The Doctor's Wife
"AND NOW I LIVE, AND NOW MY LIFE IS DONE!"
George Gilbert his wife's of her on that March afternoon. She had her books to Thurston's Crag, and had sat there reading, while the time by unawares, and it was too late to come to dinner; and so she had herself that there was service at Hurstonleigh Passion-week, and she might Mr. Colborne preach. George Gilbert this as he would have any other from the in truth he believed. But Mrs. Jeffson her with a that Isabel to the quick. She it very meekly, however; for she that she had been wicked, and that all her were the fruit of her own sin. She at home for the of the week, when she the Good-Friday's services at Graybridge church with her husband; and on Sunday she George to her to Hurstonleigh. She was making her to be good; and if the in her by Mr. Colborne's died out a little after she left the church, there was at the something left which her a woman than she had been before. But did she Roland Lansdell all this time? No; with and she of the man who had been as powerless to her as he was her superior.
"He so much, and yet did not know that I was not a woman," she thought, in wonder. She did not Roland's manner of looking at everything, which no and right. She not that this man had himself in what he had done.
But she of him incessantly. The image of his face—so pale, so reproachful—never left her vision. The of his voice her him was in her ears. He had loved her: yes; his guilt, he had loved her, and had of her. There were times when the memory of his tears, upon her suddenly, nearly away all her natural purity, her to be good; there were times when she wanted to go to him and at his feet, out, "Oh, what am I, that my life should be against your sorrow? How can it what of me, if you are happy?"
There were times when the of Roland Lansdell's every other in Isabel Gilbert's mind. Until the day when he had himself upon the ground in a of grief, she had the possibility of his being of her. For him to love her in a far-off of manner was very much. Was it not the of a demigod, who upon some creature? Was it not a of the of Diana and Endymion? It was not the goddess, but the god, who came to earth. But that he should love her and passionately, and be grief-stricken he not win her for his own,—this was a fact, almost Isabel Gilbert's comprehension. Sometimes she he was only the who to be very much in in the act, and his with and in the second. Sometimes the whole truth upon her, as a thunder-clap, and she that she had done Roland Lansdell a great and wrong.
And where was he all this time—the man who had Isabel Gilbert by a common standard, and had her to answer to his he to call her to his side? Who shall tell the of his and passion? Never once in all his anger against Lady Gwendoline Pomphrey, when she him for the of Lord Heatherland, had he so a rage, so an indignation, as that which now him when he of Isabel Gilbert. Wounded in his pride, his vanity; in the self-confidence to a man of the world; he not all at once this woman who had so and him. He was with anger and when he of the of the last twelve-month. The of all his with himself; his resolutions—young and fresh in the early morning, old and and the day was done—came to him; and he laughed to think how all those and had been, when the obstacle, the resistance, to his was here—here, in the shape of a woman's will.
There may be some men who would not have the with that under Lord Thurston's oak; but Roland Lansdell was not one of those men. He had little of mind or of purpose with which to against temptation: but he had, on the other hand, of the which make a tempter. So long as he had been of himself, and the of his love for Isabel, he had dissembled, so as to make a of indifference. So long as he meant to go away from Midlandshire without "doing any harm," he had it a to affect some little for the husband of the woman he loved. But from the moment in which all gave way a settled purpose—from the hour of his return to Midlandshire—he had no of his or intentions. He had this girl to do a act, but he had used no means. No can tell how he his disappointment. For the time in his life this of nature, this child of fortune, there was something in the world he not have, something that was to his desire. It was such a very little time since he had the of all and in little verses, all with of French and Latin, and Spanish and Italian, into the native pattern of the rhyme. It was only a months since he had himself by upon the of life in general, and that "mortal of the soul" to which a man of seven-and-twenty, with a great of money, and nothing particular to do, is subject. Ah, how he had laughed at other men's sentiments! What from Scarron and Rochefoucauld, and Swift and Voltaire, and Wilkes and Mirabeau, he had upon the of love and woman! How he had to in the of passion! how he had at the power of affection! He had himself upon the of his cousin's falsehood: and had there was no truth in woman, Lady Gwendoline Pomphrey had been true to the teaching of her life, and had to make the best market of her Saxon and her long ringlets. And now he was false to his own creed. He was in love, passionately, in love, with a little woman, best was—what? That was the question which he in to answer. He his teeth in an of when he to why he loved this woman. Other more beautiful, and how much more accomplished, had spread of and about him; and he had through the meshes, and had gone away from the of eyes, by the for which other men were to so much. Why was it that his for this woman's presence? She was in no way his equal: she was not a for him, at her best, when she little about Shelley and Byron. In all his by Lord Thurston's waterfall, he no wise or saying that had from those lips. And yet, and yet—she was something to him that no other woman had been, or, as he believed, become. Oh, for one of those dark eyes, so tender, so serene! Oh, for the of by her upon the border of a still Italian lake; for the pure of opening all the wild of and those feet! And then in after years, when she had little by little to the which the world would his wife,—then, fate, or chance, the most men call Providence, having the and purest love upon this earth,—then he might the of the prize he had for himself; then he might shallow, mankind, one and example of a perfect union.
