The Doctor's Wife
UNDER LORD THURSTON'S OAK.
While Mr. Lansdell Isabel Gilbert as a automaton, who had and when he spoke to her, and when she was called upon to answer him, the Doctor's Wife walked up and the garden at Graybridge-on-the-Wayverne, and of her birthday afternoon, had been by the presence of a demigod. Yes, she walked up and two of gooseberry-bushes, in a day-dream; a day-dream, in which Roland Lansdell's dark and beautiful. Was it to think of him? She asked herself that question. She had read books all her life, and had been in love with in three volumes, since she remember. What did it she was in love with Sir Reginald Glanville or Mr. Roland Lansdell? One was as as the other, and as therefore. She was likely to see the lord of Mordred Priory again. Had she not him tell Mr. Raymond that he should the winter in Paris? Mrs. Gilbert the months upon her fingers. Was November the winter? If so, Mr. Lansdell would be gone in four months' time. And in all those four months what was there that she should see him,—she, who was such a low as with this being and those with it was his right to associate? Never, no, until now had she the and of her life. The square parlour, with little on each of the fireplace, and and peacocks' feathers, and penny-bottles of ink, and bills, upon the mantel-piece. She sat there with the July sun in upon her through the yellow-white blind; she sat there and of her life and its ugliness, and then of Lady Gwendoline at Lowlands, and against the of a Providence that had not her an earl's daughter. And then she her hands upon her face, and out the of that parlour—a parlour!—the very word was unknown in those regions of which she was always dreaming—and of Roland Lansdell.
She of him, and she what her life might have been—if——
If what? If any one out of a hundred different visions, all and impossible, have been realized. If she had been an earl's daughter, like Lady Gwendoline! If she had been a great actress, and Roland Lansdell had her and in love with her from a stage-box! If he had met her in the Walworth Road two or three years ago; she the meeting,—he in a cab, with the the of his fingers, and a tiger behind; and she on the waiting to the road, and not out to anything vulgar, only going to pay a water-rate, or to some "backing" of the spoons, or some such young-ladylike errand. And then she got up and to the looking-glass to see if she was pretty; or if her face, as she saw it in her day-dreams, was only an of her own, like the and the of those dreams. She rested her on the mantel-piece, and looked at herself, and pushed her about, and with her mouth and eyes, and to look like Edith Dombey in the Carker scene, and the in a whisper.
No, she wasn't a like Edith Dombey; she was more like Juliet, or Desdemona. She her eyelids, and then them slowly, a in the black eyes.
"I'm very sorry that you are not well!"
she whispered. Yes, she would do for Desdemona. Oh, if of marrying George Gilbert, she had only away to London, and gone to that manager, who would have been so sure to her! If she had done this, she might have played Desdemona, and Mr. Lansdell might have to go to the theatre, and might have in love with her on the spot.
She took a of the William's from a of books on one of the cupboards, and up to her room and locked the door, and for Cassio, and and opposite the looking-glass, which three matter-of-fact of Gilberts had themselves.
She was only nineteen, and she was a child, with all a child's for something and happy. It only a very time since she had for a gaily-dressed that one of the Walworth Road shop-windows. Her married life had not as yet her with any dignity. She had no or duties; for the was in order by Mrs. Jeffson, who would have any from the mistress. Isabel into the sometimes, when she was very much at a as to what she should do with herself, and sat in an old rocking-chair and forwards, and kind-hearted Tilly making a pie.
There are some who take to a life, and have a natural for and puddings, and and contriving, in a cheery, way, that with a of its own; and when a to on three hundred a year, he should look out for one of those fairies. Isabel had no for these things; to her the making of was a business. It was all very well for Ruth Pinch to do it for once in a way, and to be by John Westlock, and a rich and husband offhand. No Miss Pinch that Mr. Westlock would come that while the beef-steak was in progress. But to go on making for Tom Pinch for and ever, with no John Westlock! Isabel left the house to Mrs. Jeffson, and Shakespearian and Edith Dombey her looking-glass, and read her novels, and her dreams, and little of poetry, and pen-and-ink profile portraits of Mr. Lansdell—always looking from right to left. She gave him very black with white in the centre, and hair; she Lady Gwendoline and the also very often, if not as often as the gentleman; so there was no in it. Mrs. Gilbert was with herself, in the of her thoughts. She only of what might have if Mr. Lansdell had met her long ago her marriage.
