He had told her, the first evening she ever spent at Gardencourt, that if sh_hould live to suffer enough she might some day see the ghost with which th_ld house was duly provided. She apparently had fulfilled the necessar_ondition; for the next morning, in the cold, faint dawn, she knew that _pirit was standing by her bed. She had lain down without undressing, it bein_er belief that Ralph would not outlast the night. She had no inclination t_leep; 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 gre_he 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, hoverin_igure in the vagueness of the room. She stared a moment; she saw his whit_ace—his kind eyes; then she saw there was nothing. She was not afraid; sh_as only sure. She quitted the place and in her certainty passed through dar_orridors and down a flight of oaken steps that shone in the vague light of _all-window. Outside Ralph's door she stopped a moment, listening, but sh_eemed to hear only the hush that filled it. She opened the door with a han_s gentle as if she were lifting a veil from the face of the dead, and sa_rs. Touchett sitting motionless and upright beside the couch of her son, wit_ne of his hands in her own. The doctor was on the other side, with poo_alph's further wrist resting in his professional fingers. The two nurses wer_t the foot between them. Mrs. Touchett took no notice of Isabel, but th_octor looked at her very hard; then he gently placed Ralph's hand in a prope_osition, close beside him. The nurse looked at her very hard too, and no on_aid a word; but Isabel only looked at what she had come to see. It was faire_han Ralph had ever been in life, and there was a strange resemblance to th_ace of his father, which, six years before, she had seen lying on the sam_illow. 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 _oment to this one, rising, as might be, to take it. But she was stiff an_ry-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 th_eight of the London "season," to take a morning train down to a quiet statio_n Berkshire and spend half an hour in a small grey church which stood withi_n 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 th_rave, and Isabel stood beside her; the sexton himself had not a mor_ractical 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 th_ppearance of things. The weather had changed to fair; the day, one of th_ast of the treacherous May-time, was warm and windless, and the air had th_rightness of the hawthorn and the blackbird. If it was sad to think of poo_ouchett, it was not too sad, since death, for him, had had no violence. H_ad been dying so long; he was so ready; everything had been so expected an_repared. There were tears in Isabel's eyes, but they were not tears tha_linded. She looked through them at the beauty of the day, the splendour o_ature, the sweetness of the old English churchyard, the bowed heads of goo_riends. Lord Warburton was there, and a group of gentlemen all unknown t_er, 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, wit_onest Mr. Bantling beside her; and Caspar Goodwood, lifting his head highe_han the rest—bowing it rather less. During much of the time Isabel wa_onscious of Mr. Goodwood's gaze; he looked at her somewhat harder than h_sually looked in public, while the others had fixed their eyes upon th_hurchyard turf. But she never let him see that she saw him; she thought o_im only to wonder that he was still in England. She found she had taken fo_ranted that after accompanying Ralph to Gardencourt he had gone away; sh_emembered how little it was a country that pleased him. He was there, however, very distinctly there; and something in his attitude seemed to sa_hat he was there with a complex intention. She wouldn't meet his eyes, thoug_here was doubtless sympathy in them; he made her rather uneasy. With th_ispersal of the little group he disappeared, and the only person who came t_peak 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, an_he made no immediate motion to leave the place. She said to herself that i_as but common charity to stay a little with her aunt. It was fortunate sh_ad 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 ha_ husband in a foreign city, counting the hours of her absence; in such a cas_ne needed an excellent motive. He was not one of the best husbands, but tha_idn't alter the case. Certain obligations were involved in the very fact o_arriage, and were quite independent of the quantity of enjoyment extracte_rom it. Isabel thought of her husband as little as might be; but now that sh_as at a distance, beyond its spell, she thought with a kind of spiritua_hudder of Rome. There was a penetrating chill in the image, and she drew bac_nto 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 sh_ecided nothing; her coming itself had not been a decision. On that occasio_he had simply started. Osmond gave no sound and now evidently would giv_one; he would leave it all to her. From Pansy she heard nothing, but that wa_ery simple: her father had told her not to write.
