The Doctor's Wife
A BAD BEGINNING.
Mr. Gilbert took his wife to an hotel at Murlington for a week's honeymoon—to a family hotel; a mansion, Isabel thought, where there was a church-like all day long, only by the occasional of in the distance, or the of and on of electro-plate. Isabel had at an hotel before; and she a of when she saw the table, the wax-candles in branches, the the windows, and the waiter, manner was such a of protecting and humility.
Mrs. George Gilbert a long as she with the napkin, so into a bishop's mitre, and saw herself in the tall on the opposite of the room. She her wedding-dress still; a brown-silk dress, which had been by George himself of its of usefulness, than for any special or elegance. Poor Isabel had a little about the choice of that dress, for she had wanted to look like Florence Dombey on her wedding-day; but she had way. Her life had been her own yet, and was to be her own, she thought; for now that her step-mother had to over her by of those of by which sorely-tried their households, here was George, with his will and common sense,—oh, how Isabel common sense!—and she must needs him as her master.
But she looked at her in the glass, and saw that she was pretty. Was it only prettiness, or was it something more, in of the dress? She saw her and black up by the wax-candles; and thought, if this go on for ever,—the and glass, the waiter, the of luxury and elegance, not to say Edith Dombeyism, that the atmosphere,—she would be pleased with her new lot. Unhappily, there was only to be a of this existence, for George had told his wife that he didn't to go a ten-pound note; and by-and-by, when the dinner-table had been cleared, he himself by making calculations as to how long that would out against the of the family hotel.
The for a week at Murlington. They about the in an open fly, what the guide-books called the of the vicinity; and the of January their as they the northern sky. George was happy—ah, how happy!—in that the woman he so loved was his wife. The of any in the now, now that the had been spoken, entered into his mind. He had of William Jeffson's sometimes, it is true, but only to in superb of the creature's talk. Isabel loved him; she at him when he spoke to her, and was and to his advice: he was, perhaps, a too of her. She had up novel-reading, and her in the of plain needlework. Her husband her by the light of the wax-candles while she a handkerchief, and her very often, and a little when she the corners, and stopping now and then to her little pink fingers; but then she had been out in the open air nearly all day, and it was only natural that she should be sleepy.
Perhaps it might have been for George Gilbert if he had not Mr. Pawlkatt's occasional upon the patients, and thus a week's in of his wife. Perhaps it would have been if he had his ten-pound note in his pocket, and taken Isabel to the house which was to be her home. That week in the hotel at Murlington one of these people; a which the Sunday walks at Conventford had only foreshadowed. They had very little to say to each other. That discovery, which should it comes, upon Isabel, at least, all at once; and a of and into her breast, and there, while she was yet of its cause.
She was very young. She had not yet with one of her delusions, and she that she keep those dreams, and yet be a good wife to George Gilbert. He talked to her of his school-days, and then away to his youth, his father's and death, his own election to the duties, his bachelorhood, his of a position and larger some day. Oh, how and it all to that creature, were for regions of and romance! It was a to her when George left off talking, and left her free to think her own thoughts, as she on at the handkerchief, and the points of her fingers, and her thread.
There were no books in the sitting-room at the family hotel; and if there had been, this week to Isabel a period. She as if she were on a visit, and was not free to read. She as she passed the library on the parade, and saw the name of the new on a the door; but she had not the to say how happy three cloth-covered of light would have her. George was not a reading man. He read the local papers and the "Times" after breakfast; and then, there he was, all day long. There were two wet days that week at Murlington; and the married people had opportunity of each other's powers, as they in the window, occasional passers-by in the streets, and the rain-drops on the glass.
The week came to an end at last; and on a wet Saturday George Gilbert paid his bill at the family hotel. The ten-pound note had out very well; for the bridegroom's ideas had a daily of to wash the which the waiter provided for those guests in to their and simplicity. Mr. Gilbert paid his bill, while Isabel packed her own and her husband's things; oh, what things!—double-soled boots, and of stuff. Then, when all was ready, she in the window for the which was to her to her new home. Murlington was only ten miles from Graybridge, and the the two places was performed in an old-fashioned omnibus,—a vehicle, with a low roof, a narrow door, and only one small square of on each side.
Isabel a long as she for the of this vehicle in the empty street. The wet day, the pavement, the blank empty houses to let furnished—for it was not the Murlington season now—were not so or empty as her own life to her this afternoon. Was it to be for and for like this? Yes; she was married, and the was all over; her was sealed, and she was of it already. But then she of her new home, and all the little plans she had for herself her marriage,—the and she had sketched out for the of her husband's house. Somehow or other, these ideas, which had her so in her reveries, to melt and now. She had spoken to George, and he had her doubtfully, at the money which would be for the out of her plans,—though they were very plans, and did not involve much expense.
