The Doctor's Wife
BETWEEN TWO WORLDS.
A came upon the house at Graybridge, and for the time Isabel Gilbert the presence of death about and around her, out all the world by its influence. The great had come upon the barque. It almost to Isabel as if she and all in that had been by a wall, through which the not penetrate.
She very much; the of her nature her to such suffering. A dull, pain at her heart. Ah, how she had been! how false, how cruel, how ungrateful! But if she had that he was to die—if she had only known—it might all have been different. The of his would have her truth and tenderness; she not have wronged, by so much as a thought, a husband days were numbered. And all her she was for with the one difficulty—the of what had happened. She had needed the doctor's that her husband was she herself to that the white swoon, the of the hand, did death. And when she had been told that all was over, the to have very little upon her mind. It not be! All the last of and trouble was out, and she only think of George Gilbert as she had always him until that time, in the full of health and strength.
She was very sorrowful; but no her breast. It was the shock, the of that her, than any of a great loss. She would have called her husband to life; but it was so to her to know that he was there—near her—what he was. Once the came to her—the weak selfish thought—that it would have been much for her to this if her husband had gone away, away from her, and only a had come to tell her that he was dead. She herself the letter, and at its black-edged border. The would have been very dreadful; but not so as the knowledge that George Gilbert was in that house, and yet there was no George Gilbert. Again and again her mind over the same track; again and again the full of what had away from her, and she herself little speeches—penitent, speeches—expressive of her for all past shortcomings. And then there upon her the too picture of that scene, and she the thick voice of love and praise.
In all this time Roland Lansdell's image was out of her mind. In the and terrible that all the of her brain, that and have no place. She of Mr. Colborne at Hurstonleigh now and then, and a for his presence. He might have been able to her perhaps, somehow; he might have it for her to the knowledge of that presence in the room up-stairs. She once or twice to read some of the that had so on the of the popular curate; but out of that dark and images to her, and she saw Lazarus from the in his grave-clothes: and death and to be and in everything.
After the of grief, with against the woman she to have been a and wife, Matilda Jeffson was not to the terror-stricken girl so newly a widow. She took a cup of tea into the where Isabel sat, every now and then as if with cold, and the to take a little of that beverage. She away her own with her while she talked to Isabel of patience and resignation, to the will of Providence, and all those which are very sweet to the mourner, when the night-time of is darkest.
But Isabel was not a religious woman. She was a child again, weak and frivolous, by the who had so newly entered that house. All through the of her husband's death she sat in the little parlour, sometimes trying to read a little, sometimes at the tall of the tallow-candle, which was only once in a way—when Mrs. Jeffson came into the room "to keep the company for a bit," she said to her husband, who sat by the fire with his on his and his in his hands, over those days when he had been to his master's son from that in the Wareham Road.
There was a good of going in and out, a of moving to and fro, as it to Isabel; and Mrs. Jeffson, in the of her grief, appeared full of some of that her all the evening. The Doctor's Wife had that all voice and motion must come to an end—that life itself must make a pause—in a house where death was. Others might a for the man that was gone; but no one so an of death as she did. Mrs. Jeffson her some supper on a little late in the evening; but she pushed it away from her and into tears. There a of in this in and out of food and drink while he up-stairs; he still in the passage without, papers and ink-bottles and medical books were all on one of the little by the fireplace. Ah, how often she had those medical books for being what they were, of of "Zanoni" and "Ernest Maltravers!" and it to have of them, now that he to they was dead.
It was in that Mrs. Jeffson her to go up-stairs to the room opposite that in which the lay; it was as that the good woman her to go and look at him, now that he was so peacefully in the newly-arranged chamber, to her hand on his marble forehead, so that no of him should trouble her in her sleep. The girl only her forlornly.
"I'm afraid," she said, piteously—"I'm of that room. I that he would die. I know that I wasn't good. It was to think of other people always, and not of him; but I that he would die. I that he was good to me; and I to him: but I think I should have been different if I had that he would die."
