The Doctor's Wife
There was the same at Mordred Priory that there had been in the surgeon's house at Graybridge; only there a here all the of the rooms, away, one another, like the of a palace. Isabel saw the long vista, not as she had it once, when he came into the to her welcome, but with the upon her. She saw little of and colour here and there in the of the rooms, and long of light through the Venetian upon the floors. One of the medical men—there were three or four of them in the house—came out of the library and spoke in a to Mr. Raymond. The result of the favourable, for the doctor to his in the library, and Charles Raymond Isabel up the staircase; the which to to a church or a than to any common habitation.
They met a nurse in the corridor; a prim, pleasant-looking woman, who answered Mr. Raymond's questions in a business-like manner, as if a Roland Lansdell or so more or less in the world were a of very small consequence. And then a came Isabel's eyes, and she of the ground on which she trod; and presently there was a of and medicines, and she a soft hand her with eau-de-Cologne, and a woman's near her. And then she her with a painful of their weight, and a voice very close to her said,—
"It was very of you to come. I am the of the room makes you faint. If you to let in a little more air, Raymond. It was very good of you to come."
Oh, he was not dying! Her to out of a region into an of and light. He was not dying! Death was not like this. He spoke to her to-day as he had always spoken. It was the same voice, the same low music which she had so often with the of the mill-stream: the voice that had in her by day and night.
She from her chair and upon her by the bedside. There was nothing or in the movement; it almost involuntary, unconscious.
"Oh, I am so to you speak!" she said; "it makes me so happy—to see you like this. They told me that you were very, very ill; they told me that——"
"They told you the truth," Roland answered gravely. "Oh, dear Mrs. Gilbert, you must try and what I have been, or you will be able to what I am. And I was so of life, and I had so little in the universe; and yet I so a now that all has away from me. I sent for you, Isabel, in this last I want to all the I have done you; I want to ask your for that wrong."
"Forgiveness—from me! Oh, no, no!"
She not her old of worship. He was a always—noble or wicked—a by right of his and beauty! If he from his high to upon her, was he not to her gratitude, her purest devotion? If it pleased him to and her his feet, what was she, when against the of her idol, that she should complain? There is always some in the road when the car comes by; and which of them would of Juggernaut for the by the wheels?
The same hands which had Mrs. Gilbert's her from her now; and looking up, Isabel saw Lady Gwendoline over her, very pale, very grave, but with a sweet upon her face. Lord Ruysdale and his had come to the Priory after of Roland's state; and the four-and-twenty hours that had elapsed, Lady Gwendoline had been a great with her cousin. The love which had to anger against Roland's all its now, and there was no of self or self-love that Gwendoline Pomphrey would have to make, if in so doing she have life and to the man. She had the the doctors had to tell. She that her was dying. She was no woman to herself with hopes, to put away the cup for it was bitter, that its last must be sooner or later. She her the inevitable, and her sorrow. Never in her day, when her portrait had been in every West-end print-shop, and her name a for all that is and beautiful—never had she so perfect a woman as now, when she sat and and resigned, by the of the man she loved.
During that long night of watching, Mr. Lansdell's mind had at clear,—the upon his brain had not out his intellect. That had been in occasional of and stupor, but every now and then the of over itself, and the man talked more than usual. All the of passion, the of purpose—now hot, now cold, now generous, now cruel,—all natural to have been away, and an had upon his and mind.
Once, on from a doze, he his watching, but the nurse asleep, and to talk of Isabel Gilbert. "I want you to know all about her," he said; "you have only and gossip. I should like you to know the truth. It is very foolish, that little history—wicked perhaps; but those may have and the story. I will tell you the truth, Gwendoline; for I want you to be a friend to Isabel Gilbert when I am and gone."
And then he told the history of all those under Lord Thurston's oak; on Isabel's simplicity, himself for all that was and in that flirtation. He told Gwendoline how, from being amused, gratified, by Mrs. Gilbert's of him, so naïvely in every look and tone, he had, little by little, to the of his life in those meetings; and then he spoke of his with himself, real, struggles—his flight—his return—his that Isabel would to any step he might propose—his anger and after the final interview, which proved to him how little he had the of that heart.
