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Chapter 55

  • 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.