It is not to be that she Roland's talk of some or at Mordred. She of it a great deal, sometimes that it was too a thing to come to pass: at other times that Mr. Lansdell was likely to call at any moment with a for herself and her husband. The weather was very warm just now, and the very dusty; so Mrs. Gilbert at home a good deal. He might come,—he might come at any moment. She and at the of a knock, and ran to the to her hair: but only the most visitors came to Mr. Gilbert's mansion; and Isabel to think that she would see Roland Lansdell again.
And then she once more into the hot-pressed pages of the "Alien," and read Mr. Lansdell's plaints, on paper, with long s's that looked like f's. And she his verses, and them into French. They were very difficult: how was she to such a as "My own Clotilde?" She such as, "Ma Clotilde," "Ma Clotilde particulière;" but she if they were correct. And she set the Alien to that he didn't match, and sang him in a low voice to the notes of an old which George's mother had from Yorkshire.
One day when she was walking with George,—one afternoon, when George had less to do than usual, and was able to take his wife for a walk on the high-road,—Mrs. Gilbert saw the man of she had so much. She saw a and a well-dressed past her in a cloud of dust; and she knew, when he had gone by, that he was Roland Lansdell. He had not her any more than if there was no such upon this earth. He had not her. For the last five she had been of him perpetually, and he by and saw that she was there. No Lord Byron would have passed her by in much the same manner if he had lived: and would have on to make a call upon that thrice-blessed Italian woman, it was to be with him. Was it not always so? The moon is a cold divinity, and the look up for and win no special in for their worship: the is always to the sun, and the takes very little notice of the flower. Did not Napoleon Madame de Staël? And if Isabel have thirty years earlier, and her passage out to St. Helena as ship's needle-woman, or something of that kind, and her of at the exile's for the of her natural life, the hero would have sent her by the homeward-bound with an in her ear.
No, she must be to after the manner of the brooks. No power of was out of her worship. She profile views of Mr. Lansdell after that afternoon, and she left off that he would call and her to Mordred.
She her old habits, and out again with Shelley and the "Alien," and the big green parasol.
One day—one never-to-be-forgotten day, which a of in her life, all the past from the present and the future—she sat on her old seat under the great oak-tree, the mill-wheel and the water; she sat in her spot, with Shelley on her and the green over her head. She had been there for a long time in the atmosphere, when a great dog came up to her, and at her, and at her hands, and to her; and then another dog, bigger, if anything, than the first, came over a and her; and then a voice, her her book all and frightened, cried, "Hi, Frollo! this way, Frollo." And in the next minute a gentleman, by a third dog, came along the narrow that to the bench on which she was sitting.
Her had as she to up her book, and Roland Lansdell not avoid her face. He her very pretty, as we know, but he her also very stupid; and he had his talk about her to Mordred.
"Let me up the book, Mrs. Gilbert," he said. "What a place you have for your morning's rest! This is a spot of mine." He looked at the open pages of the book as he it to her, and saw the title; and at another book on the seat near her, he the familiar green and of the "Alien." A man always the of his own book, when the work has on the publisher's hands.
"You are of Shelley," he said. (He was to that this her walks with the of the "Revolt of Islam.")
"Oh yes, I am very, very of him. Wasn't it a that he was drowned?"
She spoke of that as if it had been an event of the last week or two. These were nearer to her than all that common of and dinner and supper which up her daily life. Mr. Lansdell a at her from under of his long lashes. Was this affectation, Rosa-Matilda-ism?
"Yes, it was a pity," he said; "but I we're to over the misfortune. And so you like all that dreamy, stuff?" he added, pointing to the open book which Isabel in her hands. She was the about, with her upon the pages. So would she have sat, and trembling, if Sir Reginald Glanville, or Eugene Aram, or the Giaour, or Napoleon the Great, or any other creature, have been into life and planted by her side. But she not the "stuff" as to the of the Percy Bysshe Shelley.
"I think it is the most that was written," she said.
"Better than Byron's?" asked Mr. Lansdell; "I most ladies Byron their favourite."
"Oh yes, I love Byron. But then he makes one so unhappy, one that he was so when he wrote. Fancy his the 'Giaour' late at night, after being out at parties where him; and if he hadn't it, he would have gone mad," said Mrs. Gilbert, opening her very wide. "Reading Shelley's like being and flowers and water and summer. It always in his poetry. Oh, I don't know which I like best."
