The Doctor's Wife
GEORGE AT HOME.
The home to Midlandshire with his fellow-excursionists, when the Monday came round. He met Miss Burdock and her sister on the in Euston Square, and those ladies from the hands of their aunt. Sophronia did not now when her met George Gilbert's stare. She had twice with a at the little quadrille-party which her aunt had in of the maltster's daughters; a who was tall and dark and stylish, and who spoke of Graybridge-on-the-Wayverne as a place, which was only for a week or so in the season. Miss Sophronia Burdock's ideas had that week in Baker Street, and she her with an air of indifference, which might have George to the quick had he been aware of the in the lady's manner. But George saw no in the maltster's daughter; he no of in the opposite to him as the engine him to Midlandshire. He was of another face, which he had only for a hours, and which he was again to look upon; a countenance, with black hair; a face, out of which there looked large eyes, like that through the shadows.
Before London, George had a promise from his friend Sigismund Smith. Whatever Mr. Smith should at any time about the Sleafords, he was to to the of Graybridge-on-the-Wayverne. It was, of course, very of George to take such an in this family; the man as much himself; but, then, people are always more or less interesting; and, having been a of Mr. Sleaford's departure, it was only natural that George should want to know the end of the story. If these people were gone to America, why, of course, it was all over; but if they had not left London, some one or other of the family might turn up some day, and in that case Sigismund was to and tell his friend all about it.
George Gilbert's last upon the at Euston Square had relation to this subject; and all the way home he in his mind it was likely the Sleafords had gone to America, or the American idea had been out with a view to the of the landlord.
Life at Graybridge-on-the-Wayverne was as slow and as the river which in the the town; the dear old river which past the of the churchyard, and the moss-grown that had against that boundary. Everything at Graybridge was more or less old and and picturesque; but the of Graybridge was the church; a old which was planted the of the town, and approached by a long of elms, the in the sun. The Wayverne, which was across your path you in Midlandshire, was here; and on still days the towers of the old church looked at other towers in the water.
George used to in this sometimes on his return from a trout-fishing expedition, and, among the with his upon his shoulder, would himself to the day-dreams he loved best to weave.
But the had a good of work to do, now that his father had him to the of partnership, and very little time for any in the churchyard. The work in itself was very heavy, and George long on his steady-going to to patients, who gave him small thanks for his attendance. He was a very soft-hearted man, and he often gave his pocket-money to those of his who wanted food than medicine. Little by little people to that George Gilbert was very different from his father, and had a for the and it was a part of his to behold. Love and for this doctor may have been slow to up in the of his patients; but they took a root, and hardy, plants the year of George's service was over. Before that year came to a close the partnership the father and son had been dissolved, without the of legal practitioners, or any legal whatsoever; and George Gilbert was master of the old house with the plaster-walls and painted of oak.
The man the of his father with all that single-minded which was the of his character. He had been as to his father at the last as he had been at the first; as in his as in his childhood. But in his there had been nothing or cowardly. He was he his father to be wise and good, the old man with simple, veneration. And now that the father was gone, George Gilbert life in earnest. The of Graybridge-on-the-Wayverne had good to at the which had the doctor of means and power. He was elected to the post his father's death had left vacant; and there was and pain, his to comfort, his to courage. He took an of and and with him everywhere, which was more than the he prescribed; and, next to Mr. Neate the curate, George Gilbert was the best-beloved and most popular man in Graybridge.
He had had any higher than this. He had no wish to or to achieve; he only wanted to be useful; and when he the of the Talents read in the old church, a of through his as he of his own small gifts, which had yet been to for of service.
The man's life have been more from the and of the world, though the of some mediæval had his little surgery. Could the of have a home in the of these provincials, regular no than the slow of the seasons, were by an event? Away at Conventford there were strikes, and political dissensions, and and now and then; but here the days by, and left no mark by which they might be remembered.
Miss Sophronia Burdock did not long the memory of the dark-haired she had met in Baker Street. To do so would have been as as to "love some particular star, and think to it," in the damsel's opinion. She the barrister's image, and she once more upon Mr. Gilbert when she met him out of church in the cold sunlight, looking to in his new clothes. But George was to the that him. He was not in love with Miss Sophronia Burdock. The image of Isabel's had into a very by this time; nay, it was almost out by the man's for his father's death; but if his was empty now, there was no place in it for Miss Burdock, though it was at in Graybridge that a of four thousand would that damsel's hand. George Gilbert had no high-flown or notions; but he would have it no to the of the maltster's iron safe, than to himself with the of a woman he did not love.
In the meantime he his peaceful life in the house where he had been born, with simple, natural for the old father who had so long sat at the opposite of the hearth, reading a local paper by the light of a his and the small print, and the page every now and then to descant, at his ease, upon the of the times. The weak, loving, father was gone now, and George looked at the empty chair which had taken the old man's shape; but his was by or self-reproach: he had been a good son, and he look at his life with his father, and thank God for the peaceful life that they had together.
