in the melancholy dining-room. Here, after a little, Isabel saw her aunt not to be so dry as she
appeared, and her old pity for the poor woman's inexpressiveness, her want of regret, of
disappointment, came back to her. Unmistakeably she would have found it a blessing to-day to be
able to feel a defeat, a mistake, even a shame or two. She wondered if she were not even missing
those enrichments of consciousness and privately trying-- reaching out for some aftertaste of life,
dregs of the banquet; the testimony of pain or the cold recreation of remorse. On the other hand
perhaps she was afraid; if she should begin to know remorse at all it might take her too far. Isabel
could perceive, however, how it had come over her dimly that she had failed of something, that she
saw herself in the future as an old woman without memories. Her little sharp face looked tragical.
She told her niece that Ralph had as yet not moved, but that he probably would be able to see her
before dinner. And then in a moment she added that he had seen Lord Warburton the day before;
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an announcement which startled Isabel a little, as it seemed an intimation that this personage was
in the neighbourhood and that an accident might bring them together. Such an accident would not
be happy; she had not come to England to struggle again with Lord Warburton. She none the less
presently said to her aunt that he had been very kind to Ralph; she had seen something of that in
Rome.
"He has something else to think of now," Mrs. Touchett returned. And she paused with a gaze like
a gimlet.
Isabel saw she meant something, and instantly guessed what she meant. But her reply concealed
her guess; her heart beat faster and she wished to gain a moment. "Ah yes--the House of Lords and
all that."
"He's not thinking of the Lords; he's thinking of the ladies. At least he's thinking of one of them; he
told Ralph he's engaged to be married."
"Ah, to be married!" Isabel mildly exclaimed.
"Unless he breaks it off. He seemed to think Ralph would like to know. Poor Ralph can't go to the
wedding, though I believe it's to take place very soon.
"And who's the young lady?"
"A member of the aristocracy; Lady Flora, Lady Felicia-- something of that sort."
"I'm very glad," Isabel said. "It must be a sudden decision."
"Sudden enough, I believe; a courtship of three weeks. It has only just been made public."
"I'm very glad," Isabel repeated with a larger emphasis. She knew her aunt was watching her-
looking for the signs of some imputed soreness, and the desire to prevent her companion from
seeing anything of this kind enabled her to speak in the tone of quick satisfaction, the tone almost
of relief. Mrs. Touchett of course followed the tradition that ladies, even married ones, regard the
marriage of their old lovers as an offence to themselves. Isabel's first care therefore was to show
that however that might be in general she was not offended now. But meanwhile, as I say, her heart
beat faster; and if she sat for some moments thoughtful --she presently forgot Mrs. Touchett's
observation--it was not because she had lost an admirer. Her imagination had traversed half
Europe; it halted, panting, and even trembling a little, in the city of Rome. She figured herself
announcing to her husband that Lord Warburton was to lead a bride to the altar, and she was of
course not aware how extremely wan she must have looked while she made this intellectual effort.
But at last she collected herself and said to her aunt: "He was sure to do it some time or other."
Mrs. Touchett was silent; then she gave a sharp little shake of the head. "Ah, my dear, you're
beyond me!" she cried suddenly. They went on with their luncheon in silence; Isabel felt as if she
had heard of Lord Warburton's death. She had known him only as a suitor, and now that was all
over. He was dead for poor Pansy; by Pansy he might have lived. A servant had been hovering
about; at last Mrs. Touchett requested him to leave them alone. She had finished her meal; she sat
with her hands folded on the edge of the table. "I should like to ask you three questions," she
observed when the servant had gone.
"Three are a great many."
"I can't do with less; I've been thinking. They're all very good ones."
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"That's what I'm afraid of. The best questions are the worst," Isabel answered. Mrs. Touchett had
pushed back her chair, and as her niece left the table and walked, rather consciously, to one of the
deep windows, she felt herself followed by her eyes.
