The Doctor's Wife
ON THE BRIDGE.
While George Gilbert was of Isabel Sleaford's and black eyes; while, in his long to and among the of his patients, he as to he ought to call upon Mr. Raymond when next he to Conventford, or he ought to go to Conventford for the purpose of paying his respects to Mr. Raymond,—the hand of Fate the balance; and the which she into the was no than the ordinary half-ounce of original which Government to convey, not from Indus to the Pole, but from the Land's End to the Highlands, for the small of a penny. While George Gilbert and doubted, and and with himself, after the manner of every home-bred man who to think that he loves well, and sadly that he may not love wisely,—Destiny, under the of a friend, gave him a push, and he over and ears into the ocean, and there was nothing left for him but to swim as best he might the upon the other side.
The from Sigismund was Oakbank, Conventford, May 23rd, 1853.
"Dear George," the author of "The Brand upon the Shoulder-blade," "I'm here for a days with my uncle Charles; and we've a in Lord Hurstonleigh's grounds, and we want you to join us. So, if your are not the most people in the world, you can give a holiday, and meet us on Wednesday morning, at twelve, if fine, at the Waverly Road lodge-gate to Hurstonleigh Park. Mrs. Pidgers—Pidgers is my uncle's housekeeper; a regular old dear, and such a hand at pie-crusts!—is going to pack up a basket,—and I know what Pidgers's are,—and we shall of sparkling, because, when my uncle this of thing, he do it; and we're to drink tea at one of Lord Hurstonleigh's model cottages, in his model village, with a model old woman, who's had all manner of for the dust-holes, and the hearth-stones, and the knife-boards, and all that of thing; and we're going to make a regular of it; and I shall that there's such a as 'the Demon of the Galleys' in the world, and that I'm a number with him,—which I am,—and the artist is waiting for a for his next cut.
"The are coming, of course, and Miss Sleaford; and, oh, by the bye, I want you to tell me all about by strychnine, I think I shall do a case or two in 'The D. of the G.'
"Twelve o'clock, time, remember! We come in a fly. You can your at Waverly.—Yours, S.S."
Yes; Fate, of any of the in so a as George Gilbert's destiny, this penny-post into the scale, and, lo! it was turned. The man read the over and over again, till it was and with much and refolding, and taking out of, and into, his waistcoat-pocket. A picnic! a in the Hurstonleigh grounds, with Isabel Sleaford! Other people were to be of the party; but George Gilbert that. He saw himself, with Isabel by his side, along the pathways, away into of verdure, where the low of the trees would meet above their heads, and them in from all the world. He himself talking to Mr. Sleaford's as he had talked, was likely to talk, with any voice to ears; he out and that day as we are to the days that are to come, and which—Heaven help our and presumption!—- are so different when they do come from the we have about them. Mr. Gilbert that May over and over again the Monday on which he Sigismund's letter, and the Wednesday morning. He at night, when his day's work was done, of Isabel, and what she would say to him, and how she would look at him, until those and looks him to the heart's core, and he was by the that it was all a settled thing, and that his love was returned. His love! Did he love her, then, already—this pale-faced person, he had only twice; who might be a Florence Nightingale, or a Madame de Laffarge, for all that he either one way or the other? Yes, he loved her; the flower that yet "thrived by the calendar" had into full bloom. He loved this woman, and in her, and was to her to his home she pleased to come thither; and had already pictured her opposite to him in the little parlour, making weak tea for him in a Britannia-metal teapot, upon his shirts, with Mrs. Jeffson as to there should be or mutton for the two o'clock dinner, up alone in that most little when the surgeon's were and upon being in the night, waiting to over little of cold meat and pickles, bread-and-cheese and celery. Yes; George pictured Miss Sleaford the of such a as this, and had no power to that there was any in the fancy; no of ear to the the and the story. Alas, Izzie! and are all your fancies, all the out of your novels, all your long day-dreams about Marie Antoinette and Charlotte Corday, Edith Dombey and Ernest Maltravers,—all your pictures of a modern Byron, fever-stricken at Missolonghi, and by you; a new Napoleon, to St. Helena, and followed, liberated, by you,—are they all come to this? Are none of the that to to to you? Are you to be Charlotte Corday, and die for your country? Are you to wear velvet, and diamonds in your hair, and to some Carker to a hostelry, and there and him? Are all the pages of the great book of life to be closed upon you—you, who to predestined, by of so many and fancies, to such a existence? Is all the of your to and into this,—a square-built at Graybridge-on-the-Wayverne, with a country for your husband?