She out the little table-drawer where the were rolled up in balls, with out of them here and there. Even these were a of of her neglect. She had them a little the later period of her married life,—during the time of her to be good,—but she had not this work or any other. Ah, what a she was, after all!—a of resolutions, only to be broken; a weak creature, full of and aspirings—resolving in one moment, to in the next.
She to be allowed to the night down-stairs on the little sofa; and Mrs. Jeffson, that she was by some terror of that upper story, her some and pillows, and a little light that was to until daybreak.
So in that familiar room, every of had been a part of the of her life, Isabel Gilbert the night of her widowhood, on the little sofa, of every in the house; until long after the sun was through the yellow-white blind, when she into an doze, in which she that her husband was alive and well. She did not herself out of this, and yet she was asleep the time, until after ten o'clock; and then she Mrs. Jeffson near the little table, on which the cup of tea was a plate of the of bread-and-butter with George Gilbert in Isabel's mind.
"There's somebody wants to see you, if you're well to be spoken to, my dear," Matilda said, very gently; for she had been moved by Mrs. Gilbert's little of her as a wife; and was to think that perhaps, after all, Graybridge had this harshly. "Take the tea, my dear; I it on purpose for you; and try and up a bit, lassie; you're to wear widow's weeds; but he was fit to go. If all of us had as hard for the good of other folks, we to die as peaceful as he did."
Isabel pushed the away from her face, and pursed-up her to the Yorkshire-woman.
"You're very to me," she said; "you used to think that I was wicked, I know; and then you very unkind. But I always to be good. I should like to have been good, and to die young, like George's mother."
It is to be that, with Isabel's of there was always the of early death. She had a idea that very religious and self-denying people got through their of with speed, and their reward. As yet her of self-sacrifice were very limited; and she have a long career of perfection. She of as who to the world, and had all their back-hair cut off, and retired into a convent, and died soon afterwards, while they were still and interesting. She not have an nun, with all a long life of self-abnegation her, up at four o'clock every morning, and being as and and as any happy wife or mother the convent-walls. Yet there are such people.
Mrs. Gilbert took a little of the tea, and then sat still, with her on Matilda Jeffson's shoulder, and her hand in Matilda's fingers. That to a of comfort, so had death entered into Isabel's narrow world.
"Do you think you shall be well to see him presently, lassie?" Mrs. Jeffson said, after a long silence. "I shouldn't ask you, only he anxious-like, as if there was something particular on his mind; and I know he's been very to you."
Isabel at her in bewilderment.
"I don't know who you are talking of," she said.
"It's Mr. Raymond, from Coventford! It's early for him to be so as Graybridge; but he looks as and worn-like as if he'd been up and about all night. He was all of a heap-like when I told him about our master."
Here Mrs. Jeffson had to the which had been so to her the last week. Isabel a little about her shoulders; she had no in her dress when she had the night before; and she was very and wan, and and woebegone, in the light.
"Mr. Raymond! Mr. Raymond!" She his name to herself once or twice, and a to why he should have come to her. He had always been very to her, and with his image there was a of and of spirit. His presence would some to her, she thought. Next to Mr. Colborne, he was the person she would most have to see.
"I will go to him, Mrs. Jeffson," she said, slowly from the sofa. "He was always very good to me. But, oh, how the of him will the time at Conventford, when George used to come and see me on Sunday afternoons, and we used to walk together in the cold meadows!"
That time did come to her as she spoke: a pause in her life, in which she had been—not happy, perhaps, but contented. And since that time what splendors, what a of light and colour had spread itself about her path! a of flowers and that had out all the every-day world in which other people out their existences—a Asiatic wilderness, in which there were lurking, terrible as the that upon the from some palm-tree, or the that in the jungle. She looked across that of an to the old days at Conventford; and a blast from the to in upon her, which the past spread away like a sea. Perhaps that neutral-tinted life was the best, after all. She saw herself again as she had been; "engaged" to the man who up-stairs; and a little of for herself out of that situation.
