The Doctor's Wife
"FOR LOVE HIMSELF TOOK PART AGAINST HIMSELF."
It was eleven o'clock when Isabel woke; and it was twelve when she sat to make some of the egg and toast which Mrs. Jeffson set her. The good woman her with a countenance, and Mrs. Gilbert from that gaze. Shame and disgrace—she had the of those to herself: but the cup which she had met her at every turn, and the of its was with she tasted. She away from Mrs. Jeffson, and angry with her. Presently, when the was in the kitchen, Mrs. Gilbert up-stairs to her room, and put on her and shawl.
She was not to meet him till three o'clock in the afternoon, and it was now only a little after twelve; but she not in the house. A terrible and had taken of her lately. Had not her life been one long since Roland Lansdell's in Midlandshire? She looked back, and that she had once, and had been contented, in of this being's existence. She had lived, and had in the of books, and in great grey-coated officers at Conventford, and in a at Camberwell; and long, long ago—oh, horror!—in a sentimental-looking chemist's in the Walworth Road, who had big watery-looking eyes, and was not so very Ernest Maltravers, and who gave more threepenny-worths of lavender-water or hair-oil than any other on the Surrey of the water—to Isabel! not to other people! Miss Sleaford sent one of the boys for the threepenny-worth on one occasion, and the chemist's measure was very different, and the lady was not a little touched by this proof of her admirer's devotion.
And looking now she these things, and at them, and herself of them. There was no low image of a chemist's in the of Viola's life when she met her in the person of Zanoni. All Isabel's to look out at her from their habitations, as she this of her existence. She had lived, and there had been no of his among all her dreams. And now there was nothing for her but to try to go to the same life again, since to-day she was to part from him for ever.
The day was a March day—changeable in mood—now by a of the sun, now and threatening, and as the life which Isabel Gilbert when he should be gone, and the sweet of her closed abruptly, like a that is to be finished. The Doctor's Wife as she out into the lane, where the was into circles every now and then by a north-easter. She closed the gate safely her and away, and to-day for the time she that her was a one. She into the familiar pathway; she to walk slowly, but her to her Thurston's Crag in of herself; and when she was from Graybridge, and looked at her watch, it was only one o'clock, and there were two long hours that must Roland Lansdell's coming. It was only a past one when she came in of the miller's cottage—the little white-walled low under big trees, which a in winter time. A girl was at a door and calling to them in a loud voice. There was no love in her life, Mrs. Gilbert thought, as she looked at the red-elbowed woman. She would some floury-visaged miller's man, most likely, and be happy after. But it was only a of that through Isabel's breast. Better to die for Roland Lansdell than to live for a miller's man in thick and an elaborately-stitched smock-frock. Better to have for the time of and triumph, and then to upon a for afterwards, at the wide of waters, and of the past, like Napoleon at St. Helena.
"He has loved me!" Isabel; "I ought to be unhappy, when I that."
She had Shelley with her, and she seated herself upon the bench under the oak; but she only the over and over, and to the at her feet, and of Roland Lansdell. Sometimes she to think of what her life would be after she had from him; but all the after four o'clock that to away from her, the limits of her understanding. She had a idea that after this meeting she would be like Louise de la Vallière in the days of her and penitence. If Father Newman, or any other Romanist, have her by the water that afternoon, he would have a to his creed. The for the of some sanctuary, the low and music, the shrines, the and rapture, the from a hard world. But no to pass that way while Isabel sat there, the path by which Roland Lansdell must come. She took out her watch every now and then, always to be at the slow progress of the time; but at last—at last—just as a of the waterfall, and upon the pathway, a church clock three, and the master of Mordred Priory pushed open a little gate, and came in and out among the moss-grown of the elms. In the next minute he was on the bridge; in the next moment, as it seemed, he was seated by Isabel's side, and had taken her hand in his. For the last time—for the last time! she thought. Involuntarily her closed on his. How closely they together now; they who so soon were to be for parted; they all the of the Atlantic would have been only too narrow a barrier!
Mrs. Gilbert looked up sadly and at Roland's face, and saw that it was all and radiant. There was just the of about his mouth; but his dark with a glance, and more in colour than Isabel had them yet.
