the which itself all the length the of Waterloo and London.' There isn't any quay, you know; but you're to have it so, on account of the plot. 'This man—who had a true of vulture, the nose pointed, sharp, terrible; all that there is of the most ferocious; the cavernous, and full of a fire—carried a upon his back. Presently he stops himself. He with all his the quay, nearly desert; the water, black and shiny, which itself at his feet. He listens, but there is nothing. He himself upon the border of the quay. He puts the from his shoulders, and something of dull, heavy, slowly and into the water. At the that the with a noise to the of the river, there is a voice, loud and piercing, which to itself out of the darkness: 'Philip Launay, what do there with the of victim?'—That's the of thing for the public," said Mr. Smith; "or else a good story."
"What do you call a story?" Mr. Gilbert asked, innocently.
"Why, you see, when you're doing four great a week for a public that must have a of incident, you can't be as original as a of might you to be; and the next best thing you can do, if you haven't got ideas of your own, is to other people's ideas in an manner. Don't empty one man's pocket, but take a little all round. The a author to present his public with all the flowers of into every of garland. I'm doing a now—the 'Heart of Midlothian' and the 'Wandering Jew.' You've no idea how the two blend. In the place, I my period into the Middle Ages—there's nothing like the Middle Ages for over the of a story. Good me! why, what is there that isn't possible if you go to the time of the Plantagenets? I make Jeannie Deans a girl,—there's twice the in her if you make her dumb,—and I give her a and a tambourine, because, you see, the artist that of thing for his illustrations. I think you'd admit that I've very much upon Sir Walter Scott—a writer, I allow, but a failure in numbers—if you were to your over the story, George; there's only seventy-eight numbers out yet, but you'll be able to judge of the plot. Of I don't make Aureola,—I call my Jeannie 'Aureola;' a name, isn't it? and my own invention,—of I don't make Aureola walk from Edinburgh to London. What would be the good of that? why, walk it if they only took long about it. I make her walk from London to ROME, to a Papal Bull for the of her sister from the Tower of London. That's something like a walk, I myself; over the Alps—which of Aureola's in the snow, and out again by a Mount St. Bernard's dog; and then up alive by the they her of being to the Lollards; and out again by Cæsar Borgia, who to be that way, and a night's lodging, and Aureola's the in his bedroom, and her out and in love with her; and she from his out of a window, and lets herself the of the by means of her scarf, and her way to Rome, and an audience of the Pope, and mixed up with the Jesuits:—and that's where I work into the 'Wandering Jew,'" Mr. Smith.
George Gilbert to that in the days when the Plantagenet our happy isle, Ignatius Loyola had not yet his brotherhood; but Mr. Smith this with a of contempt.
"Oh, if you tie me to facts," he said, "I can't at all."
"But you like writing?"
"For the public? Oh, yes; I like for them. There's only one to the style—it's to give an author a bodies."
Mr. Gilbert was to that this last was to him.
"Why, you see, the public excitement," said Mr. Smith; "and in order to the up to a point, you're to have to bodies. Say your hero his father, and him in the coal-cellar in No. 1. What's the consequence? There's an of the in the coal-cellar through every chapter, like the in a or a symphony. You it in the treble, you catch it up in the bass; and then it goes up into the again, and then with a into the bass; and so on to the end of the story. And when you've once had to the of bodies, you're like a man who's to liquors, and to drinks and wishy-washy. I think there ought to be a by which the of the and might themselves to the of the bowl and dagger, the midnight rendezvous, the by lantern-light under a black of cypress, the white-robed in the a churchyard, and all the of fiction. But, you see, George, it isn't so easy to turn teetotaller," added Mr. Smith, doubtfully; "and I know that it is so very wise to make the experiment. Are not the and most of mankind? Isn't it for a man to do his best in the that is natural to him than to do in another man's line of business? 'Box and Cox' is not a great work when upon æsthetic principles; but I would be the author of 'Box and Cox,' and my audience with from the of the to the thereof, than a five-act tragedy, in the of which Aristotle himself no flaw, but from performance panic-stricken should away or the second act came to its close. I think I should like to have been Guilbert de Pixérécourt, the father and of melodrama, the man were thirty thousand times in France he died (and how many times in England?); the man who over the of his time, and has not yet to reign. Who any passage from the of Guilbert de Pixérécourt, or his name? But to this day his are in every country theatre; his and tremble; his their two hours' career of villany, to be off to dungeons, or to die and at the of virtue. Before nine o'clock to-night there will be country-folks for the of Theresa, the Orphan of Geneva, and over the of the Wandering Boys. But Guilbert de Pixérécourt was a great man; he was only popular. If a man can't have a in the Walhalla, isn't it something to have his name in big in the play-bills on the boulevard? and I wonder how long my friend Guilbert would have the stage, if he had Racine or Corneille. He did what it was in him to do, honestly; and he had his reward. Who would not wish to be great? Do you think I wouldn't be the author of the 'Vicar of Wakefield' than of 'Colonel Montefiasco?' I the 'Vicar of Wakefield,' too, but—"
George at his friend.
