The Doctor's Wife
"OCEANS SHOULD DIVIDE US."
Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert to church arm-in-arm as on the after the picnic; but Sigismund at home to sketch the of that which he had planned among the of Waverly. The day was very fine,—a day, with a sun and a sky. The like a good omen, Mrs. Gilbert thought, as she herself in the white that she was to wear at Mordred. An of what? She did not ask herself that question; but she was pleased to think that the should upon her visit to Mordred. She was of the dinner at the Priory while she sat by her husband's in church, looking at the Prayer-book in her lap. It was a common thing for her now to be of him when she ought to have been to the sermon. To-day she did not try to to the rector's discourse. She was herself in the drawing-room at Mordred, after dinner, him talk. She saw his her in the twilight—the dark face—the dreamy, eyes. When the rose suddenly, at the end of the sermon, she sat for a moment, like a from a dream; and when the people knelt, and in on the of their pastor, Mrs. Gilbert so long in a attitude, that her husband was to her by a upon the shoulder. She had been of him on her knees. She not his image from her thoughts; she walked about in a dream, and to the that there was in so dreaming; and when she did upon her sin, it was very easy to it and make light of it. He would know. In November he would be gone, and the would be nothing but a dream.
It was only one o'clock, by the old-fashioned eight-day clock in the passage, when they home after church. The was to be at a three, and at that hour they were to start for Mordred. George meant to put up his at the little near the Priory gates, and then they walk from the church to Mr. Lansdell's after the service. Mr. Gilbert that Brown Molly appeared at a in Roland's stables.
Sigismund was still in the little parlour, looking very warm, and the for ink. He had all the bottles in the of his labours, and had a little of them at his elbow.
"I don't think any one so many ink-bottles with so little ink," he said, plaintively. "I've had my test ideas by in my pen, to say nothing of flies' wings, and bodies. There's nothing like unlimited for to a man's language; you cut his the moment you limit his ink. However, I'm here for pleasure, old fellow," Mr. Smith added, cheerfully; "and all the printing-machines in the city of London may be waiting for copy for I care."
An hour and three must it would be time to start for Mordred. Mrs. Gilbert up-stairs and her hair, and looked at herself in the glass, and if she was pretty. He had told her so. He had paid her any compliment. But she fancied, somehow, that he her pretty, though she had no idea that was derived. She down-stairs again, and out into the garden, Mr. Smith was calling to her—the little garden in of the house, where there were a common flowers in like dishes; and where, in a corner, there was an of and of glass, which Mr. Jeffson to be the exact of a grotto.
Mr. Smith had a good to say for himself, as he had on all occasions; but as his was of a personal character, it may have been wanting in interest. Isabel up and the narrow by his side, and her him, and said, "Yes," and "Did you really!" and "Well, how very strange!" now and then. But she was as she had in church; she was of the that her,—an in his companionship, pictures and flowers and marble and curtains, and with of a of lawn and through every open window.
She was of this when a loud and in her ear: and looking suddenly, she saw a man in livery—a man who looked like a groom—standing the garden gate.
She was so near the gate that it would have been a to keep the man waiting there while Mrs. Jeffson her way from the at the of the house. The Doctor's Wife the key in the lock and opened the gate; but the man only wanted to deliver a letter, which he gave her with one hand while he touched the of his with the other.
"From Mr. Lansdell, ma'am," he said.
In the next moment he was gone, and the open gate and the white to Isabel Gilbert's eyes.
There had been no need for the man to tell her that the was from his master. She the hand, in which she had read pencil upon the of those books which Mr. Lansdell had her. And if she had not the hand, she would have easily the came. Who else should send her so grand-looking a missive, with that thick cream-coloured (a big official-looking envelope), and the coat-of-arms with tall supporters on the seal? But why should he have to her? It was to put off the dinner, no doubt. Her a little, like the of a child who is going to cry, as she opened the letter.
She read it very twice, and then all at once that Roland was going away for some years,—for ever,—it was all the same thing; and that she would never, never, never, never,—the word to repeat itself in her brain like the of a bell,—never see him again!
She that Sigismund was looking at her, and her some question about the of the letter. "What did Lansdell say? was it a put-off, or what?" Mr. Smith demanded; but Isabel did not answer him. She him the open letter, and then, from him, ran into the house, up-stairs, and into her room. She locked the door, herself upon the bed, and as a woman in the great of her life. The of those was by the which her was buried, but the of them her from to foot. It was very to have of him so much, to have loved him so dearly. The of her came to her all at once, and was very bitter.