Mrs. Touchett accepted Isabel's company, but offered her no assistance; sh_ppeared to be absorbed in considering, without enthusiasm but with perfec_ucidity, the new conveniences of her own situation. Mrs. Touchett was not a_ptimist, but even from painful occurrences she managed to extract a certai_tility. This consisted in the reflexion that, after all, such things happene_o other people and not to herself. Death was disagreeable, but in this cas_t was her son's death, not her own; she had never flattered herself that he_wn would be disagreeable to any one but Mrs. Touchett. She was better of_han poor Ralph, who had left all the commodities of life behind him, an_ndeed all the security; since the worst of dying was, to Mrs. Touchett'_ind, that it exposed one to be taken advantage of. For herself she was on th_pot; there was nothing so good as that. She made known to Isabel ver_unctually—it was the evening her son was buried—several of Ralph'_estamentary arrangements. He had told her everything, had consulted her abou_verything. He left her no money; of course she had no need of money. He lef_er the furniture of Gardencourt, exclusive of the pictures and books and th_se of the place for a year; after which it was to be sold. The money produce_y the sale was to constitute an endowment for a hospital for poor person_uffering from the malady of which he died; and of this portion of the wil_ord Warburton was appointed executor. The rest of his property, which was t_e withdrawn from the bank, was disposed of in various bequests, several o_hem to those cousins in Vermont to whom his father had already been s_ountiful. Then there were a number of small legacies.
"Some of them are extremely peculiar," said Mrs. Touchett; "he has lef_onsiderable sums to persons I never heard of. He gave me a list, and I aske_hen who some of them were, and he told me they were people who at variou_imes had seemed to like him. Apparently he thought you didn't like him, fo_e hasn't left you a penny. It was his opinion that you had been handsomel_reated by his father, which I'm bound to say I think you were—though I don'_ean that I ever heard him complain of it. The pictures are to be dispersed; he has distributed them about, one by one, as little keepsakes. The mos_aluable of the collection goes to Lord Warburton. And what do you think h_as done with his library? It sounds like a practical joke. He has left it t_our friend Miss Stackpole—'in recognition of her services to literature.'
Does he mean her following him up from Rome? Was that a service to literature?
It contains a great many rare and valuable books, and as she can't carry i_bout the world in her trunk he recommends her to sell it at auction. She wil_ell it of course at Christie's, and with the proceeds she'll set up _ewspaper. Will that be a service to literature?"
This question Isabel forbore to answer, as it exceeded the littl_nterrogatory to which she had deemed it necessary to submit on her arrival.
Besides, she had never been less interested in literature than to-day, as sh_ound when she occasionally took down from the shelf one of the rare an_aluable volumes of which Mrs. Touchett had spoken. She was quite unable t_ead; her attention had never been so little at her command. One afternoon, i_he library, about a week after the ceremony in the churchyard, she was tryin_o fix it for an hour; but her eyes often wandered from the book in her han_o the open window, which looked down the long avenue. It was in this way tha_he saw a modest vehicle approach the door and perceived Lord Warburto_itting, in rather an uncomfortable attitude, in a corner of it. He had alway_ad a high standard of courtesy, and it was therefore not remarkable, unde_he circumstances, that he should have taken the trouble to come down fro_ondon to call on Mrs. Touchett. It was of course Mrs. Touchett he had come t_ee, and not Mrs. Osmond; and to prove to herself the validity of this thesi_sabel presently stepped out of the house and wandered away into the park.
Since her arrival at Gardencourt she had been but little out of doors, th_eather being unfavourable for visiting the grounds. This evening, however, was fine, and at first it struck her as a happy thought to have come out. Th_heory I have just mentioned was plausible enough, but it brought her littl_est, and if you had seen her pacing about you would have said she had a ba_onscience. She was not pacified when at the end of a quarter of an hour, finding herself in view of the house, she saw Mrs. Touchett emerge from th_ortico accompanied by her visitor. Her aunt had evidently proposed to Lor_arburton that they should come in search of her. She was in no humour fo_isitors and, if she had had a chance, would have drawn back behind one of th_reat trees. But she saw she had been seen and that nothing was left her bu_o advance. As the lawn at Gardencourt was a vast expanse this took some time; during which she observed that, as he walked beside his hostess, Lor_arburton kept his hands rather stiffly behind him and his eyes upon th_round. Both persons apparently were silent; but Mrs. Touchett's thin littl_lance, as she directed it toward Isabel, had even at a distance a_xpression. It seemed to say with cutting sharpness: "Here's the eminentl_menable nobleman you might have married!" When Lord Warburton lifted his ow_yes, however, that was not what they said. They only said "This is rathe_wkward, you know, and I depend upon you to help me." He was very grave, ver_roper and, for the first time since Isabel had known him, greeted her withou_ smile. Even in his days of distress he had always begun with a smile. H_ooked extremely selfconscious.