"Have you ever been sorry you didn't marry Lord Warburton?" Mrs. Touchett enquired.
Isabel shook her head slowly, but not heavily. "No, dear aunt."
"Good. I ought to tell you that I propose to believe what you say."
"Your believing me's an immense temptation," she declared, smiling still.
"A temptation to lie? I don't recommend you to do that, for when I'm misinformed I'm as
dangerous as a poisoned rat. I don't mean to crow over you."
"It's my husband who doesn't get on with me," said Isabel.
"I could have told him he wouldn't. I don't call that crowing over YOU," Mrs. Touchett added. "Do
you still like Serena Merle?" she went on.
"Not as I once did. But it doesn't matter, for she's going to America."
"To America? She must have done something very bad."
"Yes--very bad."
"May I ask what it is?"
"She made a convenience of me."
"Ah," cried Mrs. Touchett, "so she did of me! She does of every one."
"She'll make a convenience of America," said Isabel, smiling again and glad that her aunt's
questions were over.
It was not till the evening that she was able to see Ralph. He had been dozing all day; at least he
had been lying unconscious. The doctor was there, but after a while went away--the local doctor,
who had attended his father and whom Ralph liked. He came three or four times a day; he was
deeply interested in his patient. Ralph had had Sir Matthew Hope, but he had got tired of this
celebrated man, to whom he had asked his mother to send word he was now dead and was
therefore without further need of medical advice. Mrs. Touchett had simply written to Sir Matthew
that her son disliked him. On the day of Isabel's arrival Ralph gave no sign, as I have related, for
many hours; but toward evening he raised himself and said he knew that she had come.
How he knew was not apparent, inasmuch as for fear of exciting him no one had offered the
information. Isabel came in and sat by his bed in the dim light; there was only a shaded candle in a
corner of the room. She told the nurse she might go--she herself would sit with him for the rest of
the evening. He had opened his eyes and recognised her, and had moved his hand, which lay
helpless beside him, so that she might take it. But he was unable to speak; he closed his eyes again
and remained perfectly still, only keeping her hand in his own. She sat with him a long time-- till
the nurse came back; but he gave no further sign. He might have passed away while she looked at
him; he was already the figure and pattern of death. She had thought him far gone in Rome, and
this was worse; there was but one change possible now. There was a strange tranquillity in his
face; it was as still as the lid of a box. With this he was a mere lattice of bones; when he opened his
eyes to greet her it was as if she were looking into immeasurable space. It was not till midnight
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that the nurse came back; but the hours, to Isabel, had not seemed long; it was exactly what she
had come for. If she had come simply to wait she found ample occasion, for he lay three days in a
kind of grateful silence. He recognised her and at moments seemed to wish to speak; but he found
no voice. Then he closed his eyes again, as if he too were waiting for something--for something
that certainly would come. He was so absolutely quiet that it seemed to her what was coming had
already arrived; and yet she never lost the sense that they were still together. But they were not
always together; there were other hours that she passed in wandering through the empty house and
listening for a voice that was not poor Ralph's. She had a constant fear; she thought it possible her
husband would write to her. But he remained silent, and she only got a letter from Florence and
from the Countess Gemini. Ralph, however, spoke at last--on the evening of the third day.
"I feel better to-night," he murmured, abruptly, in the soundless dimness of her vigil; "I think I can
say something." She sank upon her knees beside his pillow; took his thin hand in her own; begged
him not to make an effort--not to tire himself. His face was of necessity serious--it was incapable
of the muscular play of a smile; but its owner apparently had not lost a perception of incongruities.
"What does it matter if I'm tired when I've all eternity to rest? There's no harm in making an effort
when it's the very last of all. Don't people always feel better just before the end? I've often heard of
that; it's what I was waiting for. Ever since you've been here I thought it would come. I tried two or
three times; I was afraid you'd get tired of sitting there." He spoke slowly, with painful breaks and
long pauses; his voice seemed to come from a distance. When he ceased he lay with his face turned
to Isabel and his large unwinking eyes open into her own. "It was very good of you to come," he
went on. "I thought you would; but I wasn't sure."
