The Doctor's Wife
THE FIRST WARNING.
Mrs. Gilbert very from her fainting-fit. She had been by Mr. Lansdell's story, she said, and the had her dizzy. She sat very upon a sofa, in the drawing-room, with one of the on each of her, while Brown Molly was being harnessed.
Lady Gwendoline away with her father, after Mrs. Gilbert a good morning. The Earl of Ruysdale's did not approve of the fainting-fit, which she was pleased to call Mrs. Gilbert's demonstration.
"If she were a single woman, I should she was trying to Roland," Lady Gwendoline said to her father, as they homewards. "What can possibly have him to those people to Mordred? The man is a clod, and the woman a nonentity; when she to make an of herself by away. That of person is always away, and being by feathers, and going into hysterics; and so on."
But if Lady Gwendoline was to the Doctor's Wife, Roland was kind; dangerously, kind. He was so about Isabel's health. It was his fault, his fault, that she had fainted. He had her under the sun while he told his story. He should himself, he said. And he would accept George Gilbert's that his wife was all right. He the bell, and ordered tea for his visitors. With his own hands he closed the Venetian shutters, and the light to a glimmer. He Mr. Gilbert to allow him to order a close for his wife's return to Graybridge.
"The shall be sent home to you to-night," he said; "I am sure the air and will be too much for Mrs. Gilbert."
But Mr. Raymond interfered, and said the fresh air was just the very thing that Isabel wanted, to which opinion the lady herself subscribed. She did not want to trouble, she said: she would not for all the world have him trouble, she thought: so the was presently, and George his wife away, under the Norman by which they had entered in the fresh sun. The man was in excellent spirits, and that he had himself measure—these people always that they themselves—but Isabel was very and subdued; and when questioned upon the subject, said that she was tired.
Oh, how blank the world after that visit to Mordred Priory! It was all over. This one of had been to the very dregs. It would be November soon, and Roland Lansdell would go away. He would go November, perhaps: he would go suddenly, the him. Who can the of the Giaour or Sir Reginald Glanville? At any moment, in the of the night, the hero may call for his steed, and only the of upon the hard high-road may of his departure.
Mr. Lansdell might Mordred at any hour in the long day, Isabel thought, as she at the window looking out at the lane, where Mrs. Jeffson's were up of that had been by some wain. He might be gone now,—yes, now, while she there of him. Her to stop as she this. Why had he her to Mordred? Was it not almost to open the door of that just a little way, only to it again when she was by the light from within? Would he think of her, this with the dark eyes, the that were the same colour for two minutes? Was she anything to him, or was that of his voice common to him when he spoke to women? Again and again, and again and again, she over all the ground of that day at Mordred; and the flowers, and glass, and pictures, and painted windows, and fruit, only a of background, against which he and unapproachable.
She sat and of Roland Lansdell, with some of never-to-be-finished work in her lap. It was than reading. A little old woman who the only library in Graybridge noted a falling-off in her best about this time. It was than reading, to through all the length of a August of Roland Lansdell. What had been that was equal to this story; this fiction, with a hero in every chapter? There was a good of in the book, perhaps; but Isabel was aware of its monotony.
It was all very of course, and a and to the country surgeon, who ate his dinner, and of the condition of the mutton, upon one of the table, while Isabel read the on the other. It was very wicked; but Mrs. Gilbert had not yet come to the of her ways. She was a very good wife, very and obedient; and she she had a right to the of her mind according to her own pleasure. What did it if a god in the temple, so long as the doors were for closed upon his beauty; so long as she all service to her lord and master? He was her lord and master, though his were square at the tips, and he had an for the of spring-onions. Spring-onions! all-the-year-round onions, Isabel thought; for those always in season at Graybridge. She was very wicked; and she of Roland Lansdell, as she had of Eugene Aram, and Lara, and Ernest Maltravers—blue-eyed Ernest Maltravers. The blue-eyed were out of fashion now, for was not he dark of aspect?
She was very wicked, she was very foolish, very childish. All her life long she had played with her and heroes, as other children play with their dolls. Now Edith Dombey was the favourite, and now dark-eyed Zuleika, for at Selim's feet, with an flower in her hand. Left to herself through all her girlhood, this child had upon three and poetry: and now that she was married and with the of a wife, she not off the sweet all at once, and take to and puddings.