"My darling," he said, "I am very punctual, am I not? I did not think you would be here me. You can how much I have of our meeting to-day, Isabel:—seriously; even. Do you the garden-scene in 'Romeo and Juliet,' Izzie? What boy-and-girl the love-making seems; and yet what a comes of it directly after! When I look at you to-day, Isabel, and think of my nights, my days, my wanderings, my and resolutions, I look and our meeting at Warncliffe Castle—our meeting. If I had gone away ten minutes sooner, I might not have you—I might have you. I look and see it all. I looked up so when Raymond you to us; it was almost a to up and to you. I you were very pretty, a pale-faced automaton, with that of right to some Italian picture, and not to a little person like you. And then—having so little to do, being such an wretch, and being of any for away from my and my dear old uncle—I must needs to Hurstonleigh Grove, and meet you again under the of the old trees. Oh, what was it, Isabel? why was it? Was it only curiosity, as I believed, that took me there? Or had the home already; was my sealed then? I don't know—I don't know. I am not a good man, Izzie; but I am not either. I away from you, my dear; I did try to avoid the great of my life; but—you the monk in Hugo's 'Notre Dame.' It a in that book, Izzie, but it's the in all the world. Some day—some careless day—we look out of the window and see the dancing in the sunshine, and from that moment every other purpose of our life is done with and forgotten; we can do nothing but go out and her she us. If she is a siren, she may us into the dark of her and our at her leisure. If she is Undine, and into the water, we can only take a and go to the after her. But if she is a dear little creature, of our best love and worship, why should we not be happy with her afterwards, like the good people in the story-books? why should we not plan a life of and fidelity? Isabel, my darling, I want to talk very to you to-day. The has come in our lives, and I am to out to-day you are the true woman I you to be, or only a little village coquette, who has me to the top of my bent, and who can me off and let me the wind to at directly I a nuisance. Izzie, I want you to answer a question to-day, and all the of my life upon your answer."
"Mr. Lansdell!"
She looked up at him—very much by his manner, but with her hand still his. The link must so soon be for ever. Only for a little while longer might she that dear hand in hers. Half an hour more, and they would be for and ever. The pain of that was with the of being with him, of from his that she was beloved. What did she for Lady Gwendoline now?—cruel Lady Gwendoline, who had and the purity of her love.
"Isabel," Roland said, very gravely, his to a level with hers, as he spoke, but looking at the ground than at her, "It is time that we ended this of and to the world; we have to submit, and to our by the laws which other people have for us. But we cannot—we cannot, my dear. We are only hypocrites, who try to our under the of submission. You come here and meet me, and we are happy together—unutterably and happy. But you me and go home to your husband, and at him, and tell him that, while you were out walking, you met Mr. Lansdell, and so on; and you and him, and act a for his delusion. All that must cease, Isabel. That Preacher, I think the reformer, the purest voice was upon this earth, said that we cannot two masters. You cannot go on the life you have for the last three weeks, Isabel. That is impossible. You have a mistake. The world will tell you that, having it, you must by it, and for your by a life of dissimulation. There are enough—good enough, if you like—to do this, and to their patiently; but you are not one of them. You cannot dissimulate. Your has to me like a bird out of a cage; it is mine and for ever; as surely as that I love you,—fatally, unaccountably, mysteriously, but eternally. I know the of my chain, for I have to it. I have aloof, and the of my love. If I ask you now to accept that love, it is I know that it is true and pure,—the true metal, Izzie, the gold! I a narrow of it through every man's nature; but it is only one woman's hand that has power to upon the ore. I love you, Isabel; and I want you to make an end of your present life, and this place for ever. I have to an agent to me a little on the of Naples. I there alone, Izzie, two months ago, and set up your image in the empty rooms, and you here and there in your white dress, upon the marble terrace, with the sea you, and the above. I have a hundred plans for our life, Izzie. There is not a or of yours that I have not remembered. Ah, what happiness! to you and scenes! What to see your open their all the pictures of earth! I you with me, Isabel, and, behold, my life is transformed. I have been so of in the world; and yet, with you by my side, all the world will be as fresh as Eden was to Adam on the day of his life. Isabel, you need have no of me. I have myself, and myself. Mine is no light love, that time or can or lessen: if it were, I would have done my duty, and away from you for ever. I have of your as well as my own, darling; and I ask you now to trust me, and this place for ever."
