The Doctor's Wife
FIFTY POUNDS.
After that in the church at Hurstonleigh, Roland Lansdell to Mordred; to think, with bitterness, of the woman he loved. That encounter—the of the face, melancholy, almost in its air of half-despairing resignation—had no on the mind of this man, who not why the one for which he should be to him. He not be or just the woman who had him with false hopes, and then left him to despair; he not have upon the who had upon the of a gulf, and had fled, and horrified, at the of the below. No; his anger against Isabel not have been more had she been a and who had him to his ruin.
"I this is what the world calls a woman," he cried, bitterly. "I say Lucretia was this of person; and her to off the dark lashes, and the most of her arms over the spinning-wheel, and into her when Tarquin looked at her. These in and scandal. I've no Mrs. Gilbert herself our in the church, and away proud of the she had in me—the lines about my mouth, and the under my eyes."
"It is not she is a good woman, it is not she loves her husband, that she to to me," he thought; "it is only a terror of an that her to this place. And when she has my heart, and when she has my life, she goes to church at Hurstonleigh, and in a pose, with her big up to the parson's face, like a Madonna by Giorgione, in order that she may herself in the of Graybridge."
He neither be just patient. Sometimes he laughed at his own folly. Was he, who had himself on his in the or of any emotion—was he the man to go for love of a face, and eyes? Ah, yes! it is just these who take the most deeply, when the them.
"I—I, who have my life out, as I thought, life is most living,—I like this at last for the of a village surgeon's half-educated wife? I—who have myself the of a Lauzun or a Brummel—am for the love of a woman who doesn't know how to put on her gloves!"
Every day Mr. Lansdell to Midlandshire to-morrow; but to-morrow him still at the Priory, in a hopeless, way,-lingering for he not what,—lingering, perhaps, for want of the physical energy for the of departure. He would go to Constantinople overland; there would be more in the that way. Might not a walk across Mount Cenis him of his love for Isabel Gilbert? Did not D'Alembert retire from the world and all its into the peaceful of geometry? Did not Goethe from some great in the study of a new language? Roland Lansdell a to the Arabic those days and nights at Mordred. He would study the Semitic languages; all of them. He would go in for the Book of Job. Many people have got of hard work out of the Book of Job. But the little in the Arabic out of Mr. Lansdell's brain as if they had been so many serpents; and he only so much in the of the Semitic as him to an Arabic of Isabel Gilbert's name over the of a blotting-book. He was in love. No schoolboy, by a blue-eyed, blue-ribanded, white-robed partner at a dancing-school, was more in love than the of Mordred, who had a whole with of his for his in general, and the of them in particular. He had set up that he was safely out of the wood; and now he to his cost that he had been premature; for lo, the him in on every side, and there no way of out of the labyrinth.
George Gilbert had been nearly a fortnight, and the master of Mordred Priory still in Midlandshire. He had nothing of the surgeon's illness, for he had been much to with his body-servant; and that was to offer his master any unasked-for just now; for, as he himself in the servants' hall, "Mr. Lansdell's been in a of a almost since we come to the Priory; and you might as talk to a tiger as speak to him, when you're spoken to and that ain't very often; for anything as as his has of late, I to have met with; and if it wasn't that the is high, and the about the elbows, or at the edges,—which I've been with a of the that his till they was shabby,—it wouldn't be very long as I should trouble this old with my presence."
Only from Lady Gwendoline was Roland likely to of George Gilbert's illness; and he had not been to Lowlands lately. He had a idea that he would go there some morning, and ask his to him, and so make an end of it; but he the out of that idea indefinitely, as a man who suicide may the of his purpose, his pistol or his against the time when it shall be wanted. He had past the surgeon's house since that day on which he had Isabel seated in the parlour. He had Graybridge and the Graybridge road altogether.
"She shall not in the idea that I her," he thought; "her shall not be by the knowledge of my weakness. I my her once, and she sat in her playing at devotion, and let me go away with my despair. She might have herself in my way that afternoon, if only for a moments. She might have spoken to me, if only half-a-dozen of comfort; but it pleased her to her piety. I say she as well as I do how that air with her beauty; and she home happy, no doubt, in the knowledge that she had one man miserable. And that's the of woman the world calls virtuous,—a in is to the place of every other passion. For a good woman, for a true-hearted wife who loves her husband, and presence the his and reverent,—for such a woman as that I have no but respect and admiration; but I and these coquettes, who platonism, from the pages of Shelley."
But it was not always that Roland Lansdell was thus against the woman he loved. Sometimes in the of his and anger a of across the dark of his soul, and for a little while the image of Isabel Gilbert appeared to him in its true colours. He saw her as she was: foolish, but not base; weak, but not hypocritical; sentimental, and with some of perhaps, but not designing. Sometimes all emotions, in which passion, and selfishness, and pride, and vanity, a very of feeling,—sometimes such as these, true love—the sublime, the clear-sighted—arose for a triumphant, and Roland Lansdell of the woman who had his future.