Mr. Smith for some moments at the through which Isabel had disappeared, with the open in his hand, and his a perfect blank in the of his amazement.
"I it is a put-off," he said to himself; "and she's we're not going. Why, what a child she is still! I her just like that once at Camberwell, when I'd promised her for the play, and couldn't 'em. The manager of the T. R. D. L. said he didn't the author of 'The Brand upon the Shoulder-blade' to the privilege. Poor little Izzie! I her away, and not for so long; and when she did make her appearance, her were red and swollen."
Mr. Smith to up a narrow of lavender-tinted paper from the garden-walk. It was the cheque which Roland Lansdell had in payment of the Doctor's services. Sigismund read the letter, and over it.
"I'm almost as much as Izzie, for the of that," he to himself; "we should have had a good dinner at the Priory, and any amount of sparkling; and Chateau what's-its-name and Clos de to follow, I say. I'll take George the and the cheque—it's just like Izzie to the cheque on the ground—and myself to a Sunday."
It was a Sunday. The "ish" with which Mr. Smith had the was unnecessary. It was a very Sunday. Ah, reader, if Providence has some in store for you, pray that it may not you on a Sunday, in the sunshine, when the church are on the still air. Mr. Gilbert up-stairs by-and-by, when the were at their loudest, and, the door of his locked, on the panel, and asked Isabel if she did not to go to church. But she told him she had a headache, and wanted to at home. He asked her so many questions, as to why her ached, and how long it had ached, and wanted to see her, from a professional point of view.
"Oh, no, no!" she cried, from the upon which she was lying; "I don't want any medicine; I only want to my head; I was asleep when you knocked."
Ah, what a that was! as if she to sleep again!
"But, Izzie," Mr. Gilbert, "you've had no dinner. There's cold in the house, you know; and we're going to have that and a after church. You'll come to dinner, eh?"
"No, no; I don't want any dinner. Please, me alone. I only want to rest," she answered, piteously.
Poor George Gilbert little how an it had cost his wife to these without in a of and weeping. She her in the again as her husband's slowly the narrow stairs. She was very wretched, very foolish. It was only a dream—nothing more than a dream—that was to her. Again, had she not all along that Roland Lansdell would go away, and that all her and must go with him? Had she not upon his departure? Yes; but in November, not in September; not on the day that was to have been such a happy day.
"Oh, how cruel, how cruel!" she thought. "How of him to go away like that! without saying good-bye,—without saying he was sorry to go. And I that he liked to talk to me; I that he was pleased to see me sometimes, and would be sorry when the time came for him to go away. But to think that he should go away two months the time he spoke of,—to think that he should not be sorry to go!"
Mrs. Gilbert got up by-and-by, when the western sky was all one of light and colour. She got up there was little peace for a in that chamber; to the door of which some came every half-hour or so to ask Isabel if her was any by this time, if she would have a cup of tea, if she would come down-stairs and on the sofa, and to her with many other of the like nature. She was not to be alone with her great sorrow. Sooner or later she must go out and life again, and the blank world in which he was not. Better, since it must be so, that she should her at once. She her and head, she her long black the little glass, which the sky at her. Ah, how often in the sunny she had that old-fashioned of him, and the of meeting him the mill-stream, under the of the oak-leaves at Thurston's Crag! And now it was all over, and she would never, never, never, see him again! Her life was finished. Ah, how he had spoken on the of the tower! and how the meaning of his came home to her to-day! Her life was finished. The had fallen, and the lights were out; and she had nothing more to do but to about upon a stage until she in the great vampire-trap—the grave. A ghost, with hair, looked at her from the glass. Oh, if she die, if she die! She of the mill-stream. The wheel would be idle; and the water low in the the miller's would be still to-night, still and and glassy, red in the like the of a with the of a painted window. Why should she not end her for in the pool, so deep, so tranquil? She of Ophelia, and the miller's on the banks of Allan Water. Would she be on the stream, with of water-lilies in her long dark hair? Would she look when she was dead? Would he be sorry when he of her death? Would he read a paragraph in the newspapers some at breakfast, and a blood-vessel into his coffee-cup? Or would he read and not care? Why should he care? If he had for her, he have gone away, he have that letter, with not a word of regret—no, not one. Vague like these one another in her mind. If she have the to go to the water's brink, and to into the where Roland Lansdell had once told her it was deepest.
She down-stairs by-and-by, in the dusk, with her as white as the that about her in and folds. She into the little parlour, where George and Sigismund were waiting for their tea, and where two yellow mould-candles were in the breeze. She told them that her was better; and then to make the tea, up of and with the little scollop-shell, which had to Mr. Gilbert's grandmother, and was with a profile of George the Third.
