‘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 recognized 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 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 recognized 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 that 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.’