"Lord Warburton has been so good as to come out to see me," said Mrs.
Touchett. "He tells me he didn't know you were still here. I know he's an ol_riend of yours, and as I was told you were not in the house I brought him ou_o see for himself."
"Oh, I saw there was a good train at 6.40, that would get me back in time fo_inner," Mrs. Touchett's companion rather irrelevantly explained. "I'm so gla_o find you've not gone."
"I'm not here for long, you know," Isabel said with a certain eagerness.
"I suppose not; but I hope it's for some weeks. You came to England soone_han—a—than you thought?"
"Yes, I came very suddenly."
Mrs. Touchett turned away as if she were looking at the condition of th_rounds, which indeed was not what it should be, while Lord Warburto_esitated a little. Isabel fancied he had been on the point of asking abou_er husband—rather confusedly—and then had checked himself. He continue_mmitigably grave, either because he thought it becoming in a place over whic_eath had just passed, or for more personal reasons. If he was conscious o_ersonal reasons it was very fortunate that he had the cover of the forme_otive; he could make the most of that. Isabel thought of all this. It was no_hat his face was sad, for that was another matter; but it was strangel_nexpressive.
"My sisters would have been so glad to come if they had known you were stil_ere—if they had thought you would see them," Lord Warburton went on. "D_indly let them see you before you leave England."
"It would give me great pleasure; I have such a friendly recollection o_hem."
"I don't know whether you would come to Lockleigh for a day or two? You kno_here's always that old promise." And his lordship coloured a little as h_ade this suggestion, which gave his face a somewhat more familiar air.
"Perhaps I'm not right in saying that just now; of course you're not thinkin_f visiting. But I meant what would hardly be a visit. My sisters are to be a_ockleigh at Whitsuntide for five days; and if you could come then—as you sa_ou're not to be very long in England—I would see that there should b_iterally no one else."
Isabel wondered if not even the young lady he was to marry would be there wit_er mamma; but she did not express this idea.
"Thank you extremely," she contented herself with saying; "I'm afraid I hardl_now about Whitsuntide."
"But I have your promise—haven't I?—for some other time."
There was an interrogation in this; but Isabel let it pass. She looked at he_nterlocutor a moment, and the result of her observation was that—as ha_appened before—she felt sorry for him. "Take care you don't miss your train,"
she said. And then she added: "I wish you every happiness."
He blushed again, more than before, and he looked at his watch. "Ah yes, 6.40; I haven't much time, but I've a fly at the door. Thank you very much." It wa_ot apparent whether the thanks applied to her having reminded him of hi_rain or to the more sentimental remark. "Good-bye, Mrs. Osmond; good-bye." H_hook hands with her, without meeting her eyes, and then he turned to Mrs.
Touchett, who had wandered back to them. With her his parting was equall_rief; and in a moment the two ladies saw him move with long steps across th_awn.
"Are you very sure he's to be married?" Isabel asked of her aunt.
"I can't be surer than he; but he seems sure. I congratulated him, and h_ccepted it."
"Ah," said Isabel, "I give it up!"—while her aunt returned to the house and t_hose avocations which the visitor had interrupted.
She gave it up, but she still thought of it—thought of it while she strolle_gain under the great oaks whose shadows were long upon the acres of turf. A_he end of a few minutes she found herself near a rustic bench, which, _oment after she had looked at it, struck her as an object recognised. It wa_ot simply that she had seen it before, nor even that she had sat upon it; i_as that on this spot something important had happened to her—that the plac_ad an air of association. Then she remembered that she had been sittin_here, six years before, when a servant brought her from the house the lette_n which Caspar Goodwood informed her that he had followed her to Europe; an_hat when she had read the letter she looked up to hear Lord Warburto_nnouncing that he should like to marry her. It was indeed an historical, a_nteresting, bench; she stood and looked at it as if it might have somethin_o say to her. She wouldn't sit down on it now— she felt rather afraid of it.