"My little girl,—my love," he thought, in these moments of feeling; "if I only be noble, and go away, and you, and you to into a good woman, with that well-meaning husband, it is your to and obey."
Nothing be more than Mr. Lansdell's this period. The cook at Mordred that such a thing as a soufflé was a with an who might his dinner at any time the hours of seven and nine. The fish was flabby, the joints were leathery; and all the hot-water in the Mordred dinner-service not the cook's most special from stagnation. That artist his over the of his work, and his attention to the of a in which the best were to be cold. He might have himself the trouble. The man, who, naturally careless as to what he ate, had, out of pure affectation, been to the of the bon-vivants, now the nature of the that were set him. He ate and mechanically; and it may be a little than he had been to drink of the famous his father and had collected. But him not, neither. The had no upon him; he sat and after a of the famous claret—sat with the Arabic open him, what was to of him, now that his life was done.
He was thus in the library, with the Rembrandt that was something like his own looking upon him; he was thus by the table one June evening, when George Gilbert had been nearly a fortnight. The light of the lamp—a soft light, through a great moon-like of thick ground-glass—fell on the open book, and left the student's in shadow. But in that the looked and haggard, and the something that in all the Lansdell portraits—the something that you may see in every picture of Charles the First of England and Marie Antoinette of France, and by painted—was very visible in Roland's to-night. He had been over his books, but reading half-a-dozen pages, since nine o'clock, and it was now half-past eleven. He was his hand the in order to his valet, and that from the of up any longer, alone in the housekeeper's room,—for the of Mordred Priory had the of Lady Anna Lansdell's régime, and all the Roland's to at eleven,—when that entered the library.
"Would you to see any one, sir?" he asked.
"Would I to see any one?" Roland, in his low easy-chair, and at the of his valet; "who should want to see me at such a time of night? Is there anything wrong? Is it any one from—from Lowlands?"
"No, sir, it's a lady; leastways, when I say a lady, I think, sir,—though, her being down, and a very thick veil, I should not like to speak positive,—I think it's Mrs. Gilbert, the doctor's lady, from Graybridge."
Mr. Lansdell's his hand, and looked at the in the ceiling. Roland started to his feet.
"Mrs. Gilbert," he muttered, "at such an hour as this! It can't be; she would never—Show the lady here, she is," he added to his servant. "There must be something wrong; it must be some very that any one to this place to-night."
The departed, the door him, and Roland alone upon the hearth, waiting for his late visitor. All the tints—he had what people call "a colour"—faded out of his face, and left him very pale. Why had she come to him at such a time? What purpose she have in to that house, save one? She had come to her decision. For a moment a of into his soul, warm and as the of a on a autumn day; but in the next moment,—so and an is that which we call love,—a of into his mind, and he was almost sorry that Isabel should come to him thus, though she were to him the promise of happiness.
"My ignorant, girl—how hard it that my love must for place her at a disadvantage!" he thought.
The door was opened by the valet, with as a as if a had been entering in all the of her court-robes, and Isabel came into the room. One Mr. Lansdell that she was very nervous, that she was from the terror of his presence; and it may be that she had spoken, he that she had not come to any in her decision, any of the that had to their at Thurston's Crag. There was nothing in her manner—nothing of the that to the of life. She him and irresolute, with to his face.
Mr. Lansdell a chair, but he was to ask her to down; and then she seated herself with the of he had so often in a farmer come to in the of a lease.
"I you are not angry with me for here at such a time," she said, in a low voice; "I not come any earlier, or I——"
"It can be anything but a to me to see you," Roland answered, gravely, "even though the is with pain. You have come to me, perhaps, you are in some of trouble, and have need of my services in some way or other. I am very much pleased to think that you can so in me; I am very to think that you can on my friendship."
Mr. Lansdell said this he saw that the Doctor's Wife had come to some at his hands, and he to the way for that demand. Isabel looked up at him with something like in her gaze. She had not that he would be like this—calm, self-possessed, reasonable. A took of her heart. She that his love must have altogether, or he not surely have been so to her, so and dispassionate. She looked at him as he against the of the mantel-piece. His had itself out, no doubt, and he was in the of a new love affair,—a duchess, a dark-eyed Clotilde,—some after one of the models in the pages of the "Alien."
"You are very, very good not to be angry with me," she said; "I have come to ask you a favour—a very great favour—and I——"
She stopped, and sat the of her parasol—the old green under Roland had so often her. It was that her had failed her at this crisis.
"It is not for myself I am going to ask you this favour," she said, still hesitating, and looking at the parasol; "it is for another person, who—it is a secret, in fact, and——"
"Whatever it is, it shall be granted," Roland answered, "without question, without comment."
"I have come to ask you to me,—or at least I had ask you to give it me, for I don't know when I should be able to it,—some money, a great of money,—fifty pounds."
