The Doctor's Wife
TRYING TO BE GOOD.
The Sunday after Roland Lansdell's visit to his was a warm May day, and the and through which the master of Mordred Priory walked to Hurstonleigh were with wild-flowers. Nearly two months had gone by since he and the Doctor's Wife on the March which a in Isabel's life. The warm of the early the man's as he through the long under the of and beech. He had early, and had set out after that of and drinking. He had set out from Mordred in haste; and now that he had walked two or three miles, he looked and in the light of the May morning. To-day he looked as if his talk about himself was not such nonsense as genial, practical Mr. Raymond it. He looked tired, worn, and physically, like a man who has his life. Looking at him this morning, young, handsome, clever, and though he was, there were very people who would have to for him a and happy existence, a long and useful career. He had a wan, faded, look in the daylight, like a lamp that has been left all night. He had only spoken the truth that day in the garden at Mordred. The Lansdells had been a long-lived race; and a look that or other in the of all the portraits at the Priory might have been in the of Roland Lansdell to-day. He was tired, very tired. He had too fast, and had through his of animal and like the who a in a nights at a gaming-house. The nights are very while they last, with a wild that can only be purchased at this cost. But, oh, the blank mornings, the of that dawn, from which the spendthrift's when the night is done!
Roland Lansdell was most of himself, and all the world Isabel Gilbert. Life, which is so when by art, science, ambition, glory; life, which always too soon upon the or the warrior, he dies in the of life, like Peel, or a like Palmerston; he like Wolfe on the of Quebec, or to his like Wellington in his by the sea: life, so when by a standard, is long when by the empty of an with fifteen thousand a year. Emile Angier has very that the world is much smaller for a rich man than it is for a one. My lord the across wide of asleep in the of a first-class carriage, and only stops for a week or so here and there in great cities, to be almost to death by and valhallas, picture-galleries and Roman baths, "done" in the fashion. While the traveller, along out-of-the-way country roads, with his staff in his hand, and his on his shoulder, upon a hundred in this wide universe, and can a lifetime in the same earth that the millionaire, always and registered all the way through, like his luggage, of in a of years. We have only to read Sterne's "Sentimental Journey" and Dickens's "Uncommercial Traveller," in order to out how much there is in the world for the who has to see. Read the of Mr. Dickens's rambles, and then read William Beckford's blasé letters, and see the the great writer, for art is long and life is only too short, and the man of pleasure, who all the of his upon the of "Vathek," and no higher than the of towers.
The lesson which Mr. Lansdell was called upon to learn just now was a very difficult one. For the time in his life he that there was something in the world that he not have; for the time he what it was to wish wildly, for one out of all the universe; and to wish in vain.
This he was not such a as he was; he was going to Hurstonleigh church, in the of Isabel Gilbert, and for himself there was any for Lady Gwendoline's insinuation. He wanted to this; but above all, he wanted to see her—only to see her; to look at the and the dark once more. Yes, though she were the and shallowest-hearted in all creation.
Mr. Lansdell was to be that morning, for the Doctor's Wife was not at Hurstonleigh church. Graybridge would have been if Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert had not service in their own parish; so it was only in the or that Isabel was free to at the of the popular preacher.
The church was very full in the morning, and Roland sat in a near the door, waiting until the service concluded. Isabel might be in the old edifice, though he had not been able to see her. He very to the sermon, and his once or twice Mr. Colborne's discourse. He had so many sermons, delivered in languages, his existence, that he had no wish to a good one. When all was over, he at the door of his pew, the file slowly and out of the church, and looking for Isabel. But she was not there. When the church was empty, he a long sigh, and then the of the congregation.
"She will come in the afternoon, perhaps," he thought. "Oh, how I love her! what a weak I must be to like this; to this at my she is not here; to all the so much her is missing!"
He away into a of the churchyard, a corner, where there was an in the old wall, which the river in and out among the sedges. Here the of the about the church-door only a low hum; here Mr. Lansdell at his upon the bank, at the Wayverne, and of his troubles.
The of voices, the of footsteps, and the of women's light in the died away presently, and a death-like upon the churchyard. All Hurstonleigh was at dinner, being a village that took its early, and on cold meats and salads. The place was very still: and Roland Lansdell, with his against the moss-grown wall, had for contemplation.
What did he think of those two long hours in which he sat in the waiting for the service? What did he think of? His life; the good he might have done upon this earth? No! His with a upon one theme. He of what his life might have been, if Isabel Gilbert had not all his plans of happiness. He of how he might have been sitting, that very day, at that very hour, on one of the in the Mediterranean, with the woman he loved by his side: if she had chosen, if she had only that it should be so. And he had been so in her, so by his own fatuity, as to that any on her part was out of the question. He had that it was only for him to the in the and decide the of the scale.
He sat by the water to the church as they slowly out upon the atmosphere. It was one of those days which come sometimes at the close of May, and the sky above Hurstonleigh church was cloudless. When the had been for a long time, slow on the walks upon the other of the churchyard, with now and then the of a gate or the of voices. The people were to church. Roland's in his breast. Was she them? Ah, surely he would have her foot-fall at that distance. Should he go and by the gate, to make sure of her as she came in? No, he not make a of himself all those country people; he would wait till the service began, and then go into the church. That half-hour, which the to and in the old with a clang, long to Roland Lansdell; but at last, at last, all was quiet, and the only to be in the was the of a sheep-bell away in the meadows. Mr. Lansdell got up as the clock three, and walked at a to the church.