She only stood before it, and while she stood the past came back to her in on_f those rushing waves of emotion by which persons of sensibility are visite_t odd hours. The effect of this agitation was a sudden sense of being ver_ired, under the influence of which she overcame her scruples and sank int_he rustic seat. I have said that she was restless and unable to occup_erself; and whether or no, if you had seen her there, you would have admire_he justice of the former epithet, you would at least have allowed that a_his moment she was the image of a victim of idleness. Her attitude had _ingular absence of purpose; her hands, hanging at her sides, lost themselve_n the folds of her black dress; her eyes gazed vaguely before her. There wa_othing to recall her to the house; the two ladies, in their seclusion, dine_arly and had tea at an indefinite hour. How long she had sat in this positio_he could not have told you; but the twilight had grown thick when she becam_ware that she was not alone. She quickly straightened herself, glancin_bout, and then saw what had become of her solitude. She was sharing it wit_aspar Goodwood, who stood looking at her, a few yards off, and whose footfal_n the unresonant turf, as he came near, she had not heard. It occurred to he_n the midst of this that it was just so Lord Warburton had surprised her o_ld.
She instantly rose, and as soon as Goodwood saw he was seen he starte_orward. She had had time only to rise when, with a motion that looked lik_iolence, but felt like—she knew not what, he grasped her by the wrist an_ade her sink again into the seat. She closed her eyes; he had not hurt her; it was only a touch, which she had obeyed. But there was something in his fac_hat she wished not to see. That was the way he had looked at her the othe_ay in the churchyard; only at present it was worse. He said nothing at first; she only felt him close to her—beside her on the bench and pressingly turne_o her. It almost seemed to her that no one had ever been so close to her a_hat. All this, however, took but an instant, at the end of which she ha_isengaged her wrist, turning her eyes upon her visitant. "You've frightene_e," she said.
"I didn't mean to," he answered, "but if I did a little, no matter. I cam_rom London a while ago by the train, but I couldn't come here directly. Ther_as a man at the station who got ahead of me. He took a fly that was there, and I heard him give the order to drive here. I don't know who he was, but _idn't want to come with him; I wanted to see you alone. So I've been waitin_nd walking about. I've walked all over, and I was just coming to the hous_hen I saw you here. There was a keeper, or someone, who met me; but that wa_ll right, because I had made his acquaintance when I came here with you_ousin. Is that gentleman gone? Are you really alone? I want to speak to you."
Goodwood spoke very fast; he was as excited as when they had parted in Rome.
Isabel had hoped that condition would subside; and she shrank into herself a_he perceived that, on the contrary, he had only let out sail. She had a ne_ensation; he had never produced it before; it was a feeling of danger. Ther_as indeed something really formidable in his resolution. She gazed straigh_efore her; he, with a hand on each knee, leaned forward, looking deeply int_er face. The twilight seemed to darken round them. "I want to speak to you,"
he repeated; "I've something particular to say. I don't want to trouble you—a_ did the other day in Rome. That was of no use; it only distressed you. _ouldn't help it; I knew I was wrong. But I'm not wrong now; please don'_hink I am," he went on with his hard, deep voice melting a moment int_ntreaty. "I came here to-day for a purpose. It's very different. It was vai_or me to speak to you then; but now I can help you."
She couldn't have told you whether it was because she was afraid, or becaus_uch a voice in the darkness seemed of necessity a boon; but she listened t_im as she had never listened before; his words dropped deep into her soul.
They produced a sort of stillness in all her being; and it was with an effort, in a moment, that she answered him. "How can you help me?" she asked in a lo_one, as if she were taking what he had said seriously enough to make th_nquiry in confidence.
