The Doctor's Wife
"ONCE MORE THE GATE BEHIND ME FALLS."
All through the months, all through the winter, George Gilbert's wife her existence, and it. The days were all alike, all "dark and cold and dreary;" and her life was "dark and cold and dreary" like the days. She did not a novel. She did not any task, or out any intention; but she a great many undertakings, and of them, and gave them up in despair. She a of a novel; a wild work of fiction, in which Mr. Roland Lansdell over all the of Lindley Murray, and was always when he ought to have been objective, and versa, and did small to the at which he was to have an of honours. Mrs. Gilbert very soon got of the novel, though it was to it in a complete taking the town by storm. He would read it, and would know that she had it. Was there not a minute of Lord Thurston's in the very chapter? It was to think of the romance, in three volumes. But Mrs. Gilbert got a chapters, in which the of the work—the meeting of the hero and heroine, the death of the by and of the by of a blood-vessel, and so on—were described. She not do the every-day work; she a palace, and in its halls; but she not the stair-carpets, or fit the window-blinds, or the planned furniture. She up her manuscript; and then for a little time she that she would be very good; to the poor, to her husband, and to the and at Graybridge church. She a little book out of letter-paper, and took notes of the vicar's and the curate's discourses; but those had a for points of Mrs. Gilbert's comprehension, and the Doctor's Wife the of a very difficult work. She her little to of her sins, and to do good. She cut up her and them into for some children, and she a packet of from a Conventford bookseller, and them with the frocks; having a idea that no was complete unless by a tract.
Alas for this child! the to be good, and pious, and practical did not well upon her. She got on very well with some of the cottagers' daughters, who had been at the national school, and were as of reading as herself; she with these damsels, and them odd out of her little library, and read to them on occasion; and the of Graybridge, entering one day a where she was sitting, was pleased to a noise, as of the voice, and Mrs. Gilbert for her to the good cause. He might not have been so well pleased had he the of her lecture, had relation to a of and propensities—a who
"Left a Corsair's name to other times,
Link'd with one and a thousand crimes."
But these to be good-ah! how a time it since Isabel Gilbert had been a child, to have her ears by the second Mrs. Sleaford! how a time since to "be good" meant to be to wash the and saucers, or to a three-cornered rent in a hobbledehoy's jacket!—even these by-and-by, and Mrs. Gilbert herself to the of her life, and herself with the of Roland Lansdell as an opium-eater his days with the that his stupor. She herself to her life, and was very to her husband, and read as long as she one to read, and was for of what might have been—if she had been free, and if Roland Lansdell had loved her. Alas! he had only too proved that he did not love her, and had loved her. He had this by at the very time when she was to be happy in the that she was somehow or another nearer and to him than she ought to have been.
The autumn days and the dark winter days themselves out, and Mr. Gilbert came in and out, and to his duties, and ate his dinner, and Brown Molly the hedgerows, the streams, as as he had done in the time, when his had through a garden. His was one of those happy natures which are by any wild after the unattainable. He had an idea of his Graybridge for a one by-and-by, and he used to talk to Isabel of this design, but she took little in the subject. She had very little in it from the first, and she less now. What would be the use of such a change? It only her a new of dreariness; and it was something to on the little under Lord Thurston's oak, so and now; it was something to see the chimney-pots of Mordred, the of dark red-brick chimneys, warm against the December sky.
Mrs. Gilbert did not that passage in Roland Lansdell's letter, in which he had the Mordred library at her disposal. But she was very slow to herself of the thus offered to her. She away from the of entering his house, though there was no of meeting him in the rooms; though he was at the other end of Europe, and happy, and of her. It was only by-and-by, when Mr. Lansdell had been gone some months, and when the of her life had day by day more oppressive, that Isabel Gilbert took to enter the gates of Mordred. Of she told her husband she was going—was it not her so to do?—and George good-naturedly approving—"though I'm sure you've got books already," he said; "for you to be reading all day"—she set out upon a and walked alone to the Priory. The old her very cordially.
"I've been to see you every day, ma'am, since Mr Lansdell left us," the woman exclaimed: "for he said as you were and of books, and was to take away any that you fancied; and John's to them for you, ma'am; and I was to pay you every attention. But I was to think you didn't to come at all, ma'am."
There were in many of the rooms, for Mr. Lansdell's had a terror of that which upon the surface of a picture. The upon frames, and here and there in the of rich Bohemian glass, and in upon and groups of marble; but the rooms had a look, somehow, in of the and light and splendour.
Mrs. Warman, the housekeeper, told Isabel of Mr. Lansdell's whereabouts. He was at Milan, Lady Gwendoline Pomphrey had been good to tell Mrs. Warman; in Italy that was, the believed; and he was to the of the winter in Rome, and then he was going on to Constantinople, and where! For there was such a traveller, or any one so restless-like.