"She was only a child playing with fire, Gwendoline," he said; "and had not the smallest to walk through the furnace. That was my mistake. She was a child, and I her for a woman—a woman who saw the her, and was prepared to take the leap. She was only a child, pleased with my speeches and town-made and handkerchiefs,—a schoolgirl; and I set my life upon the of being happy with her. Will you try and think of her as she is, Gwendoline,—not as these Graybridge people see her,—and be to her when I am and gone? I should like to think she was sure of one wise and good woman for a friend. I have been very to her, very unjust, very selfish. I was in the same mind about her for an hour together,—sometimes of her, sometimes and her as a and a coquette. But I can her and in her much now. The sky is higher, Gwendoline."
If Roland had told his this a week before, when his life all him, she might have his in a very different from that in which she now it; but he was dying, and she had loved him, and had been loved by him. It was by her own act that she had that love. She of all others had least right to his to another woman. She that day, nearly ten years ago, on which she had with him, by his reproaches, in the of her and the knowledge that she might a man so high above Roland Lansdell in rank and position. She saw herself as she had been, in all the early of her Saxon beauty, and if she was the same as that proud girl who the in life was to the wife of a marquis.
"I will be her friend, Roland," she said, presently. "I know she is very childish; and I will be patient with her and her, girl."
Lady Gwendoline was thinking, as she said this, of that in the surgeon's at Graybridge—that in which Isabel had not to her and wickedness.
"I ought to have been more patient," Gwendoline thought; "but I think I was angry with her she had to love Roland. I was of his love for her, and I not be or tolerant."
Thus it was that Isabel Lady Gwendoline so and to her. She only her to the lady's with a look. She all about the at Graybridge; what she in that room, that he was ill? in danger, people had told her; but she not that. The of her husband's had her with an idea that must be by terrible prostration, delirium, fever, stupor. She saw Roland in one of his best intervals, reasonable, cheerful, self-possessed, and she not that he was going to die. She looked at him, and saw that his was bloodless, and that his was by bandages, which his forehead. A from his horse! She how she had him once by upon the road, of her presence, and self-absorbed as Count Lara; but all her she had any to him in that shape. She had him always as a rider, the with one light pressure of his hand upon the curb. She looked at him sorrowfully, and the of his accident her; she saw the across a waste, and then a fall, and then a along the ground. She had read of such things: it was only some old half-forgotten out of one of her books that rose in her mind.
No as to the nature of Mr. Lansdell's accident, no of the truth, entered her brain. She most that she had herself all of an her father and his enemy. Had she not the last of Mr. Sleaford in Nessborough Hollow, he was to for Wareham station at of day? and what should take Roland Lansdell to that in which the little was hidden,—a resting-place for and gipsy-hawkers?
She the truth. The medical men who Roland Lansdell that the from which he was had been by any from a horse; and they said as much to Charles Raymond, who was by the intelligence. But neither he the doctors obtain any from the patient, though Mr. Raymond most him to the truth.
"Cure me, if you can," he said; "nothing that I can tell you will give you any help in doing that. If it is my to keep the of my death a secret, it is the of a man, and it ought to be respected. No upon this earth one man will know how I came by these injuries. But I do that you will be to my friends any pain. The are at work already, I say, as to what of the that me. For pity's sake, do your best to stop their talk. My life has been enough; do not let there be any about my death."
Against such as these Charles Raymond nothing. But his for the of the man he loved was by the which Roland's fate. The doctors told him that the on Mr. Lansdell's only have been by with some instrument. Mr. Raymond in himself with the to how or why the man had been attacked. He had not been robbed; for his watch and purse, his rings, and the little at his chain, all of them in their nature, had been upon him when he was home to the Priory. That Roland Lansdell have one enemy all mankind, entered into his kinsman's calculations. He had no of that little told so by the man in the flower-garden; he was without a to the catastrophe; and he very that Roland's was not to be shaken. There was a in Mr. Lansdell's refusal, which left no that he might be to his mind. He spoke with all of the result of his visit to Nessborough Hollow. He had Isabel there, he said, with a man who was related to her,—a relation, who had come to Graybridge to money from her. He had and spoken to the man, and was that his account of himself was true.