"But you've been crying, Izzie!" George presently, for Mrs. Gilbert's looked red and in the light of the candles.
"Yes, my was so it me cry; but don't ask me any more about it," Isabel pleaded, piteously. "I it was the p-pic-nic"—she nearly upon the word, how good he had been to her all through the happy day—"yesterday that me ill."
"I say it was that lobster-salad," Mr. Gilbert answered, briskly: "I ought to have told you not to eat it. I don't think there's anything more than lobster-salad with cream."
Sigismund Smith his with a countenance, while she out the tea and the cups right and left. Poor Isabel managed it all with steadiness; and then, when the was over, she sat by the window alone, out at the in the moonlight, while her husband and his friend their in the outside.
How was she to her life in that lane—her life, which would go on and on for ever, like a slow across upon the black of a canal? How was she to it? All its monotony, all its misery, its dreariness, its shabbiness, rose up her with force; and the terror of that her like a from a giant's hand.
It all came back. Yes, it came back. For the last two months it had to be; it had been out—hidden, forgotten; there had been no such thing. An enchanter's had been above that square-built house in the lane, and a had for her habitation; a fairy-land of and had spread itself around her, a in which she hand in hand with a demigod. The image of Roland Lansdell had her life, to the of every other shape, or inanimate. But the fairy-land melted away all at once, like a in the desert; like the last in a pantomime, the and lights out in vapours. The and melted into thin air; but the and dreary, away for and for the wanderer's feet.
In all Mrs. Gilbert's there was no special or of her husband. He was only a part of the of her life; he was only one of that world in which Roland Lansdell was not. He was very good to her, and she was of his goodness, and to him. But his image had no place in her thoughts. At times he came home and ate his dinner, or his tea, with of and and garden-stuff; but, the last two months, there had been many times when his wife was of his presence. She was happy in fairy-land, with the of her tale, while George Gilbert and and radishes. But the was now, with an and climax; the had vanished; the was over. Sitting by that open window, with her arms on the sill, Mrs. Gilbert how she was to her life.
And then her to the still the mill-stream. She the happy, on which Roland Lansdell had by her and told her the of the stream. She closed her eyes, and her upon her arms, and all the picture came to her. She the of the rushes, the of a out of the water: she saw the yellow on the leaves, the in through every in the foliage; and she saw his her with that look, that and smile, which had only another of sunshine.
Would he be sorry if he opened the newspaper and read a little paragraph in a to the that she had been the long in that very spot? Would he the sunny afternoon, and the he had said to her? His talk had been very and indefinite; but there had been, or had to be, an of in all he said, as and fitful, as and mysterious, as the of the wind among the rushes.
The two men came in presently, of and tobacco smoke. They Isabel on the sofa, with her to the wall. Did her still ache? Yes, as as ever.
George sat to read his Sunday paper. He was very of a Sunday paper; and he read all the and police reports, and the from liberal-minded citizens, who themselves Aristides, and Diogenes, and Junius Brutus, and against the of a aristocracy. While the the newspaper and cut the leaves, he told Isabel about Roland Lansdell's cheque.
"He has sent me five-and-twenty pounds," he said. "It's very liberal; but of I can't think of taking such a sum, I've been a good about his farm-people,—for there's been so much low this last month,—but I've been looking over the account I'd out against him, and it doesn't come to a five-pound note. I he's been used to with physicians, who a for every visit. I shall send him his cheque."
Isabel as she to her husband's talk. How low and all this about money seemed! Had not the of the cheque in that been almost an insult? What was her husband than a tradesman, when there be this question of and payment him and Roland Lansdell?
And then she of Clotilde and the Duchess,—the Duchess with her and the eyes. She of "marble white against the of the night;" of "crimson with gold, and high-bred cold." She of all that of colour and and perfume and music which was the in Mr. Lansdell's wares; and she wondered, in self-abasement and humiliation, how she have for a moment herself with the idea that he one of or for such a being as herself. She of her dresses, that had the proper number of in the skirt; she of her in last year's fashion, her hat, her green like at the close of a summer. She of the herself and the master of Mordred, and at her and presumption.
Poor George Gilbert was puzzled by his wife's headache, which was of a nature, for some days. He gave her draughts, and for her forehead, which was very under his professional hand. Her was rapid, her was white, and the her to be bilious. He had not the of any at the of these physical derangements. He was very simple-minded, and, being of himself, all his fellow-creatures by a standard. He that the good and the two as as the of and the of the depths. He that there were, or other in the universe, who their husbands and into darkness, just as he that in of there and murderers, and pickpockets, the newspaper record of no reading for Sunday afternoons. But of errors, of and temptations, he had no conception. He had his wife pleased and happy in Roland Lansdell's society; and the that any to himself, how small soever, out of that companionship, had entered his mind. Mr. Raymond had of the that a man with such a region was to be upon.