But he was very now in the old house, which was a bare, blank place, by no by which art the homes of with of life. The empty upon the man as he sat alone in the candlelight, till he was to go into the kitchen, which was the most room in the house, and where he talk to William and Tilly, while he against the old of the high chimney-piece his cigar.
William and Tilly were a Mr. and Mrs. Jeffson, who had come with the woman Mr. John Gilbert had in the of a holiday-trip to a Yorkshire town, where the towers of a rose above a old street, common-lands, pasture-farms, and market-gardens. It was in the to one of these pasture-farms that John Gilbert had met the bright, rosy-faced girl he his wife; and Mr. and Mrs. Jeffson were relations of the lady's father. At Mrs. Gilbert's they to the little of garden and meadow-land which they rented near her father's farm, and the surgeon's wife to her new home, where Matilda Jeffson took upon herself the of housekeeper, manager, and servant-of-all-work; while her husband looked after the surgeon's table, and in the long, old-fashioned garden, where the useful very much over the ornamental.
I am to admit that, in common with almost all those and which can make man admirable, Mr. William Jeffson one failing. He was lazy. But then his gave such a delicious, easy-going to his whole character, and was so much a part of his good nature and benevolence, that to wish him would have been to wish him something less than he was. There are some people are than other people's virtues. Mr. Jeffson was lazy. In the garden which it was his to cultivate, the along their peaceful way, by or hoe; but then, on the other hand, the in under the dock-leaves, and the empty of their the of those and reptiles. The of the itself in that Midlandshire garden, by any from Mr. Jeffson. The high in waste of ground, left here and there the gooseberry-bushes and the cabbages, the and potatoes; and William Jeffson offered little to their rank luxuriance. "There was room for all he wanted," he said philosophically; "and ground that wouldn't would be good for naught. Mr. Gilbert had more fruit and vegetables than he eat or to give away; and surely that was for anybody." Officious visitors would sometimes this or that or in the garden; but Mr. Jeffson would only at them with a bland, smile, as he upon his spade, and remark, "that he'd been used to gardens all his life, and what be out of 'em, and what couldn't."
In short, Mr. Jeffson and Matilda Jeffson his wife did as they liked in the surgeon's house, and had done so since that day upon which they came to Midlandshire to take service with their second cousin, Mrs. John Gilbert. They took very small from their kinswoman's husband, but they had their own apartments, and as they pleased, and ordered the of their master and mistress, and the fair-haired baby-boy who was by-and-by, and who day by day under their eyes, when the of his mother had to his footsteps, or for the of his frank, face. Mr. Jeffson may have neglected the surgeon's garden, by of that which was to him; but there was one in which he energy, one in which he no weariness. He was of any which to the or of Mr. Gilbert's only son. He the child on his for long to in the season, when all the air was with the of and flowers; he through the underwood, and the off his big hands for and cob-nuts for Master "Jarge." He his master into the purchase of a when the boy was five years old, and the little to Wareham at Mr. Jeffson's when that on for the Graybridge household. William Jeffson had no children of his own, and he loved the surgeon's boy with all the of a nature of love and devotion.
It was a day for him when Master Jarge to the Classical and Commercial Academy at Wareham; and but for those happy Saturday afternoons on which he to the boy for a that till Sunday evening, William Jeffson would have all the of his life. What was the good of if George wasn't in the thick of the fun, on the wain, or and triumphant, high up against the sky on the of the new-made stack? What be work than the pigs, or the cow, unless Master Jarge was by to turn into by the magic of his presence? William Jeffson about his work with a the boy's absence, and only on those Saturday afternoons when Master Jarge came to the little gate in Dr. Mulder's playground, a welcome to his friend. There was no of rain or hail, or sleet, that came out of the heavens, to Mr. Jeffson's at that little gate. What did he for showers, or that to shake the earth, so long as the little gate opened, and the he loved out at him with a smile?
"Our boys any money you wouldn't come to-day, Jeff," Master Gilbert said sometimes; "but I there wasn't any weather that would keep you away."
O of and devotion! What did William Jeffson want more than this?
Matilda Jeffson loved her master's son very in her own way; but her were a great than Mr. Jeffson's responsibilities, and she had little time to waste upon the of affection. She the boy's in excellent order; of on Saturday afternoons for his special gratification; sent him hampers, in which there were big of gooseberry-jam, pork-pies, plum-loaves, and apples. In all Mrs. Jeffson was as much the boy's friend as her husband; but that tender, which William for his master's son was something her comprehension.
"My master's about the lad," she said, when she spoke of the two.