"But not Oliver Goldsmith's 'Vicar of Wakefield,'" Sigismund explained.
He had his pen now, and was walking up and the room with his hands in his pockets, and his with excitement.
"I should do the Vicar in the pre-Raphaelite style. Moses a of his father's—forged accommodation-bills, or something of that kind; sets out to go to the on a morning, not a in the garden. You the of the as they against the vicarage-windows; you see the light about Olivia's head, as she comes to watch her along the road; you see him away, and the girl him, and the atmosphere, and the of the in the corn-fields on the other of the road; and the low white gate swings-to with a little click, and Miss Primrose walks slowly to the house, and says, 'Papa, it's very warm;' and you know there's something going to happen.
"Then the second chapter comes, and Mr. Primrose has his dinner, and goes out to visit his poor; and the two girls walk about the garden with Mr. Burchell, for Moses, who NEVER COMES BACK. And then the of the begins, and Burchell his upon the Vicar. Nobody else good Mr. Primrose; but Burchell's is off him; and one night, when the are drawn, and the girls are at their work, and dear Mrs. Primrose is out for the poor, the Vicar opens his desk, and to a letter. You the of the light on the hearth, the slow of an eight-day clock in the the drawing-room door, the of Mrs. Primrose's scissors as they close upon the flannel. Sophia Burchell to a from the the Vicar's chair. He is a long time the book, and his looks over the Vicar's shoulder. He takes a of the of the open desk, and he sees the neatly-docketed papers, the bills, and of envelopes—what? a glove, a green kid-glove with white, which he to have by Moses when he started on that from which he returned. Can't you see the Vicar's face, as he looks at Burchell, and that his is discovered? I can. Can't you the the two men, the glances, the to that mystery, in every word that Burchell utters?
"That's how I should do the 'Vicar of Wakefield,'" said Sigismund Smith, triumphantly. "There wouldn't be much in it, you know; but the would be by Moses's in a a mile from the vicarage, and Burchell's eye. I say some people would out upon it, and that it was and immoral, and that the man who about a would be to the at the opportunity. But I don't the would take to their sons by of my fiction, in which the of would be to, and Nemesis, in the shape of Burchell, the reader."
Poor George Gilbert very to his friend's talk, which was not particularly to him. Sigismund "shop" to would to him, or him to talk; which was much the same to this man. I am there were times when his to his Mr. Smith a terrible to his friends and acquaintance. He would visit a country-house, and entertainment, and himself; and then, when all that was in his had been by and hochheimer, this would out into some peaceful garden, where dew-laden flowers their on the still air, and in the where the nightingale's "jug-jug" was to sound, would plan a murder, to be out in seventy-five numbers. Sometimes he was to ask permission of the of the country mansion; and when, on one occasion, after the flower-gardens and walls, the low towers and moats, of a dear old place that had once been a grange, he to that the spot was so peaceful it him of slow poisoning, and there would be any to his making the the of his next fiction,—the out, in a big voice that high up among the trees where the were cawing, "People it with fiends, my dear boy! You're welcome to people the place with fiends, as as I'm concerned."