"Isn't it a he don't his cousin, Lady Gwendoline, and settle like his pa?" said Mrs. Warman. "It do a for such a place as this to be up from year's end to year's end, till the very pictures a way with them, and to at one reproachful-like, as if they was asking, over and over again, 'Where is he? Why don't he come home?'"
Isabel was with her to the sky the window, and the did not the of her discourse. That talk was very painful to Mrs. Gilbert. It to her as if Roland Lansdell's image and from her in this place, where all the of his and station were a of the great them.
"What am I to him?" she thought. "What can such a as I am be to him? If he comes home it will be to Lady Gwendoline. Perhaps he will tell her how he used to meet me by the mill-stream, and they will laugh together about me."
Had her been and unwomanly, and would he her only to her? She that if Roland Lansdell returned to Midlandshire it would be to her dead. He not her if she was dead. The only she had that was the that Mr. Lansdell might come to Mordred, and himself to his cousin, and the marriage would take place at Graybridge church; and as he was leading his along the avenue, he would start back, anguish-stricken, at the of a newly-erected headstone—"To the memory of Isabel Gilbert, 20." 20! that old, Mrs. Gilbert thought. She had always that the next best thing to marrying a would be to into an early the age of eighteen.
The visit to Mordred the Doctor's Wife very unhappy. Was it not a of all the old wounds? Did it not too to her the happy day when he had sat her at luncheon, and his and his voice as he talked to her?
Having the ice, however, she very often to the Priory; and on one or two occasions to take an early cup of tea with Mrs. Warman, the housekeeper, though she that by so doing she in some small measure the Mr. Lansdell and herself. Little by little she to at home in the rooms. It was very to in a low easy-chair in the library,—his easy-chair,—with a of books on the little reading-table by her side, and the of the great fire by a screen of ground-glass and scroll-work. Mrs. Gilbert was of reading, and in the library at Mordred her life less than elsewhere. She read a great of the upon Mr. Lansdell's book-shelves,—poems and popular histories, and autobiographies, letters, and in lands. To read of the through which Mr. Lansdell almost like him.
As Mrs. Gilbert more and more familiar with the old mansion, and more and more with Mrs. Warman the housekeeper, she took to in and out of all the rooms at pleasure, sometimes one picture, sometimes another for an hour at a time in reverie. She all the pictures, and had learned their from Mrs. Warman, and which of them were most valued by Mr. Lansdell. She took some of the from the of the library, and read the of her painters, and of Italian on art. Her mind all the around her, and the out of books pushed away many of her most fancies, her yearnings. Until now she had too and romancers; but now of opened to her a new picture of life. She read the of men and women, who had and sorrows, anguish, hard trial and misery. Do you how, when Caxton's had been by youth's sorrows, the father sends his son to the "Life of Robert Hall" for comfort? Isabel, very and as with the son of Austin Caxton, was yet able to take some from the of good men's sorrows. The of her as she less ignorant; and there were times when this girl was almost sensible, and to the that Roland Lansdell have no part in the of her life. If the life, the afternoons in the of the Priory, have gone on for ever, Isabel Gilbert might have, little by little, into a and woman; but the of her was not to with one motion to the end. There were to be and of shipwreck, and and anguish, the into a haven, and the of her life was ended.
One day in March, one day, when the big in the rooms at Mordred comfortable, Mrs. Gilbert her books into an apartment, boudoir, drawing-room, at the end of a long of chambers. She took off her and shawl, and her dark the glass. She had a little since the autumn, and the that looked out at her to-day was and older than that tear-blotted which she had in the on the night of Roland Lansdell's departure. Her had not been the less it was weak and childish, and had told upon her appearance. But she was over it. She was almost sorry to think that it was so. She was almost to that her was less than it had been six months ago, and that the of Roland Lansdell's image was a faded.
But to-day Mrs. Warman was to the good work so newly by books, and to all Isabel's for the missing of Mordred. The had a from her master, which she in to Mrs. Gilbert. It was a very epistle, for payments, and a about the gardens and stables. "See that and are sent to Lord Ruysdale's, he to have them; and I shall be if you send fruit and flowers occasionally to Mr. Gilbert, the of Graybridge. He was very to some of my people. Be sure that every attention is to Mrs. Gilbert she comes to Mordred."
