The Doctor's Wife
A LITTLE CLOUD.
Isabel was happy. He had returned; he had returned to her; again to her! Had he not said something to that effect? He had returned, he had away from her presence. Mr. Lansdell had told the Doctor's Wife all this, not once, but twenty times; and she had listened, that it was to listen, and yet powerless to her ears against the sweet words. She was beloved; for the time in her life really, truly, beloved, like the of a novel. She was beloved; despite of her dresses, her bonnets, her country-made boots. All at once, in a moment, she was into a queen, with woman's diadem, the love of a poet. She was Beatrice, and Roland Lansdell was Dante; or she was Leonora, and he was Tasso; she did not particularly which. Her ideas of the two and their loves were almost as as the showman's of the of Waterloo. She was the love of the poet, the love, who be more to him than a dream.
This was how Isabel Gilbert of the master of Mordred, who met her so often now in the sunshine. There was a of in these meetings, no doubt, she thought; but her was no than that of the who upon the Italian poet. In that region of romance, that fairy-land in which Isabel's dwelt, sin, as the world it, had no place. There was no such image in that of and flowers. It was very to meet Mr. Lansdell; but I if the of those would have had such an to Isabel had that soupçon of been wanting.
Did Mrs. Gilbert think that the road which so pleasant, the along which she hand in hand with Roland Lansdell, was all downhill, and that there was a black and in the farther-most valley? No; she was and by her present happiness, by the of her lover's face. It had been very difficult for her to the of his love and devotion; but once believing, she was to for ever. She a sweet of the Rhineland: the of a who, going away to the wars, was reported as dead: his lady-love, despairing, entered a convent, and the sad of her days to heaven. But by-and-by the knight, who had not been killed, returned, and that his promised was to him, the of his days to and solitude; for himself a upon a high above the where his and Hildegonde her pure and days. And every with the of light in the low Eastern sky, and all day long, and when the evening-star rose and the heavens, the of love sat at the door of his upon the which it pleased him to his pure her crucifix, sometimes his name with her prayers. And was not the name of the Roland—his name? It was such a love as this which Isabel she had for herself. It is such a love as this which is the of womankind,—a beautiful, useless, devotion,—a life of worship. Poor weak Mary of Scotland Chastelar's homage, and is pleased to think that the poet's is of her and loveliness, and would like it to go on for ever. But the love-sick of that worship, and would the to look nearer at the of his star; come and troubles, and the of that half-demented head.
So there was no of to herself or to others in Mrs. Gilbert's mind when she on the above the mill-stream talking with Roland Lansdell. She had a idea that she was not doing her to her husband; but George's image only and from her. Did she not still his behests, and opposite to him at the little dinner-table, and out his tea at breakfast, and him to put on his overcoat in the passage he out? Could she do more for him than that? No; he had himself rejected all attention. She had to his once in a of feeling; but she had the the way, and had her husband's displeasure. She had to read to him, and he had her lecture. She had put flowers on his dressing-table—white fragile-looking flowers—in a tall with a of the stem, like a about a column; and Mr. Gilbert had to the as to carbonic-acid gas. What any one do for such a husband as this? The raptures, the emotions, the aspirations, which Isabel to Roland, would have been as as the Semitic to George. Why should she not this other of her nature upon she chose? If she gave her and to Othello, surely Cassio might have all the of her soul, which the matter-of-fact Moor and rejected.
It was something after this wise that Isabel when she did at all about her for Roland Lansdell. She was very happy, to by her own of all danger, than by any deeply-studied design on the part of her lover. His manner to her was more than a father's manner to his child,—more than Raleigh's to Elizabeth of England,—but in all this he had no of deception. The settled purpose in his mind took a every day; and he that Isabel him, and that the great of her life was fast approaching, and had prepared herself to meet it.
One afternoon, late in the month, when the March were and more than usual, Isabel across the where the were little to be by the breezes, and where here and there a a of on the bank. Mr. Lansdell was on the when Isabel approached the familiar trysting-place, and with a to her. But although he as he pressed the little hand that almost always in his own, the master of Mordred was not very this afternoon. It was the day that on which Charles Raymond had with him, and the of his kinsman's talk still about him and him. He not that there had been truth and in his friend's pleading; but he not his purpose now. Long and irresolute, long of himself and all the world, he was at last, and upon out his resolution.