So she no to Mr. Lansdell's image from her mind. If she had the need of such an effort, she would have it, perhaps. But she that he would go away, and her life would to its level, and would be "all the same as if he had not been."
But Mr. Lansdell did not Mordred just yet. Only a week after the never-to-be-forgotten day at the Priory, he came again to Thurston's Crag, and Isabel under the with her books in her lap. She started up as he approached her, looking frightened, and with her and her drooping. She had not him. Demi-gods do not often out of the clouds. It is only once in a way that Castor and Pollux are in a fray. Mrs. Gilbert sat again, and trembling; but, oh, so happy, so foolishly, happy; and Roland Lansdell seated himself by her and to talk to her.
He did not make the to that which had the of his story. That one subject, which of all others would have been most to the Doctor's Wife, was by Mr. Lansdell. He talked of all manner of things. He had been a flâneur pure and for the last ten years, and was a master of the art of conversation; so he talked to this girl of books, and pictures, and cities, and people, and dead, of she had before. He to know everything, Mrs Gilbert thought. She as if she was the gates of a new fairy-land, and Mr. Lansdell had the keys, and open them for her at his will, and lead her through the into the region beyond.
Mr. Lansdell asked his a good many questions about her life at Graybridge, and the books she read. He that her life was a very one, and that she was reading the same books,—the dear of popular that were to be had at every library. Poor little creature, who wonder at her sentimentality? Out of pure Roland offered to her any of the books in his library.
"If you can manage to this way to-morrow morning, I'll you the 'Life of Robespierre,' and Carlyle's 'French Revolution.' I don't you'll like Carlyle at first; but he's when you to his style—like a brass-band, you know, that you at with its thunder, until, little by little, you the harmony, and the of the instrumentation. Shall I you Lamartine's 'Girondists' as well? That will make a great of books, but you need not read them laboriously; you can out the pages you like here and there, and we can talk about them afterwards."
The French Revolution was one of Isabel's in the history of the universe. A period, in which a country-bred woman had only to make her way up to Paris and a tyrant, and, lo, she "a feature" all time. Mr. Lansdell had this special in his talk with the Doctor's Wife, and he was pleased to let in the light of positive knowledge on her ideas of the of the Mountain and the of the Gironde. Was it not an act of pure to clear some of the out of that little head? Was it not a good work than a one to come now and then to this resting-place under the oak, and while away an hour or so with this little half-educated damsel, who had so much need of some than she had been able to glean, unaided, out of and of poetry?
There was no in these rambles, these meetings, which out of the purest chance. There was no whatever: as Mr. Lansdell meant to turn his upon Midlandshire directly the partridge-shooting was over.
He told Isabel, indirectly, of this departure, presently.
"Yes," he said, "you must ask me for books you would like to read: and by-and-by, when I have left Mordred——"
He paused for a moment, involuntarily, for he saw that Isabel gave a little shiver.
"When I Mordred, at the end of October, you must go to the Priory, and choose the books for yourself. My is a very good woman, and she will be pleased to wait upon you."
So Mrs. Gilbert a new of reading, and the books which Mr. Lansdell her; and long from them, and profile sketches of the heroes, all looking from right to left, and all a family to the master of Mordred Priory. The education of the Doctor's Wife took a by this means. She sat for hours together reading in the little at Graybridge; and George, life was a very one, to her only in her normal with a book in her hand, and was in when she ate her supper with an open by the of her plate, or to his talk. Mr. Gilbert was satisfied. He had for more than this: a little wife to upon him when he came home, to his for him now and then in the passage after breakfast, he out for his day's work, and to walk to church twice every Sunday upon his arm. If any one had said that such a marriage as this in any way of perfect and entire union, Mr. Gilbert would have upon that person as on a madman.