"So you see the Graybridge had on the mare's nest," Roland said, in conclusion; "the man was a relation,—an uncle or cousin, I believe,—I it from his own lips. If I had been a gentleman, I should have been to the that me that night. What common we are, Raymond, some of us! Our mothers in us, and us, and watch over us, and to they have us in a of Styx, and that there is something of the into our clay; but our common passions, and we to the level of the who his wife to death with a in of his honour. They put a of over us at Eton and Oxford; but the is very much the same, after all. Your King Arthur, or Sir Philip Sidney, or Bayard, up once in a century or so, and the world a gentleman; but, oh, what a he is!"
"I want you to me," Roland said to Isabel, after she had been some minutes in the low chair in which Lady Gwendoline had her. There was no one in the room but Charles Raymond and Gwendoline Pomphrey; and Mr. Raymond had himself to a window that had been pushed a little way open, near which he sat in a very attitude, with his from the bed. "I want you to me for having been very and to you, Mrs. Gilbert—Isabel. Ah, I may call you Isabel now, and no one will out upon me! Dying men have all manner of privileges. I was very cruel, very unjust, very selfish and wicked, my girl; and your was than my experience. A man has no right to perfect happiness: I can that now. He has no right to the laws by men for his protection, there is a in the of his life, and those very laws to him in his insignificance. How Thomas Carlyle has told us that Manhood only when we have to Necessity! We must submit, Isabel. I struggled; but I submitted. I to and master the pain; but I myself to it; and is so much than conquest. And then, when I had to the tempter, when I had taken my stand, prepared to and earth, I was angry with you, child, you were not and desperate. Forgive me, my dear; I loved you very much; and it is only now—now when I am dying, that I know how and my love was. But it was a profligate's passion, Isabel. It was to love you; but my love was pure. If you had been free to be my wife, I should have been a true and husband to my love. Ah, now, when life so away; now, Isabel, the old picture me, and I what might have been if I had you free."
The low voice Charles Raymond, and he his and aloud. Dimly, as the memory of a dream, came upon him the of that time in which he had sat the of the great beech-trees at Hurstonleigh, with the man's open in his hand, and had been into of what might if Roland returned to England to see Isabel in her beauty. And Roland had returned, and had her; but too late; and now she was free once more,—free to be loved and chosen,—and again it was too late. Perhaps Mr. Raymond only a sentimentalist, of the upon a man's love-story; but then he had loved the man's mother,—and in vain!
"Gwendoline has promised to be your friend, Isabel," Roland said by-and-by; "it makes me very happy to know that. Oh, my darling, if I tell you the that came to me as I there, with the of and flowers about me, and the above the tall over my head. What is in a where there are such stars? It as if I had them until then."
He on thus, with Isabel's hand in his. He to be very happy—entirely at peace. Gwendoline had to read to him; and the had been with him, the of some religious exercises, to and to explain; but the man had at him with some of in his expression.
"There is very little you read from that book which I do not already know by heart," he said, pointing to the Bible open under the clergyman's hand. "It is not your who least his gospel. Imagine a man of a great that looks like a diamond. His tell him that the is priceless—matchless —without or flaw. But some thing the man that it may be valueless after all—only a big of glass. You may that he would it very closely; he would every facet, and it in every light, and know a good more about it than the possessor, who, in the of his jewel, puts it safely away in a box against the hour when it may be wanted. I know all about the gospel, Mr. Matson; and I think, as my hours are numbered, it may be for me to and upon those familiar words. The light upon me very slowly; but it all comes from a sky; and no hand can so much as the of the that out the splendour. I am very near him now; I am very near 'the shadow, from to foot, who the keys of all the creeds!'"
The Mr. Lansdell a very penitent; but it was something to that the man did not rail or at religion on his bed; and that might have been of a person who had service only once in six weeks, and had a and well-bred by yawns, and absent-minded of his finger-nails, the of a long sermon.
