The Doctor's Wife
THE SECOND WARNING.
Mr. Roland Lansdell did not Lady Gwendoline or her father to that which he was to give at Waverly Castle. He had a of knowledge that Lord Ruysdale's would not that entertainment.
"She'd object to Smith. I say," Roland said to himself, "with his sporting-cut clothes, and his phrases, and his talk about three-volume and numbers. No, I don't think it would do to Gwendoline; she'd be sure to object to Smith."
Mr. Lansdell said this, or this, a good many times upon the day the picnic; but it may be that there was a idea in his mind that Lady Gwendoline might object to the presence of some one other than Mr. Smith in the little that had been planned under Lord Thurston's oak. Perhaps Roland Lansdell,—who as men who are by no means are yet to the and of mankind,—had a all at once, and wanted to himself; or it may be that the weak of his chin, and the want of in a region of his skull, were the and visible of such a weak and nature, that what was true with to him one minute was false the next; so that out of this of and purpose there a in the man's mind, like the of many into one river, along the was to the very sea he wanted so much to avoid.
"The will be a thing for Smith," Mr. Lansdell thought; "and it'll the children to make themselves ruins; and that dear good Raymond always himself with and happy people. I cannot see that the can be anything but pleasant; and for the of that, I've a good mind to send the early by Stephens, who make himself useful all day, and not go at all myself. I up to town under of particular business, and myself somehow for a day or two. Or, for that matter, I might go over to Baden or Hombourg, and the autumn there. Heaven I don't want to do any harm."
But, in of all this and of mind, Mr. Lansdell took a great of in the for the picnic. He did not trouble himself about the game-pie which was for the occasion, the of which was as as a piece of modern Wedgwood. He did not himself about the fowls, in of parsley; the tongue, with vegetable productions into the of flowers; the York ham, also in a high of polish, like Spanish mahogany, and about the by pure white of cut paper.
The to which Mr. Lansdell his attention were of a more and fairy-like description, such as and children are to take in. There must be and creams, Mr. Lansdell said, there might be in the of such compositions. There must be fruit; he himself to the of and peaches, the pine-apple in the long range of forcing-houses, and with still to the stalk. He ordered to be cut, one a very of choice flowers, white and innocent-looking, and he took to select richly-scented blossoms, and he touched the big with his white fingers, and looked at it with a on his dark face, as if the flowers had a language for him,—and so they had; but it was by no means that of and called the language of flowers.
It was nothing new for him to choose a bouquet. Had he not a small in the Rue de la Paix and in the Faubourg St. Honoré, in for big of roses and myosotis, and Cape-jasmine and camellias; which he saw on the of an opera-box, or in the warm of a boudoir? He was not a good man,—he had not a good life. Pretty had called him "Enfant!" in the of conservatories, upon the curtain-shrouded of balconies. Arch in little Parisian theatres, Marthons and Margots and Jeannettons, with in their hands and diamonds in their ears, had at him, and at him, and at him, as he in the of a box. He had not a good life. He was not a good man. But he was a man who had with impunity. With him always hand-in-hand with wrong-doing.
In all his life, I if there was any period in which Mr. Lansdell had so and to do as he did just now. His mind to have a of in the still of those Midlandshire and meads. There was a in the of such a woman as Isabel Gilbert, so different from all the other he had known, so in the of wisdom.
Mr. Lansdell did not go to London. When the old from Graybridge up a narrow and upon the green ground the gates of Waverly Castle, Roland was under the of the walls, with a big of flowers in his hand. He was in very high spirits; for to-day he had to the winds. Why should he not this of a with country-bred people and children? He some little upon the presence of the orphans. Yes, he would himself for to-day; and then to-morrow—ah! by the bye, to-morrow Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert and Sigismund Smith were to with him. After to-morrow it would be all over, and he would be off to the Continent again, to the old once more; To eat the same dinners at the same restaurants; the same little after the opera, in chambers, all velvet, and gaslight, and glass, and gilding; to go to the same in the same saloons, and to see the same upon him in their splendour.
"I might have country gentleman, and have been good for something in this world," Roland, "if——"
Mr. Lansdell was not alone. Charles Raymond and the had arrived; and they all came together to welcome Isabel and her companions. Mr. Raymond had always been very to his nieces' governess, but he to her to-day. He himself Roland and the door of the fly, and Isabel to alight. He her hand under his arm with a of manner, and looked with a at the of the gentlemen.
