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.
“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.
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 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