"By inducing you to trust me. Now I know—to-day I know. Do you remember what _sked you in Rome? Then I was quite in the dark. But to-day I know on goo_uthority; everything's clear to me to-day. It was a good thing when you mad_e come away with your cousin. He was a good man, a fine man, one of the best; he told me how the case stands for you. He explained everything; he guessed m_entiments. He was a member of your family and he left you—so long as yo_hould be in England—to my care," said Goodwood as if he were making a grea_oint. "Do you know what he said to me the last time I saw him—as he lay ther_here he died? He said: 'Do everything you can for her; do everything she'l_et you.'"
Isabel suddenly got up. "You had no business to talk about me!"
"Why not—why not, when we talked in that way?" he demanded, following he_ast. "And he was dying—when a man's dying it's different." She checked th_ovement she had made to leave him; she was listening more than ever; it wa_rue that he was not the same as that last time. That had been aimless, fruitless passion, but at present he had an idea, which she scented in all he_eing. "But it doesn't matter!" he exclaimed, pressing her still harder, though now without touching a hem of her garment. "If Touchett had neve_pened his mouth I should have known all the same. I had only to look at yo_t your cousin's funeral to see what's the matter with you. You can't deceiv_e any more; for God's sake be honest with a man who's so honest with you.
You're the most unhappy of women, and your husband's the deadliest of fiends."
She turned on him as if he had struck her. "Are you mad?" she cried.
"I've never been so sane; I see the whole thing. Don't think it's necessary t_efend him. But I won't say another word against him; I'll speak only of you,"
Goodwood added quickly. "How can you pretend you're not heart-broken? Yo_on't know what to do— you don't know where to turn. It's too late to play _art; didn't you leave all that behind you in Rome? Touchett knew all abou_t, and I knew it too—what it would cost you to come here. It will have cos_ou your life? Say it will"—and he flared almost into anger: "give me one wor_f truth! When I know such a horror as that, how can I keep myself fro_ishing to save you? What would you think of me if I should stand still an_ee you go back to your reward? 'It's awful, what she'll have to pay fo_t!'—that's what Touchett said to me. I may tell you that, mayn't I? He wa_uch a near relation!" cried Goodwood, making his queer grim point again. "I'_ooner have been shot than let another man say those things to me; but he wa_ifferent; he seemed to me to have the right. It was after he got home—when h_aw he was dying, and when I saw it too. I understand all about it: you'r_fraid to go back. You're perfectly alone; you don't know where to turn. Yo_an't turn anywhere; you know that perfectly. Now it is therefore that I wan_ou to think of ME."
"To think of 'you'?" Isabel said, standing before him in the dusk. The idea o_hich she had caught a glimpse a few moments before now loomed large. Sh_hrew back her head a little; she stared at it as if it had been a comet i_he sky.
"You don't know where to turn. Turn straight to me. I want to persuade you t_rust me," Goodwood repeated. And then he paused with his shining eyes. "Wh_hould you go back—why should you go through that ghastly form?"
"To get away from you!" she answered. But this expressed only a little of wha_he felt. The rest was that she had never been loved before. She had believe_t, but this was different; this was the hot wind of the desert, at th_pproach of which the others dropped dead, like mere sweet airs of the garden.
It wrapped her about; it lifted her off her feet, while the very taste of it, as of something potent, acrid and strange, forced open her set teeth.
At first, in rejoinder to what she had said, it seemed to her that he woul_reak out into greater violence. But after an instant he was perfectly quiet; he wished to prove he was sane, that he had reasoned it all out. "I want t_revent that, and I think I may, if you'll only for once listen to me. It'_oo monstrous of you to think of sinking back into that misery, of going t_pen your mouth to that poisoned air. It's you that are out of your mind.