"I to Mrs. Gilbert for the whole of this day," he said, cheerily; "and I shall give her a full account of Waverly, looked upon from an archæological, historical, and point of view. Never mind your flowers now, Roland; it's a very bouquet, but you don't Mrs. Gilbert is going to it about all day? Take it into the yonder, and ask them to put it in water; and in the evening, if you're very good, Mrs. Gilbert shall take it home to ornament her at Graybridge."
The gates were opened, and they in; Isabel arm-in-arm with Mr. Raymond.
Roland himself presently on one of Isabel; but Mr. Raymond was so very about John of Gaunt and the Tudors, that all Mrs. Gilbert's attention was taken up in the to his discourse, which was very and lively, in of its nature. George Gilbert looked at the with the same respect with which he had the pictures at Mordred. He was familiar with those empty halls, those chambers, and open doorways, and ivy-festooned windows; but he always looked at them with the same reverence, with a wonder as to what it was that people in ruins, that they such work of them, and so pleased to away and take refreshment. Ruins and in Mr. Gilbert's mind; and, indeed, there to be a natural and lobster-salad, and cold chicken; just as the of Greenwich Hospital, the park beyond, and the water in the foreground, must be for and with and whitebait. Mr. Sigismund Smith was with Waverly. He had the often in his boyhood; but to-day he saw from a new point of view, and he about in all manner of corners, with a pencil and pocket-book in his hand, the plan of a serial, and making himself with dust. His friends him on one occasion at full length in a that had once been a fireplace, with a view to it was long to a body. He heights, and planned and "hairbreadth 'scapes," in the way of walks along narrow high up above empty space; such as the reader with breath, and make the of his almost a certainty.
The Mr. Smith, and were with the little that they in and of the castle. How to have chairs and tables and utensils, and to live there for and ever, and keep house for themselves! They the children who in the square tower by the gate, and saw every day of their lives.
It was a very altogether. There was a of and in Roland Lansdell's mind as he Isabel, and listened, or appeared to listen, to Mr. Raymond's talk. He would like to have had Isabel's little hand on his arm; he would like to have those black to his face; he would like her to have the to the and banquet-chambers from him. And yet, perhaps, it was as it was. He was going away very soon—immediately, indeed; he was going where that would be to him, and it was not to himself in soft that were so soon to be taken away from his life. Yes, his life. He had come to think of his with repining, and to look upon himself as, somehow or other, ill-used by Providence.
But, in of Mr. Raymond, he to next Isabel at dinner, which was by-and-by in a under the walls, where there was no of the salt being into the tart, or the over the lobster-salad. Mr. Lansdell had sent a of to matters; and the was not a like an ordinary picnic, where are and forgotten, and where there is by of everybody's to in the preparations. This was a recherché banquet; but so as those more feasts, in which there is a of tumblers, and no to speak of. The was iced, the in the sunlight, was in perfect order; and if Mr. Raymond had not upon sending away the two men, who wanted to wait at table, with the of every-day life, it would have been the name of picnic. But with the two out of the way, and with Sigismund, very red and and noisy, to act as butler, were improved.
The sun was low when they left the of the for the two men to clear away. The sun was low, and the moon had risen, so as to be from a cloud high up in the clear heaven. Mr. Raymond took Isabel up by a to the top of a high turret, which spread green and of verdure, where once had been a and pleasaunce. The moon they the top of the turret, where there was room for a dozen people. Roland with them, of course, and sat on one of the looking out at the still night, with his profile as as a against the of the sky. He was very silent, and his had a on Isabel, who to what Mr. Raymond was saying to her, and gave every now and then; so that Charles Raymond left off talking presently, and to into as a as that which Mr. Lansdell silent.
To Isabel's mind there was a in that silence, which was in some way in with the and the atmosphere. She was free to watch Roland's now that Mr. Raymond had left off talking to her, and she did watch it; that still profile perfect more and more against the sky. If have painted his portrait as he sat there, with one hand among the ivy-leaves, in the moonlight, what a picture it would have made! What was he of? Were his away in some city with dark-eyed Clotilde? or the Duchess with the hair, who had loved him and been false to him long ago, when he was an alien, and recorded the history of his in heart-breaking verse, in numbers, with of French and Latin, alternately and sarcastic? Isabel in Clotilde and the Duchess, and was in self-abasement and when she herself with those and creatures.