Something like a of from Isabel's lips. "You ask me to go away with you!" she exclaimed, looking at Roland as if she the of her own ears. "You ask me to George, and be your—mistress! Oh, Lady Gwendoline only spoke the truth, then. You don't understand—no one understands—how I love you!"
She had as she spoke, and herself against the of the bridge, bitterly, with her by her hands.
"Isabel, for Heaven's sake, to me! Can you the purity of my love—the truth, the of my intentions? I ask you to no compact. Give me your life, and I'll give you mine in exchange—every day—every hour. Whatever the most wife can of her husband, you shall from me. Whatever the husband can be to his wife, I to be to you. It is only a question of you love me, Isabel. You have only to choose me and that man yonder."
"Oh, Roland! Roland! I have loved you so—and you think that I——. Oh, you must me—you must me very much, and think me very wicked, or you would never——"
She couldn't say any more; but she still against the bridge, for her delusion.
Lady Gwendoline had been right, after all,—this is what Isabel thought,—and there had been no platonism, no poet-worship on Roland Lansdell's side; only the every-day wish to away with another man's wife. From to last she had been misunderstood; she had been the of her own fancies, her own dreams. Lady Gwendoline's were only truths. It was no Dante, no Tasso, who had by her side; only a country squire, in the of away with other people's wives, and in his iniquity. There was no middle standing-place which Roland Lansdell in this girl's mind. If he was not a demi-god, he must be a villain. If he was not an creature, full of and fancies, he must be a idler, to any into the ears of womanhood. All the of that she had read upon Mrs. Gilbert's mind, and a of against Lady Anna Lansdell's son. If he was not the one thing which she had him to be—a and adorer—he was in nothing the hero of her dreams. She loved him still, and must continue to love him, in of all his delinquencies; but she must love him with and trembling, as a creature, who had not one to set against a thousand crimes. Such as these upon her, as she on the narrow rail of the bridge; while Roland Lansdell by, her with a and angry countenance.
"Is this acting, Mrs. Gilbert? Is this of and a little comedy, which you play when you want to of your lovers? Am I to accept my dismissal, and you good afternoon, and put up with having been the that this bridge?"
"Oh, Roland!" Isabel, her and looking at him, "I loved you so—I l-loved so!"
"You love me so, and prove your love by me with looks and blushes, till I that I have met the one woman in all the world who is to make my life happy. Oh, Isabel, I have loved you I you other women. Am I to that it is only the old after all—falsehood, and trick, and delusion? It was a in your cap to have Mr. Lansdell of the Priory in love with you; and now that he troublesome, you send him about his business. I am to think this, I suppose. It has all been and falsehood, from to last."
"Falsehood! Oh, Roland, when I love you so dearly—so and truly; not as you love me,—with a love that would and upon me. You can be more to me than you are now. We may part; but there is no power on earth that can part my from yours, or my love. I came to you this to say good-bye for ever, I have that have been said of me by people who do not my love. Ah, how should those common people understand, when you do not, Roland? I came to say good-bye; and then, after to-day, my life will be finished. You know what you said that night: 'The goes down, and all is over!' I shall think of you for and ever, till I die. Ah, is there any of death that can make me you? but I will come here again to see you. I will always try to do my to my husband."