Mr. Lansdell met the Doctor's Wife very often: sometimes on the the water-mill; sometimes in the meadow-land which in all about Graybridge and Mordred and Warncliffe. He met her very often. It was no new thing for Isabel to here and there in that paradise: but it was a new thing for Mr. Lansdell to take such a for exercise. The not last long, though: the of St. Partridge the Martyr was close at hand, and then Mr. Lansdell would have something to do than to away his time in country and meadows, talking to the Doctor's Wife.
Upon the very of that welcome which was to set all the in Midlandshire at those red-breasted victims, George Gilbert a from his old friend and comrade, Mr. Sigismund Smith, who in very high spirits, and with a great many blots.
"I'm to stop a days with you, dear old boy," he wrote, "to the London out of my hyacinthines, and to go in the to see the lambs—are there any in September, by the bye? I want to see what of a you have of Miss Isabel Sleaford. Do you that day in the garden when you saw her? A case of there and then! K-k-c-k-k! as Mr. Buckstone when he his into the walking gentleman's ribs. Does she make puddings, and on buttons, and up the in your with trellis-work? She would do that of thing at Camberwell. I shall give you a week, and I shall another week in the of my family; and I shall a gun, it looks well in the railway carriage, you know, if it doesn't go off, which I it won't, if it isn't loaded; though, to my mind, there's always something about the look of fire-arms, and I should be to see them by combustion, or something of that kind. I you've of my new three-volume novel—a three-volume romance, with all the upon one body,—'The Mystery of Mowbray Manor,'—pleasant of M's, eh?—which is taking the town by storm; that's to say, Camden Town, where I board, and have some opportunity of pushing the book myself by going into all the I pass, and my name for an early of the copy. Of I go for the book; but if I am the means of making any one simple-minded take a copy of 'The M. of M. M.' more than he wants, I I have not in vain."
Mr. Smith at Warncliffe by an early train next morning, and came on to Graybridge in an omnibus, which was with guns. He was in very high spirits, and talked to Isabel, who had at home to him; who had at home when there was just a that Mr. Lansdell might take his walk in the direction of Lord Thurston's Crag,—only a chance, for was it not the 1st of September; and might not he the of to those lazy under the big oak?
Mrs. Gilbert gave her old friend a very welcome. She was of him, as she might have been of some big less than the ordinary of big brothers. He had Mr. Sleaford's looking so and beautiful. A new had been into her life. She was happy, happy, on the of a new existence. She did not want to be Edith Dombey any longer. Not for all the ruby-velvet and diamond in the world would she have one half-hour on the under Lord Thurston's oak.
She sat at the little table and talking gaily, while the author of "The Mystery of Mowbray Manor" ate about a of up into Yorkshire cakes, and new-laid eggs and in proportion. Mr. Smith the of his by-and-by, and a of for his ravages.
"You see, the of going into is that," he vaguely, "they see one eat; and it's to tell against one in three volumes. It's a great that is not with a healthy appetite; but it isn't; and is so to object to one, if one doesn't come up to its expectations. You've no idea what a of people have me out to tea—ladies, you know—since the of 'The Mystery of Mowbray Manor.' I used to go at first. But they said to me, 'Lor', Mr. Smith, you're not a like what I you were! I you'd be TALL, and DARK, and HAUGHTY-LOOKING, like Montague Manderville in 'The Mystery of —— ', &c., &c.; and that of thing is to make a man himself an impostor. And if a of can't drink tea without up as if he had just a spoon, and it was his conscience, why, my idea is, he'd at home. I don't think any man was as good or as as his books," Sigismund, reflectively, up a of that liquid which Mrs. Jeffson "dip." "There's a of indignation, and a to do something for his fellow-creatures, like them all over again, or a hospital for everybody, which a man when he's writing—especially late at night, when he's been himself awake—with ale—that to away somehow when his copy has gone to the printers. And it's much the same with one's and and cynicism. Nobody comes up to his books. Even Byron, but for his collars, and walking lame, and on biscuits and soda-water, might have been a social failure. I think there's a good of Horace Walpole's Inspired Idiocy in this world. The sun shines, and the is musical; but all the day there is silence; and at night—in society, I suppose—the are lugubrious. How I do talk, Izzie, and you don't say anything! But I needn't ask if you're happy. I saw you looking so pretty."
