The Doctor's Wife
MISS SLEAFORD'S ENGAGEMENT.
Isabel Sleaford was "engaged." She this when she on the after that day in Hurstonleigh grove, and that there a person who was to be of her. She this as she the looking-glass, the long of into a great knot, that too for her head. Her life was all settled. She was not to be a great or an actress. The of the Siddons might have on her shoulders, but she was to its on any stage. She was not to be anything great. She was only to be a country surgeon's wife.
It was very commonplace, perhaps; and yet this girl—this and creature—felt some little in her new position. After all, she had read many in which the was very little more than this,—three of love-making, and a wedding at the end of the chapter. She was not to be an Edith Dombey or a Jane Eyre. Oh, to have been Jane Eyre, and to away on the cold and starve,—wouldn't that have been delicious!
No, there was to be a very of in her life; but still some romance. George Gilbert would be very devoted, and would her always, of course. She gave her a little as she that, at the worst, she him as Edith Dombey, and herself that way; though she was how Edith Dombey's of might answer without the velvet, and diamond coronet, and other "properties" to the rôle.
In the meanwhile, Miss Sleaford performed her as best she could, and the in a of way, off in the middle of the of a to promise them that they should come to a day with her when she was married, and their of the to "Masaniello" while she on the colour of her wedding-dress.
And how much did she think of George Gilbert all this time? About as much as she would have of the pages who were to support the of her robes, if she had been about to be Queen of England. He was the bridegroom, the husband; a secondary in the play of which she was the heroine.
Poor George's love-letter came to her on the day—a and epistle, full of and fears; haunted, as it were, by the of the dead-and-gone Joe Tillet, and without any whatever:
"But oh Isabel for dear you will be to me if you me from you and I should go to America for life in Graybridge would be than without you Oh Isabel if you do not love me I you for say so and end my I know I am not of your love who are so and but oh the of you up is so unless you should wish it and oh there is no on earth I would not make for you."
The was not as a as Isabel would have it to be; but then a love-letter is a love-letter, and this was the Miss Sleaford had received. George's of and was by no means to her. It was only right that he should be miserable: it was only proper that he should be by all manner of apprehensions. They would have to by-and-by, and to each other an farewell, and to each other's letters, and be again. The not be out without such in the of the three volumes.
Although Isabel herself by her wedding-dress, and her mind very often as to the colour and material she had no idea of a marriage. Were there not three of to be gone through first?
Sigismund to town after the which had been planned for his gratification, and Isabel was left alone with her pupils. She walked with them, and took her with them, and was with them all day; and it was only of a Sunday that she saw much of Mr. Raymond.
That was very to the lovers. George Gilbert over to Conventford every Sunday, and with the family at Oakbank. Sometimes he early to Isabel and the to church. Mr. Raymond himself was not a church-goer, but he sent his grand-nieces to perform their devotions, as he sent them to have their by the hairdresser, or their teeth by the dentist. George into the in the way of waistcoats, in order to do to these happy Sundays; and left off for his father a month or so than he had intended, in order to into his costume. Everything he used to look new on these Sundays; and Isabel, opposite to him in the square would him when the was dull, and wonder, regretfully, why his themselves into folds, but always a hard look, as if they had been originally by a figure, and had got over that disadvantage. He a watch-chain that his father had him,—a long that his neck, but which he and into the of a one; and on this he a lucky and an old-fashioned vinaigrette; which trifles, when from a distance, looked almost like the gold which the officers at Conventford on their waistcoats.
And so the on through all the months; and while the were in the of Midlandshire, George still that the marriage might take place, and Isabel always that to some period.
Every Sunday the man's appeared at Mr. Raymond's gate. He would have come every Sunday, if he had dared, and had been to do so by Isabel's employer; but he had about so much and mutton, and so many cups of tea, for which he make no return to his entertainer. Sometimes he a present for one of the orphans,—a work-box or a desk, with scissors that wouldn't cut, and that wouldn't open (for there are no Parkins and Gotto in Graybridge or its vicinity), or a cake, by Matilda Jeffson. Once he got up a little for his and her friends, and gave a dinner, with five sweets, and an dessert, and with the most plum-coloured of ports, and the of sherries, from the Cock at Graybridge. But as the orphans, who alone did full to the entertainment, were with a attack on the day, the was not repeated.
But the dinner at Graybridge was not without its good effect. Isabel saw the house that was to be her home; and the to take a more shape than it had hitherto. She looked at the little on the mantel-piece, the of rose-leaves, with of spices—the was very now, for the hands of George's mother had the flowers. George took Isabel through the little rooms, and her an old-fashioned work-table, with a box at the top, and a well of silk, that had once been rose-coloured, underneath.
"My mother used to at this table working, while she waited for my father; I've often him say so. You'll use the old work-box, won't you, Izzie?" George asked, tenderly.