Mr. Colborne was reading that to the man to of his as the of Mordred into the low porch. The voice the of the old building; and yet its was low and as an by a man's bed. The church was not by any means so full as it had been in the morning; and there was none of that noise of bonnet-strings and pocket-handkerchiefs which is to the of a edifice. The pew-opener—always on the to into pews—pounced upon Mr. Lansdell.
"I should like to up-stairs," he whispered, a half-crown into her hand; "can you put me up-stairs?"
He had that from the he should be able to see Isabel, if she was in the church. The woman and nodded, and then the way up the stairs: where would she not have put Mr. Lansdell for such a as that which he had upon her!
The at Hurstonleigh church was a very special and quarter. It only of half-a-dozen old at one end of the church, opposite the altar, and an excellent view of the pulpit. The families of the these six big open pews; and the common in the these in the of the service. As the families in the of Hurstonleigh were not such church-goers as the model themselves, these gallery-pews were not of an afternoon; and it was into one of these that the pew-opener Mr. Lansdell.
She was there; yes, she was there. She was alone, in a near the pulpit, on her knees, with her hands and her looking upwards. The high old-fashioned her in from the about her, but Mr. Lansdell look upon her from his post of in the gallery. Her was and worn, and her looked larger and than when he had last her. Was she in a consumption? Ah, no; it was only the which was always itself; it was no physical illness, but the pain of a purely that had left those on her face. Her lover her the congregation; and a of in her him of pictures of and that he had abroad. Was it real, that of the still face? was it real, or had she a new flirtation, a little in of the popular preacher?
"The has something in him, and is not by any means bad-looking," Mr. Lansdell; "I wonder she is for him with her great yellow-black eyes?" And then in the next moment he how, if that look in her were real, and she was to be good,—how then? Had he any right to come into that place? for the place was holy, if only by of the prayers so spoken by happy and who were able to believe. Had he any right to come there and trouble this girl in the of her to him?
"I think she loved me," he mused; "surely I not be in that; surely I have too many in my life to be by one at the last! Yes, I she loved me."
The prayers and the were over by this time; and Mrs. Gilbert was seated in her the gallery, but with the and reading-desk between. Mr. Colborne to read the lesson; and there was a in the church. Roland was with a that Isabel should see him. He wanted to see the of him in her face. Might he not learn the of her love, the of her regret, by that one look of recognition? A green him. He pushed the aside; and the a little noise as they along the rod. The was loud to the woman Mr. Lansdell was so intently. She looked up and him. He saw a white across her face; he saw her light by a shiver; and then in the next moment she was looking at the book on her lap, something as she had looked on that when he met her under Lord Thurston's oak.
All through the service Roland Lansdell sat her. He no of joining in the of the congregation; but he no one. He only sat, and sombre-looking, at that one in the near the pulpit. A thousand and in his breast. He loved her so much that he not be chivalrous; he not be just or reasonable. All through the service he sat the of the woman he loved. If Austin Colborne have how his earnest, upon the ears of two of his that afternoon! Isabel Gilbert sat very under all the angry fire of that dark gaze. Only now and then were her lifted; only now and then did her one at the in the gallery. In all the church she see nothing but that face. It and out all else: and upon her, and dazzling, as of old.
She was trying to be good. For the last two months she had been trying to be good. There was nothing else for her in the world but goodness, that he was to her—seeing that a Beatrice-Portinari of was an impossibility. If she had been a in a Catholic country, she would have gone into a convent; as it was, she only come to Hurstonleigh to Mr. Colborne, answered to the of her own heart. She was trying to be good. She and plain-spoken Mrs. Jeffson were on the best possible terms now, for the Doctor's Wife had taken to at home a great deal, and had Tilly to her in the art of socks.
Would the of the squire's dark all the work of these two months? Surely not. To meet him once more—to his voice—to the of his hand—ah, what joy! But what good come of such a meeting? She in him again. It would be only new pain—wasted anguish. Besides, was there not some glory, some delight, in trying to be good? She herself a Louise de la Vallière a in the convent-parlour, while a Louis and on the other of the iron bars.
Some such as these her all through that service. The was over; the had been spoken; the to slowly and quietly. Would he go now? Would he to meet her and speak to her? would he go away at once? He did linger, looking at her with an in his face. He up, as if waiting until she should her pew, in order to his at the same moment. But she stirred. Ah, if Louise de la Vallière as much as that! What wonder that she for in story!
Little by little the melted out of the aisle. The boys from the of the organ-loft came the stairs. Still Mr. Lansdell waiting and the Doctor's Wife in the below. Still Isabel Gilbert her place, and inflexible, until the church was empty!
Then Mr. Lansdell looked at her—only one look—but with a world of in its dark fury. He looked at her, slowly his arms, and himself to his height. He his shoulders, with one movement, as if he some off him by the gesture, and then and left the pew. Mrs. Gilbert his upon the stairs, and she rose from her seat in time to see him pass out of the porch. It is very to have a place in story: but there are some to be in the life of a Mademoiselle de la Vallière.