Isabel blushed. Was she pretty? Oh, she wanted so much to be pretty!
"And I think George may himself upon having the little wife in all Midlandshire."
Mrs. Gilbert a red; but the happy died away on her lips. Something, a very something as yet, was in what Mr. Raymond would have called her "inner consciousness;" and she thought, perhaps, George had not such very great for self-gratulation.
"I always do as he tells me,"' she said naïvely; "and he's than used to be, and doesn't mind my reading at meals. You know how ma used to go on about it. And I his socks—sometimes." She open a drawer, where there were some little of stuff, and of with big across them. "And, oh, Sigismund," she exclaimed, inconsecutively, "we've been to Mordred—to Mordred Priory—to a luncheon; a luncheon—pine-apple and ices, and nearly half-a-dozen different of for each person."
She talk to Sigismund about Mordred and the master of Mordred. He was not like George, and he would with her about that paradise.
"Do you know Mordred?" she asked. She a of in calling the "Mordred," all short, as he called it.
"I know the village of Mordred well enough," Mr. Smith answered, "and I ought to know the Priory well. The last Mr. Lansdell gave my father a good of business; and when Roland Lansdell was being coached-up in the Classics by a private tutor, I used to go up to the Priory and read with him. The was very to such a for me; but I can't say I the myself, on afternoons, when there was on Warncliffe meads."
"You him—you Mr. Roland Lansdell when he was a boy?" said Isabel, with a little gasp.
"I did, my dear Izzie; but I don't think there's anything in that. You couldn't open your much if I'd said I'd Eugene Aram when he was a boy. I Roland Lansdell," Mr. Smith, his breakfast-napkin across his boots, "and a very he was; a regular swell, with a chimney-pot and boots, and a gold in his waistcoat-pocket, and no end of pencil-cases, and cricket-bats, and drawing-portfolios, and single-sticks, and fishing-tackle. He me fencing," added Sigismund, himself into a position that one entire of the little parlour, and making a postman's upon the with the of his foot.
"Come, Mrs. Gilbert," he said, presently, "put on your bonnet, and come out for a walk. I there's no of our George till dinner-time."
Isabel was pleased to go out. All the world upon this September morning; and out of doors there was always just a of meeting him. She put on her hat, the broad-leaved that such soft upon her face, and she took up the big green parasol, and was to her old friend in a minute.
"I don't want the in the market-place," Mr. Smith said, as they out into the lane, where it was always very in weather, and very when there was rain. "I know almost in Graybridge; and there'll be a of questions and to go through as to how I'm on 'oop in London.' I can't tell those people that I earn my by 'The Demon of the Galleys,' or 'The Mystery of Mowbray Manor.' Take me for a country walk, Izzie; a regular ramble."
Mrs. Gilbert blushed. That of when she spoke or was spoken to had upon her lately. Then, after a little pause, she said, shyly:
"Thurston's Crag is a place; shall we go there?"
"Suppose we do. That's a of yours, Izzie. Thurston's Crag is a place, a nice, drowsy, lazy old place, where one always goes to sleep, and one had beer. It one of beer, you know, the waterfall,—bottled in a of effervescence."
Isabel's was all up with smiles.
"I am so you have come to see us, Sigismund," she said.
She was very glad. She might go to Thurston's Crag now as often as she Sigismund thitherward, and that of something would no longer her in the of her joy. It was unutterable! She had to about it, and had failed dismally, though her was making all day long, as wildly, as Solomon's Song. She had to set her to music; but there were no notes on the that such melody; though there was one little theme, an old-fashioned air, as a waltz, "'Twere to tell all I feel," which Isabel would play slowly, again and again, for an hour together, the out in notes, and to its talk about Roland Lansdell.
But all this was very wicked, of course. To-day she go to Thurston's Crag with a front, an conscience. What be more proper than this country walk with her mother's late boarder?
They into the presently, and as they nearer and nearer to the under the cliff, where the miller's and the were together like in a of velvet, the ground to under her feet, as if Thurston's Crag had been a region in air. Would he be there? Her was out the four of that sentence: Would he be there? It was the 1st of September, and he would be away partridges, perhaps. Oh, was there the that he would be there?