George Gilbert was waiting at the low white gate the ivy-coloured on the Waverly Road when the from Conventford up, with Sigismund Smith the coachman, and him about a that had been in the ten years before; and Mr. Raymond, Miss Sleaford, and the inside. The had been waiting at the gate for a of an hour, and he had been up since six o'clock that morning, and his patients, doing a day's work in a hours. He had been home to dress, of course, and his and most clothes, and was, in fact, a of one of the in a fly-blown fashion-plate for June 1852, still in the window of a Graybridge tailor. He a monthly in his button-hole, and he a of flowers,—jonquils and polyanthuses, pink hawthorn, peonies, and sweet-brier,—which Mr. Jeffson had and up, with a view to their presentation to Isabel,—although there were flowers in Mr. Raymond's garden, as George his steward.
"Don't about that, Master Jarge," said the Yorkshireman; "th' 'll like the flowers if 'em her."
Of it for a moment entered into Mr Jeffson's mind that his master's be otherwise than welcome and to any woman living, least of all to a who was to earn her strangers.
"I'd like to see Miss Sleaford, Master Jarge," Mr. Jeffson said, in an manner, as George up the and Brown Molly's neck, to away from the low white gate of his domain.
George like the that the centre of his nosegay.
"I don't know why you should want to see Miss Sleaford any more than other girls, Jeff," he said.
"Well, you mind why, Master Jarge; I should like to see her; I'd give a to see her."
"Then we'll try and manage it, Jeff. We're to drink tea at Hurstonleigh; and we shall be there, I suppose, as soon as it's dark—between seven and eight o'clock, I say. You might the to Waverly, and Brown Molly on to Hurstonleigh, and stop at the alehouse—there's an alehouse, you know, though it is a model village—until I'm to come home; and you can the with the ostler, you know, and about the village,—and you're sure to us."
"Yes, yes, Master Jarge; I'll manage it."
So George was at his post a of an hour the up to the gate. He was there to open the door of the vehicle, and to give his hand to Isabel when she alighted. He the touch of her on his arm, and and like a girl as he met the of her great black eyes. Nobody took any notice of his embarrassment. Mr. Raymond and his nephew were with the that had been under the seats of the fly, and the were in their elders,—for to them the very of the was in those baskets.
There was a boy at the who was to take the Mr. Raymond should direct; so all was settled very quickly. The driver his the return journey, and off to Hurstonleigh to himself and his horse. The on the little party, with the on either of him as he went; and in the of these small George Gilbert to offer Isabel his arm. She took it without hesitation, and Sigismund himself on the other of her. Mr. Raymond on with the orphans, who the of the baskets; and the three people followed, walking slowly over the grass.
Isabel had put off her mourning. She had had but one black dress, child; and that being out, she was to upon her ordinary costume. If she had looked in the garden at Camberwell, with and a dress, she looked to-day, in clean muslin, fresh and crisp, in the as she walked, and with her under a broad-leaved hat. Her with the of the and the of the landscape; her step light and as she walked upon the turf. Her up by-and-by, when the little party came to a low iron gate, which there was a grove, a patch, and glades, and banks under foliage, and, in a below, a for over moss-grown rockwork, and away to meet the river.
"Oh, how it is!" Isabel; "how beautiful!"
She was a Cockney, child, and had the best part of her life the of Camberwell and Peckham. All this Midlandshire upon her like a of Paradise. Could the Garden of Eden have been more than this grove?—where the ground was with wild that under and centuries old; where the and on the pathways; where the of the music in the air. George looked at the girl's countenance, her lips, that were with the of her emotion.