The did not this conversion, in phrases that the of orthodox; but the of in that death-chamber was much than he had expected. He had it that Mr. Lansdell was a Freethinker—a Deist; an Atheist, some people had said; and he had to the man in the of his agony. He had not been prepared for this deathbed; this man, who was with a upon his face, of St. John's Gospel and Tennyson's "In Memoriam."
"I was with my mother when she died." Roland said by-and-by, "and yet not accept the that her so happy. But I say Saul had many that to Damascus. Had he not the of Stephen, and had yet been unmoved? The hour comes, and the comes with it. Oh, what an empty life mine has been for the last ten years! I not understand—I not see beyond. I might have done so much perhaps, if I only have my way the and of this life. But I not—I not; and so I into a idleness, 'without a or an aim.' I 'basked and in the woods.'"
The in the house after he had left Roland's chamber. He would be by-and-by, perhaps, and the man would some more than was to be from Mr. Tennyson's verses.
But Roland very happy. There was a upon his face, in of its death-like pallor—a brightness, by any of blood, or of that slow which the London physicians so often. For some two or three hours after the in Nessborough Hollow he had and unconscious; then he had slowly to see the above the over his head, and to the early with a noise the fern. He to that something of an nature had to him, but not for some time to any of his with Mr. Sleaford.
He to move, but himself powerless,—a to have his to lead; he only as he had fallen; of the above, the wind a streamlet, and all the of newly-awakened nature. He as well as if a whole of physicians had their upon his case,—he that for him life was over; and that if there was any in his mind, any of a in his breast, that sense, so and as yet, only relate to something this earth.
Very Mr. Lansdell's mind as he the fern, with the wild-rose and above him. He that his life was done; he that for him all in this earth and its had for ever; and a perfect came upon him. He was like a man who had a great fortune, and had been by and about it, and who, one to himself a beggar, a in the knowledge that he was penniless. The was all over. No longer the in his ear, him to this or that of the world's marsh-lands. No more for him or perplexity. The problem of life was solved; a new and way was opened for him out of the blank which men call existence. At first, the of his with it no but a of release. It was only afterwards, when the new of familiar to him, that he to think with pain of all the empty life that him. He to be of this when Isabel was with him; for after for some time silent, in a doze, as they who him,—he his eyelids, and said to her,—
"If you should with the means of doing great good, of being very useful to your fellow-creatures, I should like you to my life, Isabel. You will try to be patient, won't you, my dear? You will not think, you are in your for the of mankind, that you are free to wash your hands of the business, and your at other people's endeavours. Ten years ago I myself a philanthropist; but I was like a child who plants an over-night, and to see the of a through the earth next morning. I wanted to do great all at once. My failed the had well begun. But I want you to be different from me, my dear. You were than I when you left me that day; when you left me to my anger, my despair. Our love was too pure to have the of and guilt. It would have like some that in a atmosphere. Impure love may in a habitation; but the true god and dies if you him from the free air of heaven. I know now that we should not have been happy, Isabel; and I the that has saved us. My darling, do not look at me with those eyes; death will us than us, Isabel. I should have been away from you if I had lived; for I was of my life. I was like a child, who has all the toys by toymaker, and has played with them all, and of them, and them. Only his know what an that child is. I might have a very man if I had lived, Isabel. As it is, I to what Tennyson means. He has the of his age, Isabel. He has told me what I am: 'an in the night; an for the light; and with no language but a cry.'"
These were the last that Roland Lansdell spoke to the Doctor's Wife. He into the same half-slumber from which he had to talk to her; and some one—she who it was—led her out of the chamber, and a little way along the into another room, where the Venetian were open, and there was and splendour.
Then, as if in a dream, she herself on a bed; a that than the of the sea, and around which there were of green and muslin, and a like about everything. As in a dream, Isabel saw Lady Gwendoline and the nurse over her; and then one of them told her to go to sleep; she must want rest; she had been lately.
"You are among friends," the soft voice murmured. "I know that I you very much, child; but I have promised him that I will be your friend."