"I am going to London, Isabel," he said, after by Mrs. Gilbert for some minutes, at the water; "I am going to London to-morrow morning, Isabel." He always called her Isabel now, and with a of upon the name. Edith Dombey would have upon him for this presumption, no doubt, by one of reproof; but Isabel had out long ago that she in no way Edith Dombey.
"Going to London!" the Doctor's Wife, piteously; "ah, I knew, I that you would go away again, and I shall see you any more." She her hands in her terror, and looked at him with a world of and in her face. "I that it would be so!" she repeated; "I the other night that you had gone away, and I came here; and, oh, it such a way to come, and I taking the turnings, and going through the meadows; and when I came, there was only some one—some stranger, who told me that you were gone, and would come back."
"But, Isabel—my love—my darling!—" the did not her; she was so by the of the god of her idolatry,—"I am only going to town for a day or two to see my lawyer—to make arrangements—arrangements of importance;—I should be a if I neglected them, or the smallest by them an hour. You don't these of things, Isabel; but trust me, and that your is to me than my own. I must go to town; but I shall only be gone a day or two—two days at the most—perhaps only one. And when I come back, Izzie, I shall have something to say to you—something very serious—something that had be said at once—something that all the of my life. Will you meet me here two days hence,—on Wednesday, at three o'clock? You will, won't you, Isabel? I know I do in you to the of these meetings. If I the so keenly, how much it must be for you—my own dear girl—my sweet darling. But this shall be the last time, Isabel,—the last time I will ask you to any for me. Henceforward we will our high, my love; for at least there shall be no or in our lives."
Mrs. Gilbert at Roland Lansdell in bewilderment. He had spoken of and degradation, and had spoken in the of a man who had suffered, and still suffered, very bitterly. This was all Isabel from her lover's speech, and she opened her in blank as she to him. Why should he be ashamed, or humiliated, or degraded? Was Dante by his love for Beatrice? was Waller by his to Saccharissa—for by so many versicles, and from the cloud-land of into the matter-of-fact regions of prose? Degraded! ashamed!—her all in a moment as these her heart.
She wanted to away all at once, and see Mr. Lansdell again. Her would break, as a of course; but how to would be a and early death with an tombstone! The rolled her cheek, as she away her from Roland. She was almost by and indignation.
"I did not think you were to meet me here sometimes," she out; "you asked me to come. I did not think that you were by talking to me—I——"
"Why, Izzie—Isabel darling!" Roland, "can you me so utterly? Ashamed to meet you—ashamed of your society! Can you what would have had I come home a year than it was my to come? Can you for a moment that I would have you for my wife out of all the in the universe, and that my would have been the right to call you by that dear name? I was too late, Izzie, too late; too late to win that pure and perfect which would have a new man of me, which would have me into a good and useful man, as I think. I it is always so; I there is always one wanting in the cup of joy, that one which would the into an elixir. I came too late! Why should I have in this world? Why should I have fifteen thousand a year, and Mordred Priory, and the right to the woman I love in the of all creation, while there are for the of a daily crust, and men and away in great prison-houses called Unions, law is the of every tie? I came too late, and I it was natural that I should so come. Millions of have been by as small a as that which has mine, I say. We must take our as we it, Isabel; and if we are true to each other, I and that it may be a one yet—even yet."
A woman of the world would have very that Mr. Lansdell's must have relation to more than under Lord Thurston's oak, with of of light literature. But Isabel Gilbert was not a woman of the world. She had read while other people the Sunday papers; and of the world out of a three-volume she had no more idea than a baby. She in a universe, out of the pages of and romancers; she that there were good people and people—Ernest Maltraverses and Lumley Ferrerses, Walter Gays and Carkers; but this she had very little of mankind; and having once Mr. Lansdell the heroes, not him to one in common with the villains. If he in about these under the oak, she was in too; and so had been the German knight, who the part of his life to the of his lady-love.
"I shall see you sometimes," she said, with hesitation,—"I shall see you sometimes, shan't I, when you come home from town? Not often, of course; I say it isn't right to come here often, away from George; and the last time I him waiting for his dinner; but I told him where I had been, and that I'd you, and he didn't mind a bit."
Roland Lansdell sighed.