Isabel's as she read this part of the letter. He of her away—at the other end of the world almost, as it to her, for his was from Corfu; he her existence, and was for her happiness! The books were no use to her that day. She sat, with a open in her lap, at the fire, and of him. She into the old again. His image out upon her in all its splendour. Oh, dreary, life where he was not! How was she to her existence? She her hands in a wild rapture. "Oh, my darling, if you know how I love you!" she whispered, and then started, and blushing. Never until that moment had she to put her into words. The Priory three hours, but Mrs. Gilbert sat in the same attitude, of Roland Lansdell. The of going home and her daily life again was painful to her. That letter—so to a common reader—had all the old of feeling. Once more Isabel Gilbert away upon the of and fancy, into that region where the of Mordred supreme, as a in a tale, as a in some legend.
The French clock on the mantel-piece the half-hour after four, and Mrs. Gilbert looked up, for a moment from her reverie.
"Half-past four," she thought; "it will be dark at six, and I have a long walk home."
Home! she at the which it is the special of our language to possess. The word is very beautiful, no doubt; so to a country magnate,—happy owner of a old English mansion, with lands and coverts, home-farm and model-farm buildings, park and pleasaunce, and with ware, and with the of a fountain.
But for Mrs. Gilbert "home" meant a square-built house in a lane, and was likely to anything or brighter. She got up from her low seat, and a long-drawn as she took her and from a table near her, and to put them on the glass.
"The at home always looks and and when I have been here," she thought, as she away from the and moved the door.
She paused suddenly. The door of the was ajar; all the other doors in the long range of rooms were open, and she a her: a man's footstep! Was it one of the servants? No; no servant's touched the ground with that and tread. It was a stranger's footstep, of course. Who should come there that day a stranger? He was away—at the other end of the world almost. It was not the limits of possibility that his foot-fall should on the of Mordred Priory.
And yet! and yet! Isabel stopped, with her violently, her hands clasped, her and tremulous. And in the next moment the step was close to the threshold, the door was pushed open, and she was to with Roland Lansdell; Roland Lansdell, she to see again upon this earth! Roland Lansdell, had looked at her in her by day and night any time these last six months!
"Isabel—Mrs. Gilbert!" he said, out his hands, and taking hers, which were as cold as death.
She to speak, but no came from her lips. She no word of welcome to this wanderer, but him and trembling. Mr. Lansdell a chair her, and her down.
"I you," he said; "you did not to see me. I had no right to come to you so suddenly; but they told me you were here, and I wanted so much to see you,—I wanted so much to speak to you."
The were enough, but there was a and in the that was new to Isabel. Faint into her cheeks, so a moments before; her over the dark eyes; a look of spread itself upon her and it luminous.
"I you were at Corfu," she said. "I you would never, never, come again."
"I have been at Corfu, and in Italy, and in places. I meant to away; but—but I my mind, and I came back. I you are to see me again."
What she say to him? Her terror of saying too much her silent; the of her in her ears, and she was that he too must that tell-tale sound. She not her eyes, and yet she that he was looking at her earnestly, even.
"Tell me that you are to see me," he said. "Ah, if you why I away—why I so hard to away—why I have come after all—after all—so many and broken—so many deliberations—so much and hesitation! Isabel! tell me you are to see me once more!"
She to speak, and out a word or two, and down, and away from him. And then she looked at him again with a impulse, as and us Zuleika may have looked at Selim; for a moment of the square-built house in the lane, of George Gilbert, and all the of her life.
"I have been so unhappy," she exclaimed: "I have been so miserable; and you will go away again by-and-by, and I shall never, see you any more!"
Her voice broke, and she into tears; and then, the all in a moment, she them away with her handkerchief.
"You me so, Mr. Lansdell," she said: "and I'm very late, and I was just going home, and my husband will be waiting for me. He comes to meet me sometimes when he can time. Good-bye."
She out her hand, looking at Roland as she did so. Did he her very much? she wondered. No he had come home to Lady Gwendoline Pomphrey, and there would be a wedding in the May weather. There was just time to go into a March and May, Mrs. Gilbert thought; and her might be for the occasion, if the gods who upon their special the of early death would only be to her.
"Good-bye, Mr. Lansdell," she repeated.
"Let me walk with you a little way. Ah, if you how I have night and day; if you how I have for this hour, and for the of——"
For the of what? Roland Lansdell was looking at the of the Doctor's Wife as he that sentence. But all the that the of a woman's life wonderful, it surely come to pass that a would from the regions which were his common habitation, on her account, Mrs. Gilbert thought. She home in the March twilight; but not through the and common which other people that afternoon; for Mr. Lansdell walked by her side, and, not the surgeon, all the way to Graybridge, and only left Mrs. Gilbert at the end of the in which the doctor's red lamp already in the dusk. Would the master of Mordred Priory have been with any of if he had met George Gilbert? There was an air of in Lansdell's manner which like that of a man who upon a settled purpose, and has no of shame.