"I did not think there be any place in England so beautiful," she said by-and-by, when George her with some upon the scene. "I it was only in Italy and in Greece, and those of places—where Childe Harold went—that it was like this. It makes one as if one go to the world again, doesn't it?" she asked naïvely.
George was to that, although the was very beautiful, it him with no to turn hermit, and take up his therein. But Isabel what he said to her. She was looking away into of light and shadow, and that in such a spot as this the hero of a woman's life might appear in all his glory. If she meet him now, this unknown being—the Childe Harold, the Lara, of her life! What if it was to be so? what if she was to meet him now, and the was to to-day,—this very day,—and all her life was to be changed? The day was like the of a story, somehow, as it was the other days of her life. She had of the holiday, and about it more than George had done; for there had been some for the man's visions, while hers had been baseless. What if Lord Hurstonleigh should to be in his grove, and should see her and her from death by drowning, or a bull, or something of that sort, and in love with her? Nothing was more life-like or likely, according to Izzie's of three-volume novels. Unhappily she from Mr. Raymond that Lord Hurstonleigh was an married man, and was, moreover, in the south of France; so that was shattered. But there is no point of the from which a hero may not come. There was yet; there was that this spring-day might not close as so many days had closed upon the same record, the same empty page.
Mr. Raymond was in his to-day. He liked to be with people, and was than the of them in his fresh of all that is and upon earth. He himself to the of his protégées, and to a good of to them in a easy-going manner, that took the out of those Pierian waters, for which the had very small affection. They were and unimpressionable; but, then, were they not the children of that of his, who had acquired, by of her many troubles, a of right to a upon happy people?
"If she had left me such an as that girl Isabel, I would have thanked her for dying," Mr. Raymond "That girl has imitation,—the and of the brain,—ideality, and comparison. What I not make of such a girl as that? And yet—"
Mr. Raymond only the with a sigh. He was that, after all, these might not be the best gifts for a woman. It would have been better, perhaps, for Isabel to have the organ of pudding-making and stocking-darning, if those useful are by an organ. The was that the life for that girl with the yellow in her was to the home of a simple-hearted country surgeon, and his children to be men and women.
"I that is the best," Mr. Raymond said to himself.
He had the now, and had sent them on to walk with Sigismund Smith, who related to them the of "Lilian the Deserted," with such and as the to their years. The of Conventford had got of the orphans, and was by himself in those glades, his as he went, and up his every now and then to all the of the warm air.
"Poor little child!" he mused, "will her or her dreams? Will she that good, country surgeon, who has in love with her? He can give her a home and a shelter; and she such a little creature, just the of girl to into some of if she were left to herself. Perhaps it's about the best thing that to her. I should like to have a for her, a life with more colour in it. She's so pretty—so pretty; and when she talks, and her lights up, a of picture comes into my mind of what she would be in a great saloon, with of lights about her, and of colour, making a for her beauty; and men and her, to her talk and see her smile. I can see her like this; and then, when I what her life is likely to be, I to sorry for her, just as if she were some nun, to be alive by-and-by. Sometimes I have had a that if he were to come home and see her—but that's an old busybody's dream. When did a create anything but and misery? I say Beatrice her word, and did make Benedick wretched. No; Miss Sleaford must she may, and be happy or miserable, according to the of averages; and as for him—"
Mr. Raymond stopped; and the of the party in under the low of the trees, he seated himself upon a of timber, and took a book out of his pocket. It was a book that had been sent by post, for the paper was still about it. It was a little volume, in green cloth, with edges, and the gilt-letter title on the of the set that the book "An Alien's Dreams." An alien's be nothing but poetry; and as the name of the was not printed under the title, it was only natural that Mr. Raymond should, not open the book immediately, but should and the about in his hands, and looking at it with a of countenance.