She looked at him as if she the of the must him, and she saw a half-melancholy upon his face.
"My dear Isabel—my dear Mrs. Gilbert—if all the money I in the world secure your happiness, I would Midlandshire to-morrow a man. I would not for the world that you should be embarrassed for an hour, while I have more money than I know what to do with. I will you a cheque immediately,—or, still, half-a-dozen blank cheques, which you can up as you them."
But Isabel her at this proposal. "You are very kind," she said; "but a cheque would not do. It must be money, if you please; the person for I want it would not take a cheque."
Roland Lansdell looked at her with a of doubt,—of something that was almost terror in his face.
"The person for you want it," he repeated. "It is not for yourself, then, that you want this money?"
"Oh no, indeed! What should I want with so much money?"
"I you might be in debt. I that——Ah, I see; it is for your husband that you want the money."
"Oh no; my husband nothing about it. But, oh, pray, pray don't question me. Ah, if you how much I I came here to-night! If there had been any other person in the world who have helped me, I would have come here; but there is no one, and I must the money."
Roland's as Mrs. Gilbert spoke. Her agitation, her earnestness, and him.
"Isabel," he cried, "God I have little right to question you; but there is something in the manner of your that me. Can you that I am your friend,—next to your husband your best and friend, perhaps?—forget every word that I have said to you, and only what I say to-night—to-night, when all my are by the of you. Believe that I am your friend, Isabel, and for pity's trust me. Who is this person who wants money of you? Is it your step-mother? if so, my cheque-book is at her disposal."
"No," the Doctor's Wife, "it is not for my step-mother, but——"
"But it is for some of your family?"
"Yes," she answered, a long breath; "but, oh, pray do not ask me any more questions. You said just now that you would me the I asked without question or comment. Ah, if you how painful it was to me to come here!"
"Indeed! I am sorry that it was so painful to you to trust me."
"Ah, if you knew——" Isabel in a low voice, speaking to herself than to Roland.
Mr. Lansdell took a little of keys from his pocket, and across the room to an iron safe, after the of an cabinet. He opened the door, and took a little cash-box from one of the shelves.
"My me a of notes yesterday. Will you take what you want?" he asked, the open box to Isabel.
"I would you gave me the money; I do not want more than fifty pounds."
Roland five ten-pound notes and them to Isabel. She rose and for a moments, as if she had something more to say,—something almost as in its nature as the money-question had been.
"I—I you will not think me troublesome," she said; "but there is one more that I want to ask of you."
"Do not to ask anything of me; all I want is your confidence."
"It is only a question that I wish to ask. You talked some time since of going away from Midlandshire—from England; do you still think of doing so?"
"Yes, my plans are all for an early departure."
"A very early departure? You are going almost immediately?"
"Immediately,—to-morrow, perhaps. I am going to the East. It may be a long time I return to England."
There was a little pause, which Roland saw that a in Isabel Gilbert's face, and that her came and than before.
"Then I must say good-bye to-night," she said.
"Yes, it is not likely we shall meet again. Good night—good-bye. Perhaps some day, when I am a old man, telling people the same every time I with them, I shall come to Midlandshire, and Mr. Gilbert a physician in Kylmington, by rich old ladies, and in a yellow barouche;—till then, good-bye."
He Isabel's hand for a moments,—not pressing it so gently,—only it, as if in that he the last link that him to love and life. Isabel looked at him wonderingly. How different was this from that under Lord Thurston's oak, when he had himself upon the ground and in the of from her! The she had at the Surrey Theatre were true to nature. Nothing be more than the squire's love.
"Only one word more, Mrs. Gilbert," Roland said, after that pause. "Your husband—does he know about this person who for money from you?"
"No—I—I should have told him—I think—and asked him to give me the money, only he is so very ill; he must not be about anything."
"He is very ill—your husband—is ill?"
"Yes,—I every one knew. He is very, very ill. It is on that account I came here so late. I have been in his room all day. Good night."
"But you cannot go alone; it is such a long way. It will be two o'clock in the you can to Graybridge. I will drive you home; or it will be to let my coachman—my mother's old coachman—drive you home."
It was in that Mrs. Gilbert against this arrangement. Roland Lansdell that as the Doctor's Wife had been by his valet, her visit would of be to all the other at their next morning's breakfast. Under these circumstances, Mrs. Gilbert not Mordred with too much publicity; and a old man, who had Lady Anna Lansdell's white for slow jog-trot along the and by-ways of Midlandshire, was from his peaceful and told to dress himself, while a half-somnolent stable-boy out a big and an old-fashioned brougham. In this vehicle Isabel returned very to Graybridge; but she the to stop at the top of the lane, where she and him good night.
She all dark in the little surgery, which she entered by means of her husband's latch-key; and she up the stairs to the room opposite that in which George Gilbert lay, over by Mrs. Jeffson.