Roland spoke at last: if there had been anything common-place or wise in what he said, there must have been a little in Isabel's mind; but his talk was to the place and the hour; and mysterious,—like the night in the heavens.
"I think there is a point at which a man's life comes to an end," he said. "I think there is a and close to every man's existence, that is as as the of a when a play is done. He goes on living; that is to say, and drinking, and so many of fresh air every day, for a century afterwards, perhaps; but that is nothing. Do not the actors live after the play is done, and the has fallen? Hamlet goes home and eats his supper, and his wife and his children; but the and the that him Prince of Denmark have died out like the of the green-room fire. Surely that after-life is the penalty, the counter-balance, of hours of and pleasure. I am the Lansdells are not a long-lived race, Raymond; for I think the play is finished, and the dark has for me!"
"Humph!" Mr. Raymond; "wasn't there something to that in the 'Alien?' It's very pretty, Roland,—that of which is so much in fashion nowadays; but don't you think if you were to up a little in the morning, and a of hours the with your and gun, so as to an for your breakfast, you might over that of thing?"
Isabel a upon Mr. Raymond, but Roland out laughing.
"I say I talk like a fool," he said; "I like one sometimes."
"When are you going again?"
"In a month's time. But why should I go abroad?" asked Mr. Lansdell, with a of in the of his tone; "why should I go? what is there for me to do there than here? what good am I there more than I am here?" He asked these questions of the sky as much as of Mr. Raymond; and the of Conventford did not himself called upon to answer them. Mr. Lansdell into the that so puzzled Isabel; and nothing more was said until the voice of George Gilbert from below, the and towers, calling to Isabel.
"I must go," she said; "I say the is to take us back. Goodnight, Mr. Raymond; goodnight, Mr. Lansdell."
She out her hand, as if to she should offer it; Roland had his position until this moment, but he started up now, like a man from a dream. "You are going?" he said; "so soon!"
"So soon! it is very late, I think," Mrs. Gilbert answered; "at least, I we have ourselves very much; and the time has passed so quickly."
She it was her to say something of this to him, as the of the feast; and then she and confused, she had said too much.
"Good night, Mr. Lansdell."
"But I am with you to the gate," said Roland; "do you think we let you go those stairs by yourself, to and your and the tower by moonlight for afterwards, a in drapery? Here's Mr. Gilbert," he added, as the top of George's itself visible upon the staircase; "but I'm sure I know the than he does, and I shall take you under my care."
He took her hand as he spoke, and her the way as and as if she had been a little child. Her hand did not as it rested in his; but something like a that had long been in her to his all at once, and away from her him. She it was her long-imprisoned soul, perhaps, that so left her to a part of his. If that slow have for ever—if she have gone down, down, with Roland Lansdell into some pit, until at last they came to a and still water, where there was a calm—and death! But the did not last very long, as Roland was of every step; and there was the top of George's about in the moonlight all the time; for the had his way in the turret, and only came at last very warm and when Isabel called to him from the of the stairs.
Sigismund and the appeared at the same moment.
Mr. Raymond had Roland and Isabel very closely, and they all together to the fly.
"Remember to-morrow," Mr. Lansdell said to the Graybridge party as they took their seats. "I shall you as soon as the service is over. I know you are regular church-goers at Graybridge. Couldn't you come to Mordred for the service, by the bye?—the church is well seeing." There was a little discussion; and it was that Mr. and Mrs. George Gilbert and Sigismund should go to Mordred church on the afternoon; and then there was a good of hand-shaking the away, and the that screened the road.
"I'll see you and the children off, Raymond," Mr. Lansdell said, "before I go myself."
"I'm not going away just this minute," Mr. Raymond answered gravely; "I want to have a little talk with you first. There's something I particularly want to say to you. Mrs. Primshaw," he to the of a little just opposite the castle-gates, a good-natured rosy-faced woman, who was on the of her door the movements of the gentlefolks, "will you take of my little girls, and see their are warm for the drive home, while I take a moonlight with Mr. Lansdell?"
Mrs. Primshaw that nothing would give her than to see to the of the ladies. So the across the road, sorry to take in the bar-parlour, all and with a of fire in the out of a doll's house.
Mr. Lansdell and Mr. Raymond walked along the road under the of the wall, and for some minutes neither of them spoke. Roland no about, or in, that unknown something which Mr. Raymond had to say to him; but there was a of in the of his head, the of his face, that to promise for the of the interview.