"An alien!" he exclaimed; "why, in the name of all the of the present day, should a man with fifteen thousand a year, and one of the in Midlandshire, call himself an alien? 'An Alien's Dreams'—and such dreams! I had a look at them this morning, without the leaves. It's always a mistake to cut the of people's poetry. Such dreams! Surely no have been with anything like them, unless he was of pork, or wine, or the of his bedroom. Imperfect has a good to do with it, I say. To think that Roland Lansdell should such stuff—such a man as he is, too—such a generous-hearted, high-minded fellow, who might be—"
Mr. Raymond opened the in a very fashion, almost as if he something might out of it, and looked in a manner the leaves, the line or so of a poem, and then on to another, and to every of whiles.
"Imogen!" he exclaimed; "'To Imogen!' As if was called Imogen out of Shakespeare's play and Monk Lewis's ballad! 'To Imogen:'
'Do you think of me, proud and Imogen,
As I think, ah! sadly think, of thee—
When the on the lea, Imogen,
And the low light dies the sea?'
'Broken!' 'Shattered!' 'Blighted!' Lively titles to the reader! Here's a of thing:
'Like an actor in a play,
Like a in a dream,
Like a left to stray
Rudderless the stream,—
This is what my life has grown, Ida Lee,
Since false left me lone, Ida Lee.
And I wonder sometimes when the laugh is loud,
And I wonder at the of the crowd,
And the that they tread,
Till I think at last I must be dead—
Till I that I am dead.'
And to think that Roland Lansdell should waste his time in this of thing! And here's his letter, boy!—his long letter,—in which he tells me how he the verses, and how them was a of to him, a safety-valve for so much anger against a world that doesn't with the Utopian of a man with fifteen thousand a year and nothing to do. If some would turn up, in the person of one of Roland's gamekeepers, now, and my friend as a heir, and turn him out of doors and baggage, and with very little and baggage, after the manner of those which the up to nature so exactly, what a it would be for the author of 'An Alien's Dreams!' If he only himself without a in the world, what a soldier in the great of life, what a hero, he might be! But as it is, he is nothing than a of militia, with a uniform, and a long that is only meant for show. My Roland! my Roland!" Mr. Raymond sadly, as he the little into his pocket; "I am so sorry that you too should be with the of our time, the that into a for which age is the only cure."
But he had no time to waste upon any about Mr Roland Lansdell, master of Lansdell Priory, one of the seats in Midlandshire, and who was just now in Greece, upon a Byronic of that had of six months, and was likely to last much longer.
It was nearly three o'clock now, and high time for the opening of the hampers, Mr. Raymond declared, when he the of the party, much to the of the orphans, who were always hungry, and who ate so much, and yet so and skeleton-like of aspect, that they presented a pair of to the of the physiologist. The had been to a little ivy-sheltered arbour, high above the waterfall; and here Mr. Raymond them, out his one after another; a tongue, then a pair of fowls, a packet of sandwiches, a great (at of which the of the glistened), in the way of pastry, semi-transparent biscuits, and a little of Stilton cheese, to say nothing of bottles of Madeira and Burgundy.
Perhaps there was a party. To eat cold chicken and drink Burgundy in the open air on a May is always an of thing, though the of your may be the of the Sussex Downs, or the of the Yorkshire Wolds; but to drink the in that little of Hurstonleigh, with the of the time to your laughter, the of you from all the world, is the very of in the way of a picnic. And then Mr. Raymond's were so young! It was so easy for them to all the Past on the of that grove, and to narrow their into the life of that one day. Even Isabel that she had a Destiny, and to be happy in a way, without a of the who was so long coming.
It may be that the Burgundy had something to do with George Gilbert's enthusiasm; but, by and bye, after the débris of the dinner had been away, and the little party the table, talking with that of and of language which is so to result from the of in the open air, the that all the earth a more than the girl who sat opposite to him, with her against the wood-work of the arbour, and her on her knee. She did not say very much, in with Sigismund and Mr. Raymond, who were neither of them hands at talking; but when she spoke, there was something and in her words,—something that set George about her anew, and him her more than ever. He all the of now; he was false to all the of manhood; he only that Isabel Sleaford was the upon earth; he only that he loved her, and that his love, like all true love, was with of his own merits, and for hers. He loved her as purely and as if he had been able to his in the written; but not being able to it, his love and himself and commonplace.