"I was not sure either till I came," said Isabel.
"You've been like an angel beside my bed. You know they talk about the angel of death. It's the
most beautiful of all. You've been like that; as if you were waiting for me."
"I was not waiting for your death; I was waiting for--for this. This is not death, dear Ralph."
"Not for you--no. There's nothing makes us feel so much alive as to see others die. That's the
sensation of life--the sense that we remain. I've had it--even I. But now I'm of no use but to give it
to others. With me it's all over." And then he paused. Isabel bowed her head further, till it rested on
the two hands that were clasped upon his own. She couldn't see him now; but his far-away voice
was close to her ear. "Isabel," he went on suddenly, "I wish it were over for you." She answered
nothing; she had burst into sobs; she remained so, with her buried face. He lay silent, listening to
her sobs; at last he gave a long groan. "Ah, what is it you have done for me?"
"What is it you did for me?" she cried, her now extreme agitation half smothered by her attitude.
She had lost all her shame, all wish to hide things. Now he must know; she wished him to know,
for it brought them supremely together, and he was beyond the reach of pain. "You did something
once--you know it. O Ralph, you've been everything! What have I done for you--what can I do today?
I would die if you could live. But I don't wish you to live; I would die myself, not to lose
you." Her voice was as broken as his own and full of tears and anguish.
"You won't lose me--you'll keep me. Keep me in your heart; I shall be nearer to you than I've ever
been. Dear Isabel, life is better; for in life there's love. Death is good--but there's no love."
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"I never thanked you--I never spoke--I never was what I should be!" Isabel went on. She felt a
passionate need to cry out and accuse herself, to let her sorrow possess her. All her troubles, for the
moment, became single and melted together into this present pain. "What must you have thought
of me? Yet how could I know? I never knew, and I only know to-day because there are people less
stupid than I."
"Don't mind people," said Ralph. "I think I'm glad to leave people."
She raised her head and her clasped hands; she seemed for a moment to pray to him. "Is it true--is
it true?" she asked.
"True that you've been stupid? Oh no," said Ralph with a sensible intention of wit.
"That you made me rich--that all I have is yours?"
He turned away his head, and for some time said nothing. Then at last: "Ah, don't speak of that-
that was not happy." Slowly he moved his face toward her again, and they once more saw each
other. "But for that--but for that--!" And he paused. "I believe I ruined you," he wailed.
She was full of the sense that he was beyond the reach of pain; he seemed already so little of this
world. But even if she had not had it she would still have spoken, for nothing mattered now but the
only knowledge that was not pure anguish--the knowledge that they were looking at the truth
together.
"He married me for the money," she said. She wished to say everything; she was afraid he might
die before she had done so. He gazed at her a little, and for the first time his fixed eyes lowered
their lids. But he raised them in a moment, and then, "He was greatly in love with you," he
answered.
"Yes, he was in love with me. But he wouldn't have married me if I had been poor. I don't hurt you
in saying that. How can I? I only want you to understand. I always tried to keep you from
understanding; but that's all over."
"I always understood," said Ralph.
"I thought you did, and I didn't like it. But now I like it."
"You don't hurt me--you make me very happy." And as Ralph said this there was an extraordinary
gladness in his voice. She bent her head again, and pressed her lips to the back of his hand. "I
always understood," he continued, "though it was so strange--so pitiful. You wanted to look at life
for yourself--but you were not allowed; you were punished for your wish. You were ground in the
very mill of the conventional!"
"Oh yes, I've been punished," Isabel sobbed.
He listened to her a little, and then continued: "Was he very bad about your coming?"
"He made it very hard for me. But I don't care."
"It is all over then between you?"
"Oh no; I don't think anything's over."
"Are you going back to him ?" Ralph gasped.