Mr. Lansdell's very much after this fashion as he out the long days in his home. He nowhere; he no one. He gave the orders to say that he was out, or engaged, to came to Mordred. His were packed, and had been packed since the night of his last meeting with Isabel Gilbert. Every day he gave fresh orders his departure. He would have the at such an hour, to catch a train: but when the hour came, the was sent to the stables, and Mr. Lansdell yet another day at Mordred Priory.
He not go away. In vain, in he with himself: most did he and himself for his weakness; but he not go away. She would repent: she would to him to another meeting the old oak. With an as as her own, he picture that meeting; he almost her voice as he the she would say. "My love, my love!" she would cry, those hands about his arm; "I cannot live without you: I cannot, I cannot!"
The slowly by, and Mr. Lansdell's body-servant had what that was pleased to "a time of it." Never was gentleman's so by the and of his master. One day "we" were off to Swisserland—Mr. Lansdell's always called it Swisserland—and we were to go as fast as the railway service us, and not a of sleep anywheres, in railway-carriages, until we got to Paw or Bas-el—the called it Bas-el. Another day we were going to St. Petersburg, with our friend Hawkwood, the Queen's messenger; and a we were going at, the very out of us. Sometimes we were for across the Balkan range, on those Turkish horses, that a man's life out of him; or we were going on a yachting-cruise in the Mediterranean; or in the regions of Norway. And all about a at Graybridge! Mr. Lansdell's body-servant would wind up, with contempt: all about a person who was not fit to a to Sarah Jane the housemaid, or Eliza in the laundry! Alas for Roland Lansdell, the who waited upon him as well as he himself the nature of the which had him so restless! They that he was in love with a woman who be his wife; and they him for his folly, and all the phases of his over their meat-suppers in the servants' hall.
The slowly by. To Roland, the days were and the nights intolerable. He up to London times, always Mordred alone and at hours, and every time to away. But he not: a him as the him and Midlandshire. She would of her determination: she would to him, that she not live without him. Ah, how long he had that letter! She would unable to her life, perhaps, and would be and to go to Mordred in the of him. This would while he was away: the of would be offered to him, and he would not be there to it. She, his love, the and of his life, would be there, on his threshold, and he would not be near to welcome and her. The people at the Clarendon that Mr. Lansdell had gone mad, so were his from their quarters.
And all this time he nothing of the woman he loved. He not talk to his servants, and he had closed his doors against all visitors. What was she doing? Was she at Graybridge still? Was she leading the old life, in that parlour, where he had sat by her side? He the pattern of the Kidderminster carpet, the of the muslin-curtains, the that the of the piano upon which she had sometimes played to him, oh, so indifferently. Day after day he the under Lord Thurston's oak; day after day he of cigar-ends into the waterfall, while he waited in the that the Doctor's Wife might thither. Oh, how she was; how cruel! If she had loved him, she too would have that spot. She would have come to the place with his memory: she would have come, as he came, in the of another meeting.
Sometimes Mr. Lansdell to along the little at Graybridge and through the in which the doctor's house stood. On the master of Mordred Priory was almost on a level with the of George Gilbert's habitation, and look into the little where Isabel was to sit. Once and once only he saw her there, the table with some in her hands, so absorbed, as it seemed, in her that she did not see the who so slowly past her window. How should he know how often she had to that very window—her pale, her tempestuously—only to that it was not his she had in the lane?
Perhaps the of George Gilbert's wife at her gave Roland Lansdell a than he would have had he two from Wareham at the gate, and Mrs. Gilbert's being out at the door. She was not dead, then: she live and be happy, while he——! Well, he was not himself, certainly; but he was the very next thing to being dead; and he at the of Isabel's composure.