"Your husband!" Mr. Lansdell, with a laugh; "had we not his name out of the question? Oh, Isabel!" he exclaimed, his tone, "so help me Heaven, I cannot you. Are you only an child, after all, or the that lived? You must be one or the other. You speak of your husband. My dear, it is too late in the day now to talk of him. You should have of him when we met; when your my gaze; when your voice as you spoke my name. From the very you have me on. I am no or thief, to another man's property. If your had been your husband's when I met you, the of an in a would not have been away from me than yours. Depend upon it, Eve was of Eden when the to talk to her. If you had loved your husband, Isabel, I should have my the of your home, as I would at the entrance to a chapel. But I saw that you did not love him; I very soon saw that you did love, or to love, me. Heaven how I against the temptation, and only at last when my told me that my love was true and honest, and of the I ask from you. I do ask that sacrifice; boldly, as a man who is prepared to give measure for measure. The little world to which you will say good-bye, Isabel, is a world gates will close on me in the same hour. Henceforth your life will be mine, with all its forfeitures. I am not an man, and have long to about making any in a world which has always to me more or less like a at a fair, with and trumpets, and promise and protestation, and outside, and only and and within. I do not give up very much, therefore, but what I have I resign. Come with me, Isabel, and I will take you away to the places you have been pleased to me talk about. All the world is ours, my darling, this little of Midlandshire. Great ships are waiting to us away to Southern shores, and paradises, and forests. All the earth is for our happiness. The money that has been so to me until now shall have a new use henceforward, for it shall be to your pleasure. Do you opening your very wide the other day, Isabel, and out that you would like to see Rome, and Keats's grave, and the Colosseum,—Byron's Colosseum,—where the of his wife and children, eh, Izzie? I such a out of that little exclamation. I know the in which we will sit, darling, after dark nights, in time, to watch the in the below, and, on one night of all, the big of St. Peter's like a of light, and all the old and out of the darkness, as in a city of fire. Isabel, you cannot have been of the end to which our was us; you must have that I should sooner or later say what I have said to-day."
"Oh, no, no, no!" Mrs. Gilbert, despairingly, "I that you would ask me to be more to you than I am now: I that it was to come here and meet you. I have read of people, who by some marry, each other, and being true to others for years and years—till death sometimes; and I that you loved me like that: and the of your love me so happy; and it was such to see you sometimes, and to think of you afterwards, every word you had said, and your as as I see it now. I thought, till yesterday, that this might go on for ever, and never, that you would think me like those who away from their husbands."
"And yet you love me?"
"With all my heart."
She looked at him with still in tears, but with the truth of her soul, which had itself so as now. Fondly as she her idol, his had little power to move her, now that he was false to his attributes, and came upon common ground and her as an every-day creature. If Mr. Lansdell had his of a marble in the of Mordred, and had Isabel to suicide in order to herself to it with him immediately, she would have his and delightful, and would have on the spot. But his wild talk of travel had no for her. True, she saw as in a and a picture of what her life might be away wild regions in that dear companionship. But herself and those far-away there was a darkly-brooding cloud of and disgrace. The Graybridge people might say what they of her: she to her high and their whispers: but she not to her love—her love which had no out of regions enter.
Roland Lansdell her in for some moments, and the of which this girl above him to-day. But he was a weak man, who was not to in anything, and he was, in his own fashion, and in love,—too much in love to be just or reasonable,—and he was very angry with Isabel. The of his had day by day, and had away every impediment, to be at last by a wall; here, where he to meet only the free ocean, to and welcome him.
"Isabel," he said at last, "have you what your life is to be, always, after this to-day? You are likely to live years, and when you have got through them you will not be an old woman. Have you those years, with three hundred and sixty-five days in every one of them; every day to be with a man you don't love—a man with you have not one common thought? Think of that, Isabel; and then, if you do love me, think of the life I offer you, and choose them."
"I can only make one choice," Mrs. Gilbert answered, in a low sad voice. "I shall be very unhappy, I say; but I will do my to my husband—and think of you."
"So be it!" Mr. Lansdell, with a long-drawn sigh. "In that case, good-bye." He out his hand, and Isabel was by the of its touch.
"You are not angry with me?" she asked, piteously.
"I have no right to be angry with any one but myself. I do not you meant any harm; but you have done me the a woman can do to a man. I have nothing to say to you good-bye. For mercy's go away, and me to myself."
She had no for with him after this, so she away, very slowly, and sorrowful. But when she had gone a yards along the under the trees, she all at once that she not him thus. She must see his once more: she must know for he was angry with her or not.
She slowly to the spot where she had left him, and him at full length upon the grass, with his on his arms. With a of and terror she that he was crying, and on her by his side, her sobs,—
"Oh, pray me! Pray do not be angry with me! I love you so and so truly! Only say that you me."
Roland Lansdell his and looked at her. Ah, what a look it was, and how long it in her memory and her peace!
"I will you," he answered, sternly, "when I have learnt to my life without you."
He his again upon his arms, and Isabel by his for some minutes him silently; but he and she was too much and by his anger; and with a of her own wrong-doing, to address him further. So at last she got up and away. She to that she had been, somehow or other, very wicked, and that her had upon this man she loved.