I must not too long on this picnic, though it a lifetime to George Gilbert, for he walked with Isabel through the Hurstonleigh and Hurstonleigh village, and he with her in the little at Hurstonleigh, and upon the which the Wayverne like a of silver, in and out among the rushes. He there by her while the and Sigismund and Mr. Raymond were tea at the model cottage, and the model old woman's into such a of "flustrification," as she herself it, that she the tea-kettle, and was in of one of her best "chaney" saucers, produced from a in of her friend and patron, Charles Raymond.
George on the little with Isabel, and somehow or other, still by the Burgundy, his all of a a voice, and he told her that he loved her, and that his upon earth was the of her for his wife.
I that little must be a story, in its way; for when a woman it for the time, she is to to the person who it, or he may tell his tale. Isabel with a most complacency; not she George's for her, but this was the little of in her life, and she that the was all at once, and that she was going to be a heroine. She this; and with this a of for the man at her side, through agency all these came to her.
And all this time George was with her, and arguing, from her and her silence, that his was not hopeless. Emboldened by the girl's encouragement, he more and more eloquent, and on to tell her how he had loved her from the first; yes, from that summer's afternoon—when he had her under the pear-trees in the old-fashioned garden, with the low yellow light her.
"Of I didn't know then that I loved you, Isabel—oh, may I call you Isabel? it is such a name. I have it over and over and over on the of a blotting-book at home, very often without that I was it. I only at that I you, you are so beautiful, and so different from other women; and then, when I was always of you, and about you, I wouldn't that it was I loved you. It is only to-day—this dear, happy day—that has me what I have all along; and now I know that I have loved you from the first, Isabel, dear Isabel, from the very first."
All this was as it should be. Isabel's like the of a bird that its flight.
"This is what it is to be a heroine," she thought, as she looked at the pebbles, the river weeds, under the clear water; and yet all the time, by of second-sight, that George Gilbert was at her and her. She didn't like him, but she liked him to be there talking to her. The she for the time were to her of their novelty, but they took no from the that spoke them. Any other good-looking, respectably-dressed man would have been as much to her as George Gilbert was. But then she did not know this. It was so very easy for her to mistake her in the "situation;" the bridge, the water, the twilight, the of that one of Burgundy, and, above all, the of being a for the time in her life—it was so easy to mistake all these for that which she did not feel,—a for George Gilbert.
While the man was still pleading, while she was still to him, and and at him out of those tawny-coloured eyes, which black just now under the of their lashes, Sigismund and the appeared at the gate of the and hallooing, to that the tea was all ready.
"Oh, Isabel!" George, "they are coming, and it maybe so long I see you again alone. Isabel, dear Isabel! do tell me that you will make me happy—tell me that you will be my wife!"
He did not ask her if she loved him; he was too much in love with her—too with her and beauty, and his own inferiority—to his by such a question. If she would him, and let him love her, and by-and-by his by him a little, surely that would be to satisfy his most wishes.
"Dear Isabel, you will me, won't you? You can't to say no,—you would have said it now. You would not be so as to let me hope, for a minute, if you meant to me."
"I have you—you have me—such a time," the girl murmured.
"But long to love you with a love that will last all my life," George answered eagerly. "I shall have no to make you happy, Isabel. I know that you are so that you ought to a very different from me,—a man who give you a house, and and horses, and all that of thing; but he love you than I, and he mightn't love you as well, perhaps; and I'll work for you, Isabel, as no man before. You shall know what is, darling, if you will be my wife."
"I shouldn't mind being poor," Isabel answered, dreamily.
She was that Walter Gay had been poor, and that the of Florence's life had been the wedding in the little City church, and the long sea with her husband. This of was almost as as Edith's wealth, with diamonds about and upon, and for every-day wear.
"I shouldn't mind so much being poor," the girl; for she thought, if she didn't a or a Dombey, it would be at least something to the phase of poverty.
George Gilbert upon the words.
"Ah, then, you will me, Isabel? you will me, my own darling, my wife?"
He was almost by the of his own feelings, as he and the little hand on the moss-grown of the bridge.