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"I don't know--I can't tell. I shall stay here as long as I may. I don't want to think--I needn't think. I
don't care for anything but you, and that's enough for the present. It will last a little yet. Here on
my knees, with you dying in my arms, I'm happier than I have been for a long time. And I want
you to be happy-- not to think of anything sad; only to feel that I'm near you and I love you. Why
should there be pain--? In such hours as this what have we to do with pain? That's not the deepest
thing; there's something deeper."
Ralph evidently found from moment to moment greater difficulty in speaking; he had to wait
longer to collect himself. At first he appeared to make no response to these last words; he let a long
time elapse. Then he murmured simply: "You must stay here."
"I should like to stay--as long as seems right."
"As seems right-- as seems right?" He repeated her words. "Yes, you think a great deal about that."
"Of course one must. You're very tired," said Isabel.
"I'm very tired. You said just now that pain's not the deepest thing. No--no. But it's very deep. If I
could stay--"
"For me you'll always be here," she softly interrupted. It was easy to interrupt him.
But he went on, after a moment: "It passes, after all; it's passing now. But love remains. I don't
know why we should suffer so much. Perhaps I shall find out. There are many things in life.
You're very young."
"I feel very old," said Isabel.
"You'll grow young again. That's how I see you. I don't believe-- I don't believe--" But he stopped
again; his strength failed him.
She begged him to be quiet now. "We needn't speak to understand each other," she said.
"I don't believe that such a generous mistake as yours can hurt you for more than a little."
"Oh Ralph, I'm very happy now," she cried through her tears.
"And remember this," he continued, "that if you've been hated you've also been loved. Ah but,
Isabel--ADORED!" he just audibly and lingeringly breathed.
"Oh my brother!" she cried with a movement of still deeper prostration.
CHAPTER LV
He had told her, the first evening she ever spent at Gardencourt, that if she should live to suffer
enough she might some day see the ghost with which the old house was duly provided. She
apparently had fulfilled the necessary condition; for the next morning, in the cold, faint dawn, she
knew that a spirit was standing by her bed. She had lain down without undressing, it being her
belief that Ralph would not outlast the night. She had no inclination to sleep; she was waiting, and
such waiting was wakeful. But she closed her eyes; she believed that as the night wore on she
should hear a knock at her door. She heard no knock, but at the time the darkness began vaguely to
grow grey she started up from her pillow as abruptly as if she had received a summons. It seemed
to her for an instant that he was standing there--a vague, hovering figure in the vagueness of the
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room. She stared a moment; she saw his white face--his kind eyes; then she saw there was nothing.
She was not afraid; she was only sure. She quitted the place and in her certainty passed through
dark corridors and down a flight of oaken steps that shone in the vague light of a hall-window.
Outside Ralph's door she stopped a moment, listening, but she seemed to hear only the hush that
filled it. She opened the door with a hand as gentle as if she were lifting a veil from the face of the
dead, and saw Mrs. Touchett sitting motionless and upright beside the couch of her son, with one
of his hands in her own. The doctor was on the other side, with poor Ralph's further wrist resting in
his professional fingers. The two nurses were at the foot between them. Mrs. Touchett took no
notice of Isabel, but the doctor looked at her very hard; then he gently placed Ralph's hand in a
proper position, close beside him. The nurse looked at her very hard too, and no one said a word;
but Isabel only looked at what she had come to see. It was fairer than Ralph had ever been in life,
and there was a strange resemblance to the face of his father, which, six years before, she had seen
lying on the same pillow. She went to her aunt and put her arm around her; and Mrs. Touchett,
who as a general thing neither invited nor enjoyed caresses, submitted for a moment to this one,
rising, as might be, to take it. But she was stiff and dry-eyed; her acute white face was terrible.
"Dear Aunt Lydia," Isabel murmured.
"Go and thank God you've no child," said Mrs. Touchett, disengaging herself.
