‘‘Well, she is very charming,’’ said Isabel. ‘‘And she plays beautifully.’’
‘‘She does everything beautifully. She is complete.’’
Isabel looked at her cousin a moment. ‘‘You don’t like her.’’
‘‘On the contrary, I was once in love with her.’’
‘‘And she didn’t care for you, and that’s why you don’t like her.’’
‘‘How can we have discussed such things? Monsieur Merle was then living.’’
‘‘Is he dead now?’’
‘‘So she says.’’
‘‘Don’t you believe her?’’
‘‘Yes, because the statement agrees with the probabilities. The husband of Madame Merle would be likely to pass away.’’
Isabel gazed at her cousin again. ‘‘I don’t know what you mean. You mean something—that you don’t mean. What was Monsieur Merle?’’
‘‘The husband of Madame.’’
‘‘You are very odious. Has she any children?’’
‘‘Not the least little child—fortunately.’’
‘‘Fortunately?’’
‘‘I mean fortunately for the child; she would be sure to spoil it.’’
Isabel was apparently on the point of assuring her cousin for the third time that he was odious; but the discussion was interrupted by the arrival of the lady who was the topic of it. She came rustling in quickly, apologizing for being late, fastening a bracelet, dressed in dark blue satin, which exposed a white bosom that was ineffectually covered by a curious silver necklace. Ralph offered her his arm with the exaggerated alertness of a man who was no longer a lover.
Even if this had still been his condition, however, Ralph had other things to think about. The great doctor spent the night at Gardencourt, and returning to London on the morrow, after another consultation with Mr. Touchett’s own medical adviser, concurred in Ralph’s desire that he should see the patient again on the day following. On the day following Sir Matthew Hope reappeared at Gardencourt, and on this occasion took a less encouraging view of the old man, who had grown worse in the twenty-four hours. His feebleness was extreme, and to his son, who constantly sat by his bedside, it often seemed that his end was at hand. The local doctor, who was a very sagacious man, and in whom Ralph had secretly more confidence than in his distinguished colleague, was constantly in attendance, and Sir Matthew Hope returned several times to Gardencourt. Mr. Touchett was much of the time unconscious; he slept a great deal; he rarely spoke. Isabel had a great desire to be useful to him, and was allowed to watch with him several times when his other attendants (of whom Mrs. Touchett was not the least regular) went to take rest. He never seemed to know her, and she always said to herself— ‘‘Suppose he should die while I am sitting here’’; an idea which excited her and kept her awake. Once he opened his eyes for a while and fixed them upon her intelligently, but when she went to him, hoping he would recognize her, he closed them and relapsed into unconsciousness. The day after this, however, he revived for a longer time; but on this occasion Ralph was with him alone. The old man began to talk, much to his son’s satisfaction, who assured him that they should presently have him sitting up.
‘‘No, my boy,’’ said Mr. Touchett, ‘‘not unless you bury me in a sitting posture, as some of the ancients— was it the ancients?—used to do.’’
‘‘Ah, daddy, don’t talk about that,’’ Ralph murmured. ‘‘You must not deny that you are getting better.’’
‘‘There will be no need of my denying it if you don’t say so,’’ the old man answered. ‘‘Why should we prevaricate, just at the last? We never prevaricated before. I have got to die some time, and it’s better to die when one is sick than when one is well. I am very sick—as sick as I shall ever be. I hope you don’t want to prove that I shall ever be worse than this? That would be too bad. You don’t? Well then.’’
Having made this excellent point he became quiet; but the next time that Ralph was with him he again addressed himself to conversation. The nurse had gone to her supper and Ralph was alone with him, having just relieved Mrs. Touchett, who had been on guard since dinner. The room was lighted only by the flickering fire, which of late had become necessary, and Ralph’s tall shadow was projected upon the wall and ceiling, with an outline constantly varying but always grotesque.
‘‘Who is that with me—is it my son?’’ the old man asked.
‘‘Yes, it’s your son, daddy.’’
‘‘And is there no one else?’’
‘‘No one else.’’
Mr. Touchett said nothing for a while; and then, ‘‘I want to talk a little,’’ he went on.
‘‘Won’t it tire you?’’ Ralph inquired.
‘‘It won’t matter if it does. I shall have a long rest. I want to talk about you.’’
Ralph had drawn nearer to the bed; he sat leaning forward, with his hand on his father’s. ‘‘You had better select a brighter topic,’’ he said.
‘‘You were always bright; I used to be proud of your brightness. I should like so much to think that you would do something.’’
‘‘If you leave us,’’ said Ralph, ‘‘I shall do nothing but miss you.’’