Was all this affectation, or was it only reality? Mr. Lansdell was so much to that disease, disbelief, that he was slow to accept the of those blushes, the in those eyes, which be at will, in the light of every-day life Mrs. Gilbert might be. The dogs, who had no tendencies, had friends with Izzie already, and had themselves about her, and their big and cold wet on her knee.
"Shall I take them away?" asked Mr. Lansdell. "I am they will you."
"Oh no, indeed; I am so of dogs."
She over them and them with her hands, and Shelley again, and was of her awkwardness. Would Edith Dombey have been things? She over a big black till her touched his forehead, and he was to his great over her in of his affection. His dog! Yes, it had come to that already. Mr. Lansdell was that being, the "Lui" of a thousand romances. Roland had been upon the all this time; but the was very narrow, and as a man came across at this moment with a reaping-hook across his shoulder, Mr. Lansdell had no choice to go away, or else on the bench under the tree. So he sat at a from Mrs. Gilbert, and up Shelley again; and I think if it had not been for the by the dogs, Isabel would have been likely to over into the mill-stream in the of her confusion.
He was there by her side, a hero and poet, and her weak little with rapture; and yet she that she ought to go away and him. Another woman might have looked at her watch, and at the of the hour, and up her books and parasol, and with a and a to Mr. Lansdell. But Isabel was planted to the spot, by some but charm,—a magic and a spell,—with which the of the water, and the slow of the mill-wheel, and a of and flowers, the of insects, the song of Shelley's own in the high above her head, in one sweet confusion.
I that all this was very hard upon the honest-hearted doctor, who was at this moment in the of a chamber, fresh of to the arm of a Sunday-school pupil, who had been all but to death in the previous week. But then, if a man to a girl her are black and large and beautiful, he must be with the he from the special for which he has her: and so long as she not a to cataract, or of the eyelids, or ophthalmia, he has no right to complain of his bargain. If he his wife from other she is true-hearted and high-minded and trustworthy, he has right to be angry with her she to be any one of these things.
Mr. Lansdell and his dogs for some time under the of the big oak. The dogs were impatient, and gave to their by that were like half-stifled howls, and by pantings, and and leaps, and broken-off or snaps; but Roland Lansdell was in no to the region of Thurston's Crag. Mrs. Gilbert was not stupid, after all; she was something than a image, by limited machinery. That was with a of ideas, half-formed fancies, which and this loiterer, who had in a world where all the were and accomplished, and able to all they thought, and a good more than they thought, with the clear and self-possession of who were of the of their own judgment. Yes, Mr. Lansdell was by Isabel's talk; and he her on very gently, till her vanished, and she to look up at his as she spoke to him; and he his own talk to the key of hers, and with her in the Valhalla of her heroes, from Eugene Aram to Napoleon Buonaparte. But in the of all this she looked all in a at the little watch that George had her, and that it was past three.
"Oh, I must go, if you please," she said; "I have been out since eleven o'clock, and we at half-past four."
"Let me your books a little way for you, then," said Mr. Lansdell.
"But are you going that way?"
"Yes, that is the very way I am going."
The dogs were all at the of a move; they and about Isabel, and off as if they were going to ten miles at a stretch, and then with and to Mrs. Gilbert and their master.
The nearest way to Graybridge across all that sea of meadow-land, and there were a good many to be and gates to be opened and shut, so the walk some time; and Mr. Lansdell must have had to in the of Graybridge, for he walked all the way through those meadows, and only with Isabel at a gate that opened into the high-road near the entrance of the town.
"I you often as as Thurston's Crag?" Mr. Lansdell said.
"Oh yes, very often. It isn't too long a walk, and it is so pretty."
"It is pretty. Mordred is as near to you, though, and I think that you would like the garden at Mordred; there are ruins, you know, and it's very romantic. I will give you and Mr. Gilbert a key, if you would like to come there sometimes. Oh, by the bye, I you haven't your promise to come to and see the pictures, and all that of thing."
No, Isabel had not forgotten; her at the of this opening her. She was to see him again, once more, in his own house, and then—and then it would be November, and he would go away, and she would see him again. No, Isabel had not forgotten; but until this moment all of that to the Priory had been out of Mr. Lansdell's mind. It upon him now, and he that he had been of these simple-hearted Gilberts, in his dear good Raymond was so much interested.
"I say you are of pictures?" he said, interrogatively.
"Oh yes, I am very, very of them."
This was true. She was of that was beautiful,—ready to with enthusiasm,—pictures, and flowers, and fountains, and landscapes, and cities, and upon this earth that was romantic, and different from her own life.