"Oh, Isabel, if you only know how happy you have me! if you only know—"
She looked at him with a in her face. Was it all settled, then, so suddenly—with so little consideration? Yes, it was all settled; she was with one of those that for a lifetime. George had said something to that effect. The had begun, and she was a heroine.
"Good me!" Mr. Smith, as he on the of the little bridge, and himself there in the of an Blondin; "if the model old woman who has had so many prizes—we've been looking at her diplomas, and glazed, in a that I couldn't have to out of "Lilian the Deserted" (who life as the cottager's daughter, you know, and with the in top-boots out of a diamond-paned window—and I've been trying the model old woman's windows, and Lilian couldn't have done it),—but I was about to remark, that if the old woman hasn't had a prize for a model temper, you two will catch it for the tea waiting. Why, Izzie, what's the matter? you and George are looking as as—is it, eh?—yes, it is: isn't it? Hooray! Didn't I see it from the first?" Mr. Smith, an upon the balustrade, and pointing to the two with a finger. "When George asked me for your letter, Izzie,—the little of a you me when you left Camberwell,—didn't I see him it up as as if it had been a fifty-pound note and it into his waistcoat-pocket, and then try to look as if he hadn't done it? Do you think I wasn't fly, then? A knowledge of nature I should have, if I couldn't see through that. The of Octavio Montefiasco, the Demon of the Galleys, himself that he the of the 'spoons.' Don't be downhearted, George," Sigismund, jumping off the of the bridge, and his hand to his friend. "Accept the of one who, with a long ber-lighted by the ber-lasting in-fer-luence of ker-rime, can-er yet-er a ther-rob in with virr-tue."
After this they all left the bridge, and to the little cottage, where Mr. Raymond had been a of Yankee levée, for the of the model villagers, every one of him, and his on some point of law, medicine, or economy. The tea was upon a little table, close to the window, in the full light of the low sun. Isabel sat with her to that low western light, and George sat next to her, at her in a rapture, and at himself for his own in having asked her to be his wife. That Sigismund called Mr. Raymond aside, to tea, on the of him a highly-coloured of Joseph and his Brethren, with a family the brethren; and told him in a loud what had on the little bridge. So it was that George and Isabel took their tea in silence, and were in the of their teacups. But they were any from Sigismund, as that it was as much as he do to his own against the in the of the poundcake, to say nothing of a of which the model old woman produced for the of the visitors.
The presently, and the to in an opal-tinted sky. Mr. Raymond, Sigismund, and the orphans, themselves in packing the with the knives, plates, and which had been used for the picnic. The was to them all up at the cottage. Isabel in the little doorway, looking out at the village, the lights in the windows, the lazy in the upon the green, and a man a of the door of the little inn.
"That man with the is Jeffson, my father's gardener; I like to call him a servant, for he is a of of my mother's family," George said, with a little confusion; for he that Miss Sleaford's might take at the idea of any such her husband and his servant; "and he is such a good fellow! And what do you think, Isabel?" the man added, his voice to a whisper; "poor Jeffson has come all the way from Gray on purpose to see you, he has me say that you are very beautiful; and I think he so long ago that I had in love with you. Would you have any to walk over and see him, Isabel, or shall I call him here?"
"I'll go to him, if you like; I should like very much to see him," the girl answered.
She took the arm George offered her. Of it was only right that she should take his arm. It was all a settled thing now.
"Miss Sleaford has come to see you, Jeff," the man said, when they came to where the Yorkshireman was standing.
Poor Jeff had very little to say upon this trying occasion. He took off his hat, and bareheaded, and blushing—as George spoke of him and him—yet all the while a watch upon Isabel's face. He see that very well in the light, for Miss Sleaford had left her in the cottage, and bareheaded, with her the west, while George on about Jeff and his old school-days, when Jeff and he had been such friends and playfellows.
But the from Conventford came out of the inn-yard as they there, and this was a for Isabel to to the cottage. She out her hand to Mr. Jeffson as she him good night, and then back, still by George, who her into the presently, and her good night in a very manner; for he was a man themselves from eyes, and, indeed, only appeared under the of emotion.