Mr. Raymond was waiting in the best parlour,—that chamber, which had been so used the surgeon's life,—that primly-arranged little sitting-room, which always had a of old-fashioned pot pourri; the room which Isabel had once to into a of and muslin. The was down, and the half-closed; and in the light Charles Raymond looked very pale.
"My dear Mrs. Gilbert," he said, taking her hand, and leading her to a seat; "my child,—so little more than a child,—so little or than a child,—it to come to you at such a time; but life is very hard sometimes——"
"It was very of you to come," Isabel exclaimed, him. "I wanted to see you, or some one like you; for so to me. I that he would die."
She to cry, in a way, not like a person moved by some grief; like a child that itself in a place and is frightened.
"My child, my child!"
Charles Raymond still Isabel's hand, and she on it; the of a man, of all others the last to give way to any weakness. But then she did not that he must have some of his own—some that touched him more nearly than George Gilbert's death possibly touch him. Her of just now was a selfish state, perhaps; for she neither anything that house, where death was supreme. The had been too terrible and too recent. It was as if an had taken place, and all the her was thick with clouds of produced by the concussion. She Mr. Raymond's slowly on her hand; and if she about them at all, she them only the of his with her and sorrows.
"I loved him like my own son," Charles Raymond, in a low voice. "If he had not been what he was,—if he had been the that a good old stock,—I think then I should have loved him as and as truly, for her sake. Her only son! I've him look at me as she looked when I her in the church on her wedding-day. So long as he lived, I should have that she was to me."
Isabel nothing of these sentences. Mr. Raymond them in low tones, that were not to any ears. For some little time he sat by the girl's side, with her hand still in his; then he rose and walked up and the room with a soft slow step, and with his drooping.
"You have been very much by your husband's death?" he said at last.
Isabel to again at this question,—weak tears, that meant very little, perhaps.
"Oh, very, very much," she answered. "I know I was not so good as I ought to have been; and I can ask him to me now."
"You were very of him, I suppose?"
A and upon Isabel's face; and then she answered, a little,——
"He was very good to me, and I—I always to be grateful—almost always," she added, with a of moments in which she had her husband he ate spring-onions, and Graybridge-made boots.
Just the of a upon Mr. Raymond's as he Isabel's embarrassment. We are such weak and at the very best, that it is just possible this man, who loved Roland Lansdell very dearly, was not by the of Isabel's for her husband. He to the chair near hers, and seated himself once more by her side. He to speak to her in a very low voice; but he his upon the ground; and in that light she was unable to see the of his face.
"Isabel," he began, very gravely, "I said just now that life very hard to us sometimes,—not to be by any of averages, by any of the of which man for his own comfort; only to be very by one theory, which some of us are not to and by. Ah, what tempest-tossed we are without that compass! I have had a great and to the last four-and-twenty hours, Isabel; a that has come upon me more than the of your husband's death can have on you."
"I am very sorry for you," Isabel answered, dreamily; "the world must be full of trouble, I think. It doesn't as if any one was happy."
She was of her own life, so long to look upon, though she was little more than twenty years of age; she was of the of her girlhood,—the sheriff's officers and tax-gatherers, and tradespeople,—the great of her father's disgrace; the of her married life; and Roland Lansdell's departure; and his anger against her when she to away with him; and then her husband's death. It all one record of and trouble.
"I am old. Isabel," Mr. Raymond; "but I have my with and all its brightness. I think, perhaps, that has and with of years. There is one man who has been always very dear to me—more dear to me than I can make you comprehend, unless I were to tell you the link that has him to me. I there are some fathers who have as a love for their sons as I have for the man of I speak; but I have always love a very with my for Roland Lansdell."