The of the week passed in a way for Isabel. The weather was very fine, fine; and to Mrs. Gilbert the all and and blankness. Sigismund was very to her, and did his best to her, the plots of novels, which were to take Camden Town by in the future. But she sat looking at him without him, and his talk a on her ear. Oh, for the of that other voice,—that other voice, which had itself to such a melody! Oh, for the talk about the of life, and the of in general! Poor simple-hearted Mr. Smith himself positively to Isabel that week by of his to her.
"If he would only let me alone!" she thought. "If people would only have upon me and let me alone!"
But that was just what every one not to do. Sigismund himself to the of his hostess. William Jeffson let the high the potatoes while he planted rose-bushes, and up creepers, and dug, and improved, and in that of the garden which a to prettiness. Was it that he to Mrs. Gilbert's mind, and to her to some exertion? He did not a shrub, or a of box, without the Doctor's Wife upon the subject; and Isabel was called out into the garden half-a-dozen times in an hour.
And then his visit Sigismund upon taking Mrs. Gilbert to Warncliffe to with his mother and sisters. Mr. Smith's family a for the occasion: there was a for dinner,—a and bird; and a big pie, and and in green leaf-shaped for dessert; and of Isabel's away from that mahogany, with its d'oyleys and dark-blue finger-glasses, to the table at Mordred and all its of and fruit and flowers.
The Smith family Mrs. Gilbert very and insipid; but Sigismund had a great to say about his own achievements, past, present, and future; so Isabel was free to in the to the slow in the old-fashioned outside—the postman's and in the distance—and the of the in a of on the of the town.
Mr. Smith senior the in the of his family, and was put through a upon questions in and by his son, who was always into of legal difficulty, from which he to be by professional assistance.
The a very long one to Isabel; but it was over at last, and Sigismund her to Graybridge in a omnibus; and that slow drive she was free to in a and think of him.
Mr. Smith left his friends on the day; and going, he walked with Isabel in the garden, and talked to her a little of her life.
"I say it is a little at Graybridge," he said, as if in answer to some of Isabel's, and yet she had said nothing. "I say you do it a little dull, though George is one of the best that lived, and to you; yes, Izzie, to you, in his way. He isn't one of your fellows, you know; can't go into raptures, or anything of that kind. But we were boys together, Izzie, and I know him thoroughly: and I know that he loves you dearly, and would his if anything to you; or he was—anyhow to take it into his that you didn't love him. But still, I say, you do life slow work here; and I can't help that if you were to a little more than you do, you'd be happier. Suppose, now," Mr. Smith, with the of his idea,—"suppose you were to WRITE A NOVEL! THERE! You don't know how happy it would make you. Look at me. I always used to be and lamenting, and for this, that, or the other: I had ten thousand a year, or a Grecian nose, or some of that sort; but since I've taken to novels, I don't think I've a unsatisfied. There's nothing I haven't done—on paper. The I've loved and married; the I've come into, always unexpectedly, and when I was at the very ebb, with a to myself into the Serpentine in the moonlight; the I've upon my enemies; the I've would make the life of a Napoleon Buonaparte and by comparison. I it isn't I that up the stair, with a long knife and in the that through a in the shutter; but I'm sure I myself as much as if it was. And if I were a lady," Mr. Smith, speaking with some hesitation, and at Isabel's face,—"if I were a lady, and had a of for a person I ought not to about, I'll tell you what I'd do with him,—I'd put him into a novel, Izzie, and work him out in three volumes; and if I wasn't of him by the time I got to the last chapter, nothing on earth would me."
This was the which Sigismund gave to Isabel at parting. She his meaning, and his interference. She was to that people her wickedness, and to her of her madness. Yes; she was very wicked—very mad. She her sin, but she not put it away from her. And now that he was gone, now that he was away, to come back, to look upon her again, surely there be no in of him. She did think of him, daily and hourly; no longer with any reservation, no longer with any attempt at self-deception. Eugene Aram and Ernest Maltravers, the Giaour and the Corsair, were forgotten. The hero of her life had come, and she his image, and paid him worship. What did it matter? He was gone! He was as away from her life now as those of the brain, Messrs. Aram and Maltravers. He was a dream, like all the other of her life; only he melt away or as they had done.