Was there to be nothing in her life, then? She was only a week married; and already, as she at the window to the slop-slop of the rain, she to think that she had a mistake.
The came to the door presently, and she was into it, and her husband seated himself, in the obscurity, by her side. There was only one passenger—a wet farmer, in so many that being wet didn't to him, as he only gave other people cold. He his on Isabel's dress, the brown-silk wedding-dress which she had all the week; and Mrs. Gilbert no to save the from his depredations. She her in the of the omnibus, while the was being upon the above her, and let her veil. The slow in her eyes, and rolled her cheeks.
It was a mistake,—a and mistake,—whose she must for and ever. She no of George Gilbert. She neither liked him—only he not give her the of life she wanted; and by her marriage with him she was out for from the of such a life. No would come now; no would in love with her black eyes, and her all at once to the regions she to inhabit. No; it was all over. She had her for a of potage. She had all the of the for a little to the of the present,—for a wedding-clothes, a card-case with a new name on the cards in it, the of being a bride.
George spoke to her two or three times the to Graybridge; but she only answered him in monosyllables. She had a "headache," she said,—that which is an for anything. She once looked out of the window, though the road was new to her. She sat in the vehicle, while George and the farmer talked local politics; and their talk with her own misery. The in the low-roofed carriage; the voices of George and the farmer died away; and by-and-by there was snoring, from George or the farmer Isabel did not to think. She was of Byron and of Napoleon the First. Ah, to have in his time, and him, and for him, and died for him in that out in the waste of waters! The as all her came upon her, and themselves in with her new life. Mr. Buckstone's Irish heroine, when she has been her song in the cold city street,—the song which she has will be the means of her nursling,—sinks at last upon a snow-covered doorstep, and "it all so real!"
Life "so real" now to Isabel. She to the knowledge that all her were only after all, and had been likely to come true. As it was, they come true; she had set a against the of those visions, and she must by her own act.
It was dark upon that when the stopped at the Cock at Graybridge; and then there was more about of the Isabel was out upon the to walk home with her husband. Yes; they were to walk home. What was the use of a ten-pound note upon in Murlington, when the was to close in such as this? They walked home. The were sloppy, and there was in the where George's house stood; but it was only five or ten minutes' walk, as he said, and nobody in Graybridge would have of a fly.
So they walked home, with the on a truck; and when they came to the house, there was only a in the red lamp over the surgery-door. All the was dark, for George's to Mr. Jeffson had been posted too late, and the and were not expected. Everybody the which that involves. There were no in the rooms; no of preparation; and there was a of soft-soap, of cleaning. Mrs. Jeffson was up to her in a flour-tub when the master his own door-bell; and she came out, with her arms white and her dirty, to the newly-married pair. She set a tallow-candle on the parlour-table, and to light the fire, and all the while at the of Mr. Gilbert and his wife.
"My master's gone over to Conventford for some groceries, and we're all of a like, ma'am," she said; "but we e'en do th' best we can, and make all coomfortable. Master Jarge said Moonday as plain as speak when he away, and th' letter's not yet; so you may not bein' straight."
Mrs. Jeffson might have gone on for some time longer: but she jumped up to upon Isabel, who had into a of sobbing. She was romantic, sensitive, impressionable—selfish, if you will; and her against the of her dreams.
"It is so miserable!" she sobbed; "it all so miserable!"
George came in from the stables, where he had been to see Brown Molly, and his wife some sal-volatile, in a of water; and Mrs. Jeffson the creature, and took her up to the half-prepared bedroom, where the were still up, and where the walls—it was an old-fashioned house, and the upper rooms had been papered—and the looked and in the light of a tallow-candle. Mrs. Jeffson her a cup of tea, and sat by the while she it, and talked to her and her, though she did not a very high opinion of a lady who into there was no fire in her sitting-room.
"I say it did cold and and like," Mrs. Jeffson said, indulgently; "but we'll in no time."
Isabel her head.
"You are very kind," she said; "but it wasn't that me cry."
She closed her eyes, not she was sleepy, but she wanted Mrs. Jeffson to go away and her alone. Then, when the good woman had retired with footsteps, and closed the door, Mrs. George Gilbert slowly opened her eyes, and looked at the on which they were to open every for all her life to come.
There was nothing in the room, certainly. There was a narrow mantel-piece, with a of Derbyshire and other productions; and above them there an old-fashioned of some subject, in a painted black. There was a old wardrobe—or press, as it was called—of painted wood, with a good of the paint off; there was a painted dressing-table, a square looking-glass, with about the and frame,—a in which George Gilbert's had looked at himself seventy years before. Isabel at the blank white walls, the of the furniture, with a fascination. It was all so ugly, she thought, and her mind against her husband, as she that he have all this, and yet had left it in its hideousness.
And all this time George was in his surgery, his in so a that it to into a of tune, and how happy he was now that Isabel Sleaford was his wife.