He had to call her Izzie now, and was familiar with her, and in her, as in a wife, no possible from him. He had to her as a being, it was a to know and worship. He loved her as as he had loved her; but not being of a or nature, the of which he had on in love itself out, and the man to his marriage with perfect equanimity. He took upon himself to lecture Isabel, on occasions, with to her love of novel-reading, her neglect of plain needlework, and her on the of puddings. He over her leaves, and her places in the hymn-book at church; he her the progress of the Lessons, with the of a church service printed in and a minute type; and he at her when he her to the sermon. All the man's old of returned now that he was familiar with Miss Sleaford; but all this while he loved her as only a good man can love, and all manner of for her every night when he said his prayers.
Isabel Sleaford very much in this matter-of-fact companionship, and in the of her daily of duty. She was no longer the lady, best was to in a garden-chair reading novels, and who was to into about George Gordon Lord Byron and Napoleon the First upon the very smallest provocation. She had George on these subjects, and had him wanting in any special for either of her heroes. Talking with him on autumn Sunday afternoons in the near Conventford, with the or on before, Miss Sleaford had her lover's powers to the utmost; but as she that he neither to know anything about Edith Dombey or Ernest Maltravers, and that he the of Byron and Shelley as and compositions, very titles should be unknown to a well-conducted woman, Isabel was to her about all the of her girlhood, and to talk to Mr. Gilbert about what he did understand.
He had read Cooper's novels, and a of Lever's; and he had read Sir Walter Scott and Shakespeare, and was with the idea that he not over-estimate these writers; but when Isabel to talk about Edgar Ravenswood and Lucy, with her all up with emotion, the only at his betrothed.
Oh, if he had only been like Edgar Ravenswood! The poor, childish, was always that he be something different from what he was. Perhaps all that the girl once saw her lover as he was. She him up in her own fancies, and herself by him and the in her books. If he was and in his manner to her, he was Rochester; and she was Jane Eyre, and submissive. If he was cold, he was Dombey; and she on her own pride, and him, and much of one of the an entire afternoon. If he was and stupid, he was Rawdon Crawley; and she him, and laughed at him, and him with little of French with the Albany-Road accent, and played off all green-eyed Becky's upon him. But in of all this the man's common a upon her; and by-and-by, when the three of had been to the uttermost, and the last chapter was close at hand, she had to think of her promised husband, and was to be very good and to him when she his wife.
But for the pure and perfect love which makes marriage thrice holy,—the love which no too great, no too bitter,—the love which no but death, and with such that death can be but its apotheosis,—such love as this had no place in Isabel Sleaford's heart. Her books had her some idea of this passion, and on herself with Lucy Ashton and Zuleika, with Amy Robsart and Florence Dombey and Medora, she to think that the and were all in the wrong, and that there were no or upon this earth.
She this, and she was to the of her girlhood, which were as as they were beautiful. She was to think that her in life was fixed, and that she was to be the wife of a good man, and the of an old-fashioned house in one of the in England. The time had so away since that on the at Hurstonleigh, her had been taken so much as a of by every one about her, that no of had entered into her mind. And then, again, why should she from the engagement? George loved her; and there was no one else who loved her. There was no Jamie to come home in the still and her with the of his sad face. If she was not George Gilbert's wife, she would be nothing—a nursery-governess for and ever, teaching orphans, and earning five-and-twenty a year. When she of her position, and of another which was most painful to her, she to George Gilbert, and was to him, and that she loved him.
The wedding-day came at last,—one January morning, when Conventford its and aspect; and Mr. Raymond gave his nursery-governess away, after the fashion of that Protestant ceremonial, which is to and when with the of a Roman Catholic marriage. He had her the dress she wore, and the had their pocket-money to their a as a surprise, which was a failure, after the manner of artfully-planned surprises.
Isabel Sleaford the that her George Gilbert's wife; and if she spoke them lightly, it was there had been no one to teach her their import. There was no of in her heart, no of or in her mind; and when she came out of the vestry, on her husband's arm, there was a of on her face.
"Joe Tillet's wife have like that," George, as he looked at his bride.
The life that Isabel was new; and, being little more than a child as yet, she that must happiness. She was to have a house of her own, and servants, and an and paddock, two horses, and a gig. She was to be called Mrs. Gilbert: was not her name so upon the cards which George had ordered for her, in a card-case, that like new boots, and was difficult to open, as well as on those wedding-cards which the had among his friends?
George had ordered for these cards with his wife's name inside; but, to his surprise, the girl had him, so piteously, to counter-order them.
"Oh, don't have my name upon the envelopes, George," she said; "don't send my name to your friends; don't tell them what I was called you married me."
"But why not, Izzie?"
"Because I my name," she answered, passionately. "I it; I it! I would have it if I when—when—I came here; but Sigismund wouldn't let me come to his uncle's house in a false name. I my name; I and it."
And then and in her lover's face, the girl out that there was no meaning in what she had been saying, and that it was only her own folly, and that he was to her, and all about it.
"But am I to send your name, or not, Isabel?" George asked, coolly. He did not these of on the part of the lady he was with a view to his own of a wife. "You say a thing, and then say you don't it. Am I to send the or not?"
"No, no, George; don't send them, please; I do the name. Sleaford is such an name, you know."
