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
Mr. Raymond was in his highest spirits to-day. He liked to be with young
people, and was younger than the youngest of them in his fresh enjoyment
of all that is bright and beautiful upon earth. He devoted himself
chiefly to the society of his orphan _protégées_, and contrived to
impart a good deal of information to them in a pleasant easy-going
manner, that took the bitterness out of those Pierian waters, for which
the orphans had very small affection. They were stupid and
unimpressionable; but, then, were they not the children of that unhappy
consumptive niece of his, who had acquired, by reason of her many
troubles, a kind of divine right to become a burden upon happy people?
"If she had left me such an orphan as that girl Isabel, I would have
thanked her kindly for dying," Mr. Raymond mused "That girl has mental
imitation,--the highest and rarest faculty of the human
brain,--ideality, and comparison. What could I not make of such a girl
as that? And yet--"
Mr. Raymond only finished the sentence with a sigh. He was thinking
that, after all, these bright faculties might not be the best gifts for
a woman. It would have been better, perhaps, for Isabel to have
possessed the organ of pudding-making and stocking-darning, if those
useful accomplishments are represented by an organ. The kindly
phrenologist was thinking that perhaps the highest fate life held for
that pale girl with the yellow tinge in her eyes was to share the home
of a simple-hearted country surgeon, and rear his children to be honest
men and virtuous women.
"I suppose that _is_ the best," Mr. Raymond said to himself.
He had dismissed the orphans now, and had sent them on to walk with
Sigismund Smith, who kindly related to them the story of "Lilian the
Deserted," with such suppressions and emendations as rendered the
romance suitable to their tender years. The philosopher of Conventford
had got rid of the orphans, and was strolling by himself in those
delicious glades, swinging his stick as he went, and throwing up his
head every now and then to scent all the freshness of the warm spring
air.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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