Three days after this a considerable number of people found time, at the height of the London
"season," to take a morning train down to a quiet station in Berkshire and spend half an hour in a
small grey church which stood within an easy walk. It was in the green burial-place of this edifice
that Mrs. Touchett consigned her son to earth. She stood herself at the edge of the grave, and Isabel
stood beside her; the sexton himself had not a more practical interest in the scene than Mrs.
Touchett. It was a solemn occasion, but neither a harsh nor a heavy one; there was a certain
geniality in the appearance of things. The weather had changed to fair; the day, one of the last of
the treacherous May-time, was warm and windless, and the air had the brightness of the hawthorn
and the blackbird. If it was sad to think of poor Touchett, it was not too sad, since death, for him,
had had no violence. He had been dying so long; he was so ready; everything had been so expected
and prepared. There were tears in Isabel's eyes, but they were not tears that blinded. She looked
through them at the beauty of the day, the splendour of nature, the sweetness of the old English
churchyard, the bowed heads of good friends. Lord Warburton was there, and a group of
gentlemen all unknown to her, several of whom, as she afterwards learned, were connected with
the bank; and there were others whom she knew. Miss Stackpole was among the first, with honest
Mr. Bantling beside her; and Caspar Goodwood, lifting his head higher than the rest--bowing it
rather less. During much of the time Isabel was conscious of Mr. Goodwood's gaze; he looked at
her somewhat harder than he usually looked in public, while the others had fixed their eyes upon
the churchyard turf. But she never let him see that she saw him; she thought of him only to wonder
that he was still in England. She found she had taken for granted that after accompanying Ralph to
Gardencourt he had gone away; she remembered how little it was a country that pleased him. He
was there, however, very distinctly there; and something in his attitude seemed to say that he was
there with a complex intention. She wouldn't meet his eyes, though there was doubtless sympathy
in them; he made her rather uneasy. With the dispersal of the little group he disappeared, and the
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only person who came to speak to her--though several spoke to Mrs. Touchett--was Henrietta
Stackpole. Henrietta had been crying.
Ralph had said to Isabel that he hoped she would remain at Gardencourt, and she made no
immediate motion to leave the place. She said to herself that it was but common charity to stay a
little with her aunt. It was fortunate she had so good a formula; otherwise she might have been
greatly in want of one. Her errand was over; she had done what she had left her husband to do. She
had a husband in a foreign city, counting the hours of her absence; in such a case one needed an
excellent motive. He was not one of the best husbands, but that didn't alter the case. Certain
obligations were involved in the very fact of marriage, and were quite independent of the quantity
of enjoyment extracted from it. Isabel thought of her husband as little as might be; but now that she
was at a distance, beyond its spell, she thought with a kind of spiritual shudder of Rome. There
was a penetrating chill in the image, and she drew back into the deepest shade of Gardencourt. She
lived from day to day, postponing, closing her eyes, trying not to think. She knew she must decide,
but she decided nothing; her coming itself had not been a decision. On that occasion she had
simply started. Osmond gave no sound and now evidently would give none; he would leave it all
to her. From Pansy she heard nothing, but that was very simple: her father had told her not to
write.
Mrs. Touchett accepted Isabel's company, but offered her no assistance; she appeared to be
absorbed in considering, without enthusiasm but with perfect lucidity, the new conveniences of her
own situation. Mrs. Touchett was not an optimist, but even from painful occurrences she managed
to extract a certain utility. This consisted in the reflexion that, after all, such things happened to
other people and not to herself. Death was disagreeable, but in this case it was her son's death, not
her own; she had never flattered herself that her own would be disagreeable to any one but Mrs.
Touchett. She was better off than poor Ralph, who had left all the commodities of life behind him,
and indeed all the security; since the worst of dying was, to Mrs. Touchett's mind, that it exposed
one to be taken advantage of. For herself she was on the spot; there was nothing so good as that.
She made known to Isabel very punctually--it was the evening her son was buried--several of