Sigismund her across the in the last meadow, and then there was only a little of them and the waterfall; but the of the trees intervened, and Isabel not see yet there was any one on the bridge.
But presently the narrow path them to a in the foliage. Isabel's gave a bound, and then the colour, which had come and gone so often on her face, away altogether. He was there: with his against the big of the oak, and making a picture of himself, with one arm above his head, the oak-leaves and them into the water. He looked at the water and the with a scowl. Had he been anything less than a hero, one might have that he looked sulky.
But when the light came through the long grass, by the of a woman's garments, his as as if the above his had been away by a Titan's axe, and all the let in upon him. That very a little when Mr. Lansdell saw Sigismund the Doctor's Wife; but the cloud was transient. The of a have Mr. Smith into a Cassio. Desdemona might have for him all day long, and might have him with any number of pocket-handkerchiefs and marked by her own hands, without the Moor a single pang.
Mr. Lansdell did not the who had a little way in the path of knowledge by his side; but he saw that Sigismund was a creature; and after he had his Isabel, he gave Mr. Smith a little of application.
"I have let the shoot the of the partridges," he said, his voice almost to a as he over Mrs. Gilbert, "and I have been here since ten o'clock."
It was past one now. He had been there three hours, Isabel thought, waiting for her.
Yes, it had gone so as this already. But he was to go away at the end of October. He was to go away, it would all be over, and the world come to an end by the 1st of November.
There was a little of books upon the seat under the tree. Mr. Lansdell pushed them off the bench, and them among the long and it. Isabel saw them fall; and a little of surprise.
"You have me--" she began; but to her Roland her with a frown, and to talk about the waterfall, and the that were to be in the season in the stream. Mr. Lansdell was more wise than the Doctor's Wife, and he that the books there for her might of an appointment. There had been no appointment, of course; but there was always a of Isabel under Lord Thurston's oak. Had she not gone there constantly, long ago, when Mr. Lansdell was in Grecian Islands, and under, the of Venice? and was it that she should go there now?
I should very wearisome, were I to all that was said that morning. It was a very happy morning,—a long, pause in the of life. Roland an old in Sigismund Smith presently, and the two men talked of those days at Mordred. They talked of all manner of things. Mr. Lansdell must have been to Sigismund in those early days, if one might judge of the past by the present; for he his old with effusion, and sketched out a little progress of for the week Sigismund was to at Graybridge.
"We'll have a picnic," he said: "you we talked about a picnic, Mrs. Gilbert. We'll have a at Waverly Castle; there isn't a more place for a in all Midlandshire. One can on the top of the western tower, in of one's life. You can to your uncle Raymond, Smith, and ask him to join us, with the two nieces, who are most children; so unintellectual, and no more in the way than a little furniture: you mayn't want it; but if you've space for it in your rooms, it doesn't in the least you. This is Thursday; shall we say Saturday for my picnic? I it to be my picnic, you know; a bachelor's picnic, with all the most necessary forgotten, I say. I think the salad-dressing and the champagne-nippers are the to forget, are they not? Do you think Saturday will you and the Doctor, Mrs. Gilbert? I should like it to be Saturday, you must all with me at Mordred on Sunday, in order that we may drink success and a dozen to the—what's the name of your novel, Smith? Shall it be Saturday, Mrs. Gilbert?"
Isabel only answered by and a of syllables. But her up with a look of that was to it now and then, and which, Mr. Lansdell was the most of the that he had seen, out of a picture or in one. Sigismund answered for the Doctor's Wife. Yes, he was sure Saturday would do capitally. He would settle it all with George, and he would answer for his uncle Raymond and the orphans; and he would answer for the weather even, for the of that. He the to at Mordred on Sunday, for himself and his and hostess.