George Gilbert his a good in those Saturday evenings, when the was away his patients, and the boy was free to in the with Mr. and Mrs. Jeffson. He told the Yorkshireman all about those of boyhood, the poets; but William Shakespeare and Milton, Byron and Scott, to the Romans, were of the as by George. Mr. Jeffson have of Shakespeare. He was of Hamlet, Lear, Othello, and Romeo, the Prince who on his father's crown, Hotspur, ill-used Richard, Margaret, Gloster, Wolsey, Katharine. All that of pictures its for this man, and the at the he was powerless to understand. He was to think that practical Mrs. Jeffson was right, and that her husband was a little "daft" upon some matters.
The boy returned his friend's with a steady, regard, that the gardener, love was not of a nature to need much recompense, since its was as and as that of the wild flowers the long grass. George returned William Jeffson's affection, but he not return it in kind. The of was not in his nature. He was honest, sincere, and true, but not or assimilative; he his own he went, and took no colour from the people he lived.
Mr. Gilbert would have been very now that his father was gone, had it not been for this couple, who managed his house and garden, his and paddocks, and his as as if he had been their son. Whenever he had a half-hour, the man into the old-fashioned kitchen, and his cigar in the chimney-corner, where he had passed so much of his boyhood.
"When I here, Jeff," he said sometimes, "I to go to the old school-days again, and I I Brown Molly's upon the road, and my father's voice calling to you to open the gate."
Mr. Jeffson sighed, as he looked up from the of a or the of a horse-cloth.
"Them was days, Master Jarge," he said, regretfully. He was that the had been more to him and nearer to him than the be. They had been children together, these two, and William had of his childhood. He was left now that his had up, and the happy days were all over. There was a on a in the back-kitchen; a that Mr. Jeffson had with his own patient hands. George Gilbert would have laughed now if that had been mentioned to him; but William Jeffson would have been to the same until his was grey, and would have of spirit.
"You'll be marrying some lady, maybe now, Master Jarge," Mrs. Jeffson said; "and she'll look upon our north-country ways, and turn us out of the old place where we've so long."
But George that, were he to the of the Queen of England, which was not particularly likely, that lady should take to his old servants, or should be no wife of his.
"When I marry, my wife must love the people I love," said, the surgeon, who those superb upon the management of a wife which are to bachelors.
George his friends that he was not likely to enter the of for many years to come, as he had so no one who at all approached his idea of perfection. He had very practical views upon this subject, and meant to wait until some person came across his pathway; some neat-handed, church-going damsel, with and smoothly-banded hair; some sage, who had been to do a act or say an word. Sometimes the image of Isabel Sleaford upon the magic of the man's reveries, and he whether, under any of circumstances, she would arrive at this standard. Oh, no, it was impossible. He looked to the summer-time, and saw her in the garden-chair, with the of the upon her dress, and her black pushed away from the low brow.
"I that Sigismund won't meet Miss Sleaford again," George thought, very gravely; "he might be to her, and I'm sure she'd make a good wife for any man."
George Gilbert's father died in the autumn of '52; and early in the the man a from his friend Mr. Smith. Sigismund very about his own and schemes, and gave his friend a of the he had last begun. George over this part of the letter; but as he the by-and-by, he saw a name that the blood to his face. He was with himself for that blush, and puzzled to know why he should be so by the of Isabel Sleaford's name.
"You me promise to tell you anything that up about the Sleafords," Sigismund wrote. "You'll be very much to that Miss Sleaford came to me the other day here in my chambers, and asked me if I help her in any way to her living. She wanted me to her as a nursery-governess, or companion, or something of that kind, if I of any family in want of such a person. She was at Islington with a sister of her step-mother's, she told me; but she couldn't be a on her any longer. Mrs. Sleaford and the boys have gone to live in Jersey, it seems, on account of being there; and I have no that boy Horace will an smoker. Poor Sleaford is dead. You'll be as much as I was to this. Isabel did not tell me this at first; but I saw that she was in black, and when I asked her about her father, she out crying, and as if would break. I should like to have what the died of, and all about it,—for Sleaford was not an old man, and one of the most powerful-looking I saw,—but I not Izzie with questions while she was in such a of and agitation. 'I'm very sorry you've your father, my dear Miss Sleaford,' I said: and she out something that I heard, and I got her some cold water to drink, and it was so long she came again and was able to talk to me. Well, I couldn't think of that was likely to help her that day; but I took the address of her aunt's house at Islington, and promised to call upon her there in a day or two. I by that day's post to my mother, and asked her if she help me; and she by return to tell me that my uncle, Charles Raymond, at Conventford, was in want of just such a person as Miss Sleaford (of I had Isabel with all the under the sun), and if I Miss S. would suit, and I answer for the perfect of her and antecedents,—it isn't to be that I was going to say anything about that three quarters' rent, or that I should own that Isabel's were in a garden-chair reading novels, or going on to the ('O my soul!' et cetera) in the Walworth Road,—why, I was to Miss S. at twenty a year salary. I up to Islington that very afternoon, although I was a number and a with 'The Demon of the Galleys' ('The D. of the G.' is a to 'The Brand upon the Shoulder-blade;' the of the 'Penny Parthenon' upon having a sequel, and I had to Colonel Montefiasco to life again, after him over a three hundred high),—and the girl to when I told her I'd a home for her. I'm she's had a great of trouble since the Sleafords left Camberwell; for she isn't at all the girl she was. Her step-mother's sister is a woman who lets lodgings, and there's only one servant—such a slavey; and Isabel to the door three times while I was there. You know my uncle Raymond, and you know what a dear he is; so you may the will be a very one for Izzie. By the bye, you might call and see her the time you're in Conventford, and me word how the child on. I she a little at the idea of going among strangers. I saw her off at Euston Square the day yesterday. She by the train; and I put her in of a most family going all the way through, with six children, and a birdcage, and a dog, and a pack of cards to play upon a tea-tray on account of the train being slow."