Roland Lansdell! It was the time she had his name spoken since that Sunday on which her husband's had begun. The name through her with a that was nearly to pain. A little of in upon the of her life. She her hands her almost as if it had been light that she wanted to out.
"Oh, don't speak of him!" she said, piteously. "I was so wicked; I of him so much; but I did not know that my husband would die. Please don't speak of him; it pains me so to his name."
She into a of as she this last entreaty. She Roland's angry in the church; his that midnight at the Priory, the of manner which she had for indifference. He was nothing to her; he was not her friend; and she had so against the man for his sake.
"I should be the last to mention Roland Lansdell's name in your hearing," Mr. Raymond answered presently, when she had a little quieter, "if the events of the last day or two had not all barriers. The time is very near at hand, Isabel, when no name spoken upon this earth will be an than the name of Roland Lansdell."
She her tear-stained and looked at him. All the clouds away, and a light in upon her; she looked at him, from to foot, with her hands about his arm.
"You came here to tell me something!" she gasped; "something has happened—to him! Ah, if it has, life is all sorrow!"
"He is dying, Isabel."
"Dying!"
Her the words, and her at Charles Raymond's with an look.
"He is dying. It would be to you with any false hope, when in four-and-twenty hours' time all will be finished. He out—riding—the other night, and from his horse, as it is supposed. He was by some early the next morning, helpless, some miles from the Priory, and was home. The medical men give no of his recovery; but he has been at since. I have been a great with him—constantly with him; and his Gwendoline is there. He wants to see you, Isabel; of he nothing of your husband's death; I did not know of it myself till I came here this morning. He wants to see you, my child. Do you think you can come?"
She rose and her slowly as if in assent, but the look of left her face. She moved the door, and as if she wanted to go at once—dressed as she was, with the old about her.
"You'd your to make you and tidy, while I go and a fly," said Mr. Raymond; and then looking her full in the face, he added, "Can you promise me to be very and when you see him? You had not come unless you can promise me as much as that. His hours are numbered, as it is; but any would be fatal. A man's last hours are very to him, remember; the hours of a man who his end is near make a period in which the world away from him, and he is in a of middle region this life and the next. I want you to this, Isabel. The man you are going to see is not the man you have in the past. There would be very little for us after death, if we no in its approach."
"I will recollect," Isabel answered. She had no since she had been told of Roland's danger. Perhaps this new and most terrible had her with an strength. And all the in the of his death, it to her that Roland Lansdell should be dying. It as if the end of the world had come about; and it very little who should be the to perish. Her own turn would come very soon, no doubt.
Mr. Raymond met Mrs. Jeffson in the passage, and said a to her he out of the house. The good woman was at the of Mr. Lansdell's accident. She had very of the master of Mordred Priory; but death and take the out of a true-hearted woman's feelings, and Matilda was to Roland for the wish that the Doctor's Wife to his deathbed. She up-stairs, and came with Isabel's and and paraphernalia; and presently Mrs. Gilbert had a of cold water upon her face, and a passed over her hair. She only of these things, as she might have had they been the events of a dream. So presently, when Mr. Raymond came back, by the of in the straw-bestrewn lane, and she was into the old-fashioned, mouldy-smelling Graybridge fly,—so all along the familiar high-road, past the old with the roof, where the were to each other, as if there had been no such thing as death or in the world,—so under the gates of Mordred, it was all like a dream—a terrible dream—hideous by of some of than by the presented to the of the sleeper. In a it is always thus,—it is always a hidden, something that the dreamer.
The were in the warm wind, and the were about the great flower-beds. Far away the noise of the with all other in a sweet confusion. And he was dying! Oh, what of and on the wide lawns! what long glades, where the to and in the like the of a sea! And he was dying! It is such an old, old feeling, this to that there can be death upon an earth that is so beautiful. Eve may have very much as Isabel to-day, when she saw a sky, splendid, above the of Abel. Hero may have the of the mountains, the yellow of the sands, almost more difficult to than the of her lover.