"You know you can, Izzie," he said, in answer to Mrs. Gilbert's murmur; "it's nonsense talking about in a place like Graybridge, where nobody go out to dinner, and a tea-party on a Sunday is looked upon as wickedness. Lansdell always was a good fellow, and I'm not a to that he's a good still; if you train up a in the way it's inclined, the tree will not from it, as the has observed. I want to see Mordred again, most particularly; for, to tell you the truth, Lansdell," said Mr. Smith, with a of candour, "I was of taking the Priory for the of my next novel. There's a of about the of the house and the old square garden, that I think would take with the public; and with to the cellarage," Sigismund, with enthusiasm, "I've been through it with a lantern, and I'm sure there's for a perfect of bodies, which would be a if I was going to do the in numbers; for in numbers one always leads on to another, and you know, when you begin, how you may be to go. However, my present idea is three volumes. What do you think now, Lansdell, of the of the Priory; the gloom, you know, and the gardens all to seed, with rank and a or so, and the panelling, and a rottenness, and a in the corridor, or a the tapestry? What do you say, now, to Mordred, taken in with each other from infancy, and in love with the same woman, and one of them—the twin, with a on his forehead—walling up the female in a room, while the more without a his life to for her in climes, by a officer and a bloodhound? It's only a idea at present," Mr. Smith, modestly; "but I shall work it out in railway and exercise. There's nothing like railway or for out an idea of that kind."
Mr. Lansdell that his house and were at the service of his friend; and it was settled that the should take place on Saturday, and the dinner-party on Sunday; and George Gilbert's in the two was by his friend Sigismund. And then the away into more regions; and Roland and Mr. Smith talked of men and books, while Isabel listened, only in now and then with little remarks, to which the master of Mordred Priory as as if the had been a Madame de Staël. She may not have said anything very wonderful; but those were that came and upon her as she spoke, and as the of a butterfly's above a white rose; and the light in her was more than anything out of a tale.
But he always to her, and he always looked at her from a position which he had elected for himself in relation to her. She was a child; and he, a man of the world, very much and out by the ordinary men and of the world, was amused, interested, by her and sentimentality. He did no wrong, therefore, by her when accident her, as had so often lately, in his way. There was no harm, so long as he to the position he had for himself; so long as he this from across all the of his own and days; so long as he looked at her as a being, as much from him by the in their natures, as by the that she was the wife of Mr. George Gilbert of Graybridge-on-the-Wayverne.
Mr. Lansdell his to to this self-elected position with to Isabel. He was always to his own age; an age not to be computed, as he to Mrs. Gilbert, by the number of years in which he had this world, but to be calculated by the waste of those years, and the that had upon him thereby.
"I suppose, according to the calendar, I am only your senior by a decade," he said to Izzie one day; "but when I you talk about your books and your heroes, I as if I had a century."
He took the trouble to make little speeches of this very often, for Mrs. Gilbert's edification; and there were times when the Doctor's Wife was puzzled, and wounded, by his talk and his manner, which were to transitions, that were to a person. Mr. Lansdell was and in his moods, and would off in the middle of some little of sentiment, of Ernest Maltravers or Eugene Aram himself, with a about the of the of into which he had been betrayed; and would his retriever's long ears for ten minutes or so, and then up and wish Isabel an good morning. Mrs. Gilbert took these of manner very to heart. It was her fault, no doubt; she had said something silly; or affected, perhaps. Had not her Horace been to at her as a of affectation, she Byron to "Bell's Life," and was more in Edith Dombey than in the for the Oaks? She had said something that had affected, though in all of heart; and Mr. Lansdell had been by her talk. Contempt from him—she always of him in italics—was very bitter! She would never, go to Thurston's Crag again. But then, after one of those abruptly-unpleasant "good mornings," Mr. Lansdell was very to call at Graybridge. He wanted Mr. Gilbert to go and see one of the men on the home-farm, who in a very way, fellow, and ought not to be allowed to go on any longer without medical advice. Mr. Lansdell was very of looking up cases for the Graybridge surgeon. How good he was! Isabel thought; he in was in a manner a attribute; since who were dark, and pensive, and handsome, were not called upon to be otherwise virtuous. How good he was! he who was as of his own as if the of another Mr. Clarke had been in some in of his guilt. How good he was! and he had not been or with her when he left her so suddenly; for to-day he was to her than ever, and for nearly an hour in the parlour, in the that the would come in.