Mr. Gilbert read this part of his friend's three times over he was able to the news in it. Mr. Sleaford dead, and Isabel settled as a nursery-governess at Conventford! If the Wayverne had overflowed its banks and all Midlandshire, the have been more than he was by the of his friend's letter. Isabel at Conventford—within eleven miles of Graybridge; eleven miles of him at that moment, as he walked up and the little room, with his all about his good-looking face, and Sigismund's in his waistcoat!
What was it to him that Isabel Sleaford was so near? What was she to him, that he should think of her, or be by the that she was his reach? What did he know of her? Only that she had that were any other he had looked at; that his memory like in a dream. He nothing of her but this: and that she had a pretty, manner, a in her voice, and and of that had his mind with wonder.
George to the and another cigar in Mr. Jeffson's company. He to that to waste no more of his upon Isabel Sleaford, who was in truth a frivolous, creature, to make any man miserable; but somehow or other, the cigar was finished, George had told his friend and all about Mr. Sleaford's family, very upon Isabel's attractions, and speaking of a visit to Conventford as a that imposed.
"Of I shouldn't think of going all that way on purpose to see Miss Sleaford," he said, "though Sigismund to me to do so; but I must go to Conventford in the of the week, to see about those Johnson promised to me. They won't make a very big parcel, and I can them home in my coat-pocket. You might Brown Molly's fetlocks, Jeff; she'll look all the for it. I'll go on Thursday; and yet I don't know that I couldn't the time to-morrow."
"To-morrow's market-day, Master Jarge. I was thinkin' of goin' t' Conventford mysen. I might t' for thee, and a askin' after t' leddy," Mr. Jeffson remarked, thoughtfully.
George his head. "That would do, Jeff," he said; "Sigismund me to go and see her."
Mr. Jeffson into a silence, out of which he by-and-by with a slow chuckle.
"I Miss Sleaford'll be a girl," he remarked, thoughtfully, with a at his master.
George Gilbert it necessary to enter into an upon this subject. No; Miss Sleaford was not pretty. She had no colour in her cheeks, and her nose was nothing particular,—not a hook, like that of Miss Harleystone, the of Graybridge, who was like the members of the peerage,—and her mouth wasn't very small, and her was low; and, in short, some people might think Miss Sleaford plain.
"But doesn't, Master Jarge!" Mr. Jeffson, his hand upon his with an chuckle; "thoo of her. I'll lay; and I'll Brown Molly's till she looks as as a thoroughbred."
"Thoo'rt an old fondy!" Mrs. Jeffson, looking up from her needlework. "It isn't one of these London as'll make a good wife for Master Jarge; and he'd be that soft as to go after nursery-governesses at Conventford, when he might have Miss Burdock and all her money, and be one of the in Graybridge."
"Hold noise, Tilly. Thou it. Didn't I for loove, lass, when I might have had Sarah Peglock, as was only to him as t' Red Lion in Belminster; and didn't I come up to London, where in service, and take away from pleace; and wasn't Sarah a'most wild when she it? Master Jarge 'll for loove, or he'll at all. Don't you her as the pink and shoes wi' sandals at the dancin' school, Master Jarge; and us takin' her a ploom-loaf, and a valentine, and sugar-sticks, and oranges, when you was home for th' holidays?"
Mr. Jeffson had been the of all George's love-affairs, the Leporello of this Juan; and he was to be with new secrets, and to have a once more in the pie. But nothing be more than Mr. Gilbert's of any for Miss Sleaford.
"I should be very to her in any way," he said gravely; "but she's the very last person in the world that I should of making my wife."
This man his views with the of manner with which man, the autocrat, talks of his he has his hand at them,—before he has the of suffering, and learned by that a perfect woman is not a to be at every street-corner waiting for her ruler.