"Ah, don't you understand, Isabel," he said, "that our degradation? It is for the very that he 'doesn't mind,' it is he is so simple-hearted and trusting, that we ought not to the any longer. That's the degradation, Izzie; the deception, not the itself. A man meets his enemy in and kills him, and nobody complains. The best man must always win, I suppose; and if he by means, no one need him his victory. I you, don't I, my darling, by all this talk? I shall speak on Wednesday. And now let me take you homewards," added Mr. Lansdell, looking at his watch, "if you are to be at home at five."
He the of the doctor's little household, and that five o'clock was Mr. Gilbert's dinner-hour. There was no of any nature the walk—only talk about books and and lands. Mr. Lansdell told Isabel of in Italy and Greece, villages upon the borders of among Alpine slopes, and snow-clad like clouds—beautiful and regions which she must see by-and-by, Roland added gaily.
But Mrs. Gilbert opened her very wide and laughed aloud. How should she see such places? she asked, smiling. George would go there; he would be rich to go; would he to go, were he so rich.
And while she was speaking, Isabel that, after all, she very little for those lands; much as she had about them and to see them, long ago in the Camberwell garden, on still moonlight nights, when she used to on the little step leading from the kitchen, with her arms on the water-butt, like Juliet's on the balcony, and it was Italy. Now she was to the idea of Graybridge-on-the-Wayverne. She was to live there all her life, as long as she see Mr. Lansdell now and then; so long as she know that he was near her, of her and her, and that at any moment his dark might out of the of her life. A perfect had come to her—the of being by the object of her idolatry; nothing add to that perfection; the cup was full to the very brim, with an of and delight.
Mr. Lansdell stopped to shake hands with Isabel when they came to the gate leading into the Graybridge road.
"Good-bye," he said softly: "good-bye, until Wednesday, Isabel. Isabel—what a name it is! You have no other Christian name?"
"Oh no."
"Only Isabel—Isabel Gilbert. Good-bye."
He opened the gate and the Doctor's Wife as she passed out of the meadow, and walked at a the town. A man passed along the road as Mr. Lansdell there, and looked at him as he by, and then and looked after Isabel.
"Raymond is right, then," Roland; "they have to and already. Let them talk about me at their tea-tables, and paragraph me in their newspapers, to their hearts' content! My is as much above them as the is above the sheep that up at him from the valleys. I have set my upon the ploughshare, but my shall be across it scatheless, in the arms of her lover."
Mrs. Gilbert home to her husband, and sat opposite to him at dinner as usual; but Roland's words, as she had their meaning, had in some manner her, for she when George asked her where she had been that cold afternoon. Mr. Gilbert did not see the blush, for he was the joint as he asked the question, and had asked it as a of than otherwise. This time Mrs. Gilbert did not tell her husband that she had met Roland Lansdell. The "shame and degradation" were in her ears all dinner-time. She had tasted, if so little, of the fruit of the famous tree, and she the very bitter. It must be to meet Roland under Lord Thurston's oak, since he said it was so; and the meeting on Wednesday was to be the last; and yet their was to be a happy one; had he not said so, in words, full meaning Isabel was unable to fathom? She over what Mr. Lansdell said all that evening, and a of trouble into her mind. He was going away for ever, perhaps; and had only told her otherwise in order to her to with hopes, and thus himself the trouble of her lamentations. Or he was going to London to for a marriage with Lady Gwendoline. Poor Isabel not shake off her of that high-bred rival, Mr. Lansdell had once loved. Yes; he had once loved Lady Gwendoline. Mr. Raymond had taken an opportunity of telling Isabel all about the man's early to his cousin; and he had added a that, after all, a marriage the two might yet be about; and had not the at Mordred said very much the same thing?
"He will Lady Gwendoline," Isabel thought, in a of despair; "and that is what he is going to tell me on Wednesday. He was different to-day from what he has been since he came to Mordred. And yet—and yet—" And yet what? Isabel in to the meaning of all Roland Lansdell's wild talk—now grave—now reckless—one moment full of hope, and in the next with despair. What was this novel-reader to make of a man of the world, who was to the world, and what a terrible world it was that he was about to and defy?
Mrs. Gilbert all that night, of the meeting by the waterfall. Roland's talk had and her. The happiness, the in her lover's presence, the daily that in its had no room for a of the morrow, had all at once like a of by the clouds that a storm. Eve had to the of the serpent, and Paradise was no longer beautiful.