He walked to Lowlands in the of a week or so after this, and into the drawing-rooms with some of with his Gwendoline; of making her an offer of marriage, perhaps. Why should he not marry? He be more than he was; and a marriage with Gwendoline would be some of upon Isabel. He was to do anything and foolish, if by so doing he that cruel, heart. Was this generous? Ah, no. But then, in of all that is said and in its honour, love is not such a very passion. Roland his alone, in the long low morning-room looking out into her flower-garden. She was making flowers, and looked almost as of her as if she had been some little for wages.
"I'm very you have me, Roland," she said, pushing away all the of her work; "they are very tiresome; and, after all, the roses are as as camellias, and at the very best a of wax-flowers only one of an hotel at a watering-place. They always have wax-flowers and Bohemian-glass at sea-side hotels. And now tell me what you have been doing, Roland; and why you have come to us. We are so dull."
"And do you think my presence would you?" Mr. Lansdell, with a laugh. "No, Gwendoline; I have my life, and I am only a people in their drawing-rooms out of to the West-end tailor who me up. I am only so much old clothes, and I have to thank Mr. Poole for any position that I in the world. What is the use of me, Gwendoline? what am I good for? Do I say anything new, or think anything new, or do anything for which any has to say, Thank you? I have my life. Does this of thing old, I wonder?" he asked, himself on the breast. "Does it wear well? Shall I live to old and china? Will Christie and Manson sell my pictures when I am dead? and shall I win a by of the prices for my wines, Tokay?—all go in for Tokay. What is to of me, Gwendoline? Will any woman have upon me and me, and me into a family man, with a for short-horned and subsoil-drainage? Is there any woman in all the world of a little for such a worn-out as I?"
It almost upon Gwendoline Pomphrey this speech should an offer of marriage. A of the head; a softly-murmured, "Oh, Roland, I cannot to you talk like this; I cannot to think such as yours can be so wasted;" any sentimental, little speech, stereotyped; and the thing would have been done. But Lady Gwendoline was a great too proud to any of those by mothers. She might a for the of a marquis; but that she would only do in a off-hand way a of the house of Ruysdale. She looked at her now with something like in the of her thin upper lip. She loved this man as well as the Doctor's Wife loved him, or it may be with a and more love; but she was of his world, and see his and as as he saw them himself.
"I am very sorry you have so low as this, Roland," she said, gravely. "I it would be much for you if you your life as well as other men, your in talent, their lives. You were meant to a in a country house. If I were a man, a in the season would the of Midlandshire for me; I would be up and doing my compeers."
She looked, not at Roland, but across the flower-beds in the garden as she spoke, with an in her eyes. Her beauty, a little of for a woman, would have well a reformer, and in a cause. There are these mistakes sometimes—these of and spirit. A creature, with the of a Pitt, at home and roses in Berlin wool; while her is out into the world to the battle.
The sat together for some time, talking of all manner of things. It was a of to Roland to talk to some one—to some one who was not likely to lecture him, or to into the of his heart. He did not know how very those were read by Gwendoline Pomphrey. He did not know that he had a of anger in that proud by his love for Isabel Gilbert.
"Have you anything of your friends lately-that Graybridge and his wife, we met one day last at Mordred?" Lady Gwendoline asked by-and-by, with carelessness. She had no of Roland go away with his unprobed.
"No; I have very little of them," Mr. Lansdell answered. He was not by Lady Gwendoline's question: he was of Isabel, and no at any to her by other people. "I have not Mr. Gilbert since I returned to England."
"Indeed! I he had you with an for him: though I must confess, for my own part, I met a more person. My maid, who is an gossip, tells me that Mrs. Gilbert has been with a mania, and all the services at Hurstonleigh. The Midlandshire people to have gone about that Mr. Colborne. I to him last Sunday myself, and was very much pleased. I saw Mr. Gilbert's wife in a near the pulpit, with her great upon the curate's all through the sermon. She is just the of person to in love with a popular preacher."
Mr. Lansdell's a scarlet, and then pale. "With her great upon the curate's face." Those that had so often looked up at him, eloquent, pensive. Oh, had he been by his own vanity? was this woman a coquette, to in love with any man who came across her path, learned in phrases about affection? Lady Gwendoline's home to his heart. He to talk about a with a of carelessness; and then, looking up at the clock on the chimney-piece, a for the length of his visit, and away. It was four o'clock when he left the gates of Lowlands, and the next day was Sunday.
"I will see for myself," he muttered, as he walked along a narrow lane, the low hedge-rows with his as he went; "I will see for myself to-morrow."