Perhaps Mr. Raymond saw this, and was puzzled how to the conversation; at any rate, when he did begin, he very abruptly, taking what one might to call a header.
"Roland," he said, "this won't do!"
"What won't do?" asked Mr. Lansdell, coolly.
"Of course, I don't set up for being your Mentor," returned Mr. Raymond, "or for having any right to lecture you, or to you. The tie of us is a very one: though, as as that goes, God that I love you than I do, if I were your father. But if I were your father, I don't you'd to me, or me. Men do in such as these. I've my life, Roland, and I know too well how little good can do in such a case as this. But I can't see you going without trying to stop you: and for that honest-hearted yonder, for his sake, I must speak, Roland. Have you any of the you're doing? have you any knowledge of the of sin, and misery, and shame, and that you are that woman's feet?"
"Why, Raymond," Mr. Lansdell, with a laugh,—not a very laugh, but something like that of with which a man the of some old Joe-Millerism that has been familiar to him from his childhood,—"why, Raymond, you're as as a modern poet! What do you mean? Who's the honest-hearted fellow? and who's the woman? and what's the nature of the altogether?"
"Roland, let us be with each other, at least. Do you how you told me once that, when every had away from you one by one, still remained,—- a star, to those other lights that had in the darkness, but still to keep you in the road? Has that last light gone out with the rest, Roland, my boy,—my boy I have loved as my own child?—will the day come when I shall have to be of Anna Lansdell's only son?"
His mother's name had always something of a spell for Roland. His head, so proudly before, suddenly, and he walked on in for some little time. Mr. Raymond was also silent. He had some good from the of the man's head, and was to the of his thoughts. When Roland did at last his head, he and looked his friend and full in the face.
"Raymond," he said, "I am not a good man;" he was very of making this declaration, and I think he that in so doing he some for his short-comings: "I am not a good man, but I am no hypocrite; I will not to you, or with you. Perhaps there may be some for what you said just now, or there might be, if I were a different of man. But, as it is, I give you my you are mistaken. I have been no for a woman's to into. I have been no against that yonder. Remember, I do not by any means myself blameless. I have Mrs. Gilbert just as one a child, and I have allowed myself to be by her talk, and have her books, and may have paid her a little more attention than I ought to have done. But I have done nothing deliberately. I have for one moment had any purpose in my mind, or mixed her image with so much as a of—of—any form. I have into a position, or a position that might be to another man; but I can out of it as easily as I in. I shall Midlandshire next month."
"And to-morrow the Gilberts with you at Mordred; and all through this month there will be the of your Mrs. Gilbert, and her more books, and paying her more attention; and so on. It is not so much that I you, Roland; I cannot think so of you as to your in this business. But you are doing mischief; you are this girl's head. It is no to her books; it is no to her to Mordred, and to her of a life that can be hers. If you want to do a good deed, and to her life out of its present level, make her your almoner, and give her a hundred a year to among her husband's patients. The weak child is for want of some to perform upon this earth; some necessary to keep her from day to day, and to make a link her husband and herself. Roland, I do that you are as good and generous-minded a as an old was proud of. My dear boy, let me of you than I have yet. Leave Midlandshire to-morrow morning. It will be easy to some for going. Go to-morrow, Roland."
"I will," answered Mr. Lansdell, after a pause; "I will go, Raymond," he repeated, out his hand, and that of his friend. "I I have been going a little lately; but I only wanted the voice of a true-hearted like you to call me to the road. I shall Midlandshire to-morrow, Raymond; and it may be a very long time you see me again."
"Heaven I am sorry to you, my boy," Mr. Raymond said with some emotion; "but I that it's the only thing for you to do. I used sometimes to think, George Gilbert offered to Isabel, that you and she would have been to each other somehow; and I have that—"
And here Mr. Raymond stopped abruptly, that this speech was the he have made.
But Roland Lansdell took no notice of that unlucky observation.
"I shall go to-morrow," he repeated. "I'm very you've spoken to me, Raymond; I thank you most for the you have me this night; and I shall go to-morrow."
And then his mind away to his in Roman history; and he how Marcus Curtius just after making up his mind to take the that him famous. And then, with a from to modern history, he of tender-hearted Louise la Vallière away and herself in a convent, only to have her pure and like a of wood-anemones in a of wind—only to have her upon by the of an king.