But when Mr. Lansdell walked slowly after such a visit as this, there was a look upon his face, which was with the he had appeared to take in his hour at Graybridge. He was inconsistent. It was in his nature, as a hero, to be so, no doubt. There were times when he all about that of years which was to him from any possibility of with Isabel Gilbert; there were times when he himself so as to be very and happy in his visits at Graybridge, playing of on the old harpsichord, sketching little of and Italian temples, and with big black eyes, not Isabel's, or out into the old-fashioned garden, where Mr. Jeffson on his spade, and a of himself, a middle of earth and a of cabbage-plants. I am to say that Mr. Jeffson, who was itself to every creature, from the pigs to he of skim-milk and potatoes, to the of Graybridge, who gave him "good evening" sometimes as he himself in the twilight, upon the gate leading into George Gilbert's stable-yard,—I am to say that Mr. Jeffson was wanting in to Roland Lansdell, and was to the man with black and looks as he by Izzie's along the narrow walks, or now and then to her dress from the of a gooseberry-bush.
Once, and once only, did Isabel Gilbert to with her husband's on the of his manner to the master of Mordred Priory. Her was a very one, and she was over a rose-bush while she talked, and was very off the leaves, and now and then that were not withered.
"I am you don't like Mr. Lansdell, Jeff," she said. She had been very much to the gardener, and very to him, Roland's advent, and had done a little under his instructions, and had told him all about Eugene Aram and the of Mr. Clarke "You to him this when he called to see George, and to about the man that had the fever; I'm you don't like him."
She her very low over the rose-bush; so low that her hair, which, though much than of old, was as or as it might have been, like a veil, and itself among the branches. "Oh yes, Mrs. George; I like him well enough. There's not a that I set on as I think to look at, or to talk to, than Mr. Lansdell, or more free and open-like in his manner to folk. But, like a many other good things, Mrs. George, Mr. Lansdell's only good, to my mind, when he's in his place; and I tell you, and candid, as I think he's more out of his place than when he's about your house, or away his time in this garden. It isn't for me, Mrs. George, to say who should come here, and who shouldn't; but there was a of relationship me and my master's mother. I can see her now, thing, with her face, and her across it, as she used to come me along the very on which you're now, Mrs. George; and all that time comes to me as if it was yesterday. I any one lead a or a life. I her deathbed, and I saw a death, one that to it closer home to a man's mind that there was something and still to come afterwards. But there was no Mr. Roland Lansdell in those days, Mrs. George, with no to 'em, and trees without any stumps, on of paper, or playing tunes, or otherwise like, while my master was out o' doors. And I remember, as almost the last that sweet says, was something about having done her to her dear husband, and having one as she wish to keep from him or Heaven."
Mrs. Gilbert on her the rose-bush, with her still by her hair, and her hands still among the leaves. When she looked up, which was not until after a of some minutes, Mr. Jeffson was so off, potatoes, with his her. There had been nothing in his manner of speaking to her; indeed, there had been a special and in his tones, a gentleness, that home to her heart.
She of her husband's mother a good that night, in a spirit, but with a touch of also. Was not the Mrs. Gilbert happy to have died young? was it not an so to die, and to be as having done something meritorious, when, for the of that, other people would be very happy to die young, if they could? Isabel of this with some of injury. Long ago, when her had been to her, and her step-mother had her on the of a to butter, and "back" teaspoons, she had to die young, a of to those relatives. But the gods had anything about her. She had on wet sometimes after "backing" in weather, in the that she might into a decline. She had pictured herself in the little at Camberwell, by inches, with on her cheeks, and her step-mother to call her early; which would have been the of the popular idea of the passion, as in her normal of health Miss Sleaford was to be late of a morning, and drowsily, with the voice of the sluggard, when from some dream, in which she a ruby-velvet that wouldn't keep hooked, and was by a who was always into the man at the butter-shop.
All that Isabel upon the history of her husband's mother, and that she be very, very good, like her, and die early, with upon her lips. But in the of such as these, she herself the hands of Mr. Gilbert the were red and like those of his son, he the same bootmaker, and an equal for spring-onions and Cheshire cheese. And from the picture of her Isabel in to away a that had no right to be there,—the of some one who would be post-haste, at the last moment, to her words, and to see her die.