Trust me as if I had the care of you. Why shouldn't we be happy—when it's her_efore us, when it's so easy? I'm yours for ever—for ever and ever. Here _tand; I'm as firm as a rock. What have you to care about? You've no children; that perhaps would be an obstacle. As it is you've nothing to consider. Yo_ust save what you can of your life; you mustn't lose it all simply becaus_ou've lost a part. It would be an insult to you to assume that you care fo_he look of the thing, for what people will say, for the bottomless idiocy o_he world. We've nothing to do with all that; we're quite out of it; we loo_t things as they are. You took the great step in coming away; the next i_othing; it's the natural one. I swear, as I stand here, that a woma_eliberately made to suffer is justified in anything in life—in going dow_nto the streets if that will help her! I know how you suffer, and that's wh_'m here. We can do absolutely as we please; to whom under the sun do we ow_nything? What is it that holds us, what is it that has the smallest right t_nterfere in such a question as this? Such a question is between ourselves—an_o say that is to settle it! Were we born to rot in our misery—were we born t_e afraid? I never knew YOU afraid! If you'll only trust me, how little yo_ill be disappointed! The world's all before us—and the world's very big. _now something about that."
Isabel gave a long murmur, like a creature in pain; it was as if he wer_ressing something that hurt her.
"The world's very small," she said at random; she had an immense desire t_ppear to resist. She said it at random, to hear herself say something; but i_as not what she meant. The world, in truth, had never seemed so large; i_eemed to open out, all round her, to take the form of a mighty sea, where sh_loated in fathomless waters. She had wanted help, and here was help; it ha_ome in a rushing torrent. I know not whether she believed everything he said; but she believed just then that to let him take her in his arms would be th_ext best thing to her dying. This belief, for a moment, was a kind o_apture, in which she felt herself sink and sink. In the movement she seeme_o beat with her feet, in order to catch herself, to feel something to res_n.
"Ah, be mine as I'm yours!" she heard her companion cry. He had suddenly give_p argument, and his voice seemed to come, harsh and terrible, through _onfusion of vaguer sounds.
This however, of course, was but a subjective fact, as the metaphysicians say; the confusion, the noise of waters, all the rest of it, were in her ow_wimming head. In an instant she became aware of this. "Do me the greates_indness of all," she panted. "I beseech you to go away!"
"Ah, don't say that. Don't kill me!" he cried.
She clasped her hands; her eyes were streaming with tears. "As you love me, a_ou pity me, leave me alone!"
He glared at her a moment through the dusk, and the next instant she felt hi_rms about her and his lips on her own lips. His kiss was like whit_ightning, a flash that spread, and spread again, and stayed; and it wa_xtraordinarily as if, while she took it, she felt each thing in his har_anhood that had least pleased her, each aggressive fact of his face, hi_igure, his presence, justified of its intense identity and made one with thi_ct of possession. So had she heard of those wrecked and under water followin_ train of images before they sink. But when darkness returned she was free.
She never looked about her; she only darted from the spot. There were light_n the windows of the house; they shone far across the lawn. In a_xtraordinarily short time—for the distance was considerable— she had move_hrough the darkness (for she saw nothing) and reached the door. Here only sh_aused. She looked all about her; she listened a little; then she put her han_n the latch. She had not known where to turn; but she knew now. There was _ery straight path.
Two days afterwards Caspar Goodwood knocked at the door of the house i_impole Street in which Henrietta Stackpole occupied furnished lodgings. H_ad hardly removed his hand from the knocker when the door was opened and Mis_tackpole herself stood before him. She had on her hat and jacket; she was o_he point of going out. "Oh, good-morning," he said, "I was in hopes I shoul_ind Mrs. Osmond."
Henrietta kept him waiting a moment for her reply; but there was a good dea_f expression about Miss Stackpole even when she was silent. "Pray what le_ou to suppose she was here?"
"I went down to Gardencourt this morning, and the servant told me she had com_o London. He believed she was to come to you."
Again Miss Stackpole held him—with an intention of perfect kindness—i_uspense. "She came here yesterday, and spent the night. But this morning sh_tarted for Rome."
Caspar Goodwood was not looking at her; his eyes were fastened on th_oorstep. "Oh, she started—?" he stammered. And without finishing his phras_r looking up he stiffly averted himself. But he couldn't otherwise move.
Henrietta had come out, closing the door behind her, and now she put out he_and and grasped his arm. "Look here, Mr. Goodwood," she said; "just yo_ait!"
On which he looked up at her—but only to guess, from her face, with _evulsion, that she simply meant he was young. She stood shining at him wit_hat cheap comfort, and it added, on the spot, thirty years to his life. Sh_alked him away with her, however, as if she had given him now the key t_atience.