"Then will you ask Mr. Gilbert to accept an invitation, and to you to the Priory to luncheon,—say next Tuesday, as that will give me time to my Gwendoline, and your old friend Mr. Raymond, and the two little girls who are so of you?"
Isabel something to the that she would be very happy, and she was sure her husband would be very happy. She that no in the world be otherwise than by such an invitation: and then she to think of what she would wear, and to that there were and upon her wedding-dress, which was the best and her contained. Oh, if George would only give her a pearly-coloured that she had in a shop-window at Murlington, and a black mantle, and white bonnet, and and and to match the dress! There were people in the world rich to have all these things, she thought,—thrice-blessed creatures, who always walked in attire.
Mr. Lansdell her to him a line to say if Tuesday would Mr. Gilbert. They were at the last gate by this time, and he his with one hand while he out the other to Isabel. She touched it very lightly, with that a little at the contact. Her were rolled up in a little in her pocket. She was at an age when are a than otherwise; it is only when come to years of that they are learned as to the of Houbigant and Piver.
"Good-bye. I shall see Gwendoline this afternoon; and I shall upon you for Tuesday. Hi, Frollo, Quasimodo, Caspar!"
He was gone, with his dogs and a cloud of about his heels. Even the a of to him. He a being who appeared and in a cloud, after the manner of some African genii.
Graybridge church clock the half-hour after four, and Mrs. Gilbert home, and into the common parlour, where dinner was laid, with her a little flushed, and her dress dusty. George was there already, very loudly, and a with a big knobby-handled clasp-knife.
"Why, Izzie," he said, "what have you been doing with yourself?"
"Oh, George!" Mrs. Gilbert, in a of and rapture, "I have met Mr. Lansdell, and he was so polite, and he stopped and talked to me so long; and we're to go there on Tuesday, and Lady Gwendoline Pomphrey is to be there to meet us,—only think of that!"
"Where?" George.
"Why, at Mordred Priory, of course. We're to go to luncheon: and, oh, George, you must call it 'lunch.' And I'm to and say if you'll go; but of you will go, George."
"Humph!" Mr. Gilbert, reflectively; "Tuesday's an day, rather. But still, as you say, Izzie, it's a connection, and a man oughtn't to away such a of his practice. Yes, I think I'll manage it, my dear. You may to say we'll go."
And this was all; no rapture, no of enthusiasm. To tell the truth, the was hungry, and wanted his dinner. It came in presently, very savoury,—but, oh, so vulgar! It was Irish stew,—a horrible, dinner, such as Hibernian might after a day's bricklaying. Isabel ate very little, and out all the of and put them on her plate. Come what might, she would never, eat again. That degradation, at least, it was in her own power to avoid.
After dinner, while George was in the surgery, Mrs. Gilbert set to work to her to Mr. Lansdell. She was to to him—to him! It was to be only a letter, very and commonplace: "Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert present their to Mr. Lansdell, and will be happy to," &c., &c. But such a as this was a composition. In that region in which Mr. Lansdell lived, there might be and phrases that were indispensable,—there might be some mode of expression, not to know which would argue unknown. Isabel looked into "Dombey," but there was no help for her there. She would have been very if she have "Mrs. Grainger presents her to Mr. Dombey," or "Miss F. Dombey has the to Mr. Gay—" or something of that kind, those familiar pages. However, she was to her as best she might, on a of paper that was very thick and slippery, and with patchouli; and she sealed the with a profile of Lord Byron upon white wax, the only that was to be had in Graybridge, and to which good-natured Mr. Jeffson the town, while Isabel was her letter.
Roland Lansdell, Esqre.,
Mordred Priory.
To such an address was in itself a pleasure. It was dark by the time Mrs. Gilbert had her letter, and then she to think of her dress,—her dress for Tuesday,—the Tuesday which was to out from all the other days in her life.
Would George give her a new dress? No; that was impossible. He would give her a sovereign, and she might "do up" the old one. She was to be and for so much; and she up-stairs with a candle, and came presently with two or three on her arm. Among them there was a white muslin, a good the for wear, but than the silk; a soft fabric, and with about it. Mrs. Gilbert upon this dress; and early the next she out and with a little dressmaker, and the woman home with her, and sat with her in the sunny to and and this white robe. She told the that she was going on a visit to Mordred Priory, and by almost in Graybridge that Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert had an from Mr. Lansdell.