The soft with a noise Isabel and the light, and she that she was alone; but still the dream-like her as in a spell. Does not simple, practical Sir Walter Scott, of the time of his wife's burial, tell us that it was all like a to him; he not or of the reality? And is it any wonder, therefore, if to this girl the that had so her like a dream? He was dying! every one said that it was so; he himself spoke of his death as a settled thing; and no one him. And yet she not in the truth. Was he not there, talking to her and her? his as when he had her how to her in the days that were gone. No, a thousand times no; she would not that he was to die. Like all people who have a very close with poverty, she had an idea of the power of wealth. Those great physicians, from Savile Row, and in the library,—they would surely save him; they would that into new life. What was medical science worth, if it was powerless to save this one man? And then the prayers which had cold and on her when she had for George Gilbert's took a new colour, and were as if inspired.
She pushed the and got up from the where they had told her to sleep. She to the door and opened it a little way; but there was no to be in the long where the portraits of dead-and-gone Lansdells—all to her more or less like him—looked sadly from the wainscot. A of into the room, but she had no idea of the hour. She had all count of time since the of her husband's death; and she did not know the day of the week. She only that the world to have come to an end, and that it was very hard to be left alone in a universe.
For a long time she by the praying that Roland Lansdell might live—only that he might live. She would be and happy, she thought, to know that all the world her and him, if she only know that he lived. There was no of any selfish in her mind. Childishly, ignorantly, as a child might for the life of its mother, did this girl pray for the of Roland Lansdell. No of her new freedom, no of what might if he be to health, the of her prayers. She only wanted him to live.
The sun westward, and still upon that figure. Perhaps Isabel had a that the length of her prayers might prevail. They were very rambling, petitions. It is not every who can cry, "Thy will be done!" Pitiful and weak and are some of the that to the Eternal Throne.
At last, when Isabel had been some hours alone and in that chamber, an to see Roland Lansdell once more came upon her,—to see him, or at least to of him; to that a happy had come about; that he was sleeping peacefully, in a that gave promise of recovery. Ah, what it would be to something like this! And men had been to-day.
Her with a of hope. She to the door and opened it, and then upon the listening. All was as it had been before. No of footsteps, no of voices, the old walls. There was no in the she question as to Mr. Lansdell's state. She waited with that Lady Gwendoline or the sick-nurse might come out of Roland's room; but she waited in vain. The western through a in the of the the of the Lansdells with a of life and colour; faces, faces—all with some look of the man who was in the yonder. The of that long to freeze Isabel's hopes. The of a the like the of a sail at sea; but the house there was not so much as a or a whisper.
The and the unendurable. The Doctor's Wife moved away from the door, and nearer and nearer the dark door at the end of the corridor—the that her from Roland Lansdell. She not at that door, the should him. Some one must surely come out into the long,—Mr. Raymond, or Lady Gwendoline, or the nurse,—some one who give her and comfort.
She the door, and saw that the door of the next room was ajar. From this room came the low of voices; and Isabel all at once that she had an opening out of that in which Roland Lansdell lay—a large pleasant-looking chamber, with a high mantel-piece, above which she had the of and pistols, and a picture of a horse.
She into this room. It was empty, and the of voices came from the chamber. The door the two rooms was open, and she something more than voices. There was the of low sobbing; very subdued, but very terrible to hear. She not see the man, for there was a little group about his bed, a group of figures, that a screen her and him. She saw Lady Gwendoline on her at the of the bed, with her in the coverlet, and her arms up above her head; but in the next moment Charles Raymond saw her, and came to her. He closed the door him, and out that group of figures. She would have spoken; but he his hand with a gesture.
"Come away, my dear," he said softly. "Come with me, Isabel."
"Oh, let me see him! let me speak to him! Only once more—only once!"
"Never again, Isabel,—never upon this earth any more! You must think of him as something and than you him here. I saw such a upon a as I saw just now on his."
She had no need of any to tell her he was dead. She the ground her feet, and saw the of a that out the world, and closed about her like the through which a man goes to death.
