The Doctor's Wife: A NovelBraddon, M. E. (Mary Elizabeth)
General
The Doctor's Wife: A Novel
Braddon, M. E. (Mary Elizabeth)
Adultery -- Fiction; Great Britain -- Fiction; Middle class -- Fiction; Physicians' spouses -- Fiction
The front parlour was a palatial chamber as compared to the back; for
the boys were chased away with slaps by Mrs. Sleaford when they carried
thither that artistic paraphernalia which she called their "rubbish,"
and the depredations of the race were, therefore, less visible in this
apartment. Mrs. Sleaford had made herself "tidy" in honour of her new
boarder, and her face was shining with the recent application of strong
yellow soap. George saw at once that she was a very common little woman,
and that any intellectual graces inherited by the boys must have
descended to them from their father. He had a profound reverence for the
higher branch of the legal profession, and he pondered that a barrister
should have married such a woman as Mrs. Sleaford, and should be content
to live in the muddle peculiar to a household where the mistress is her
own cook, and the junior branches are amateur errand boys.
After tea the two young men walked up and down the weedy pathways in the
garden, while Isabel sat under her favourite pear-tree reading the
volume she had been so loth to close. Sigismund and his Midlandshire
friend walked up and down, smoking cigars, and talking of what they
called old times; but those old times were only four or five years ago,
though the young men talked like greybeards, who look back half a
century or so, and wonder at the folly of their youth.
Isabel went on with her book; the light was dying away little by little,
dropping down behind the pear-trees at the western side of the garden,
and the pale evening star glimmered at the end of one of the pathways.
She read on more eagerly, almost breathlessly, as the light grew less;
for her step-mother would call her in by-and-by, and there would be a
torn jacket to mend, perhaps, or a heap of worsted socks to be darned
for the boys; and there would be no chance of reading another line of
that sweet sentimental story, that heavenly prose, which fell into a
cadence like poetry, that tender, melancholy music which haunted the
reader long after the book was shut and laid aside, and made the dull
course of common life so dismally unendurable.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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