‘‘That is just what I don’t want; it’s what I want to talk about. You must get a new interest.’’
‘‘I don’t want a new interest, daddy. I have more old ones than I know what to do with.’’
The old man lay there looking at his son; his face was the face of the dying, but his eyes were the eyes of Daniel Touchett. He seemed to be reckoning over Ralph’s interests. ‘‘Of course you have got your mother,’’ he said at last. ‘‘You will take care of her.’’
‘‘My mother will always take care of herself,’’ Ralph answered.
‘‘Well,’’ said his father, ‘‘perhaps as she grows older she will need a little help.’’
‘‘I shall not see that. She will outlive me.’’
‘‘Very likely she will; but that’s no reason—’’ Mr. Touchett let his phrase die away in a helpless but not exactly querulous sigh, and remained silent again.
‘‘Don’t trouble yourself about us,’’ said his son. ‘‘My mother and I get on very well together, you know.’’
‘‘You get on by always being apart; that’s not natural.’’
‘‘If you leave us, we shall probably see more of each other.’’
‘‘Well,’’ the old man observed, with wandering irrelevance, ‘‘it cannot be said that my death will make much difference in your mother’s life.’’
‘‘It will probably make more than you think.’’
‘‘Well, she’ll have more money,’’ said Mr. Touchett. ‘‘I have left her a good wife’s portion, just as if she had been a good wife.’’
‘‘She has been one, daddy, according to her own theory. She has never troubled you.’’
‘‘Ah, some troubles are pleasant,’’ Mr. Touchett murmured. ‘‘Those you have given me, for instance. But your mother has been less—less—what shall I call it?— less out of the way since I have been ill. I presume she knows I have noticed it.’’
‘‘I shall certainly tell her so; I am so glad you mention it.’’
‘‘It won’t make any difference to her; she doesn’t do it to please me. She does it to please—to please—’’ And he lay awhile, trying to think why she did it. ‘‘She does it to please herself. But that is not what I want to talk about,’’ he added. ‘‘It’s about you. You will be very well off.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ said Ralph, ‘‘I know that. But I hope you have not forgotten the talk we had a year ago—when I told you exactly what money I should need and begged you to make some good use of the rest.’’
‘‘Yes, yes, I remember. I made a new will—in a few days. I suppose it was the first time such a thing had happened—a young man trying to get a will made against him.’’
‘‘It is not against me,’’ said Ralph. ‘‘It would be against me to have a large pr
operty to take care of. It is impossible for a man in my state of health to spend much money, and enough is as good as a feast.’’
‘‘Well, you will have enough—and something over. There will be more than enough for one—there will be enough for two.’’
‘‘That’s too much,’’ said Ralph.
‘‘Ah, don’t say that. The best thing you can do, when I am gone, will be to marry.’’
Ralph had foreseen what his father was coming to, and this suggestion was by no means novel. It had long been Mr. Touchett’s most ingenious way of expressing the optimistic view of his son’s health. Ralph had usually treated it humorously; but present circumstances made the humorous tone impossible. He simply fell back in his chair and returned his father’s appealing gaze in silence.
‘‘If I, with a wife who hasn’t been very fond of me, have had a very happy life,’’ said the old man, carrying his ingenuity further still, ‘‘what a life might you not have, if you should marry a person different from Mrs. Touchett. There are more different from her than there are like her.’’
Ralph still said nothing; and after a pause his father asked softly—‘‘What do you think of your cousin?’’
At this Ralph started, meeting the question with a rather fixed smile. ‘‘Do I understand you to propose that I should marry Isabel?’’
‘‘Well, that’s what it comes to in the end. Don’t you like her?’’
‘‘Yes, very much.’’ And Ralph got up from his chair and wandered over to the fire. He stood before it an instant and then he stooped and stirred it, mechanically. ‘‘I like Isabel very much,’’ he repeated.
‘‘Well,’’ said his father, ‘‘I know she likes you. She told me so.’’
‘‘Did she remark that she would like to marry me?’’
‘‘No, but she can’t have anything against you. And she is the most charming young lady I have ever seen. And she would be good to you. I have thought a great deal about it.’’
‘‘So have I,’’ said Ralph, coming back to the bedside again. ‘‘I don’t mind telling you that.’’
‘‘You are in love with her, then? I should think you would be. It’s as if she came over on purpose.’’
‘‘No, I am not in love with her; but I should be if—if certain things were different.’’
‘‘Ah, things are always different from what they might be,’’ said the old man. ‘‘If you wait for them to change, you will never do anything. I don’t know whether you know,’’ he went on; ‘‘but I suppose there is no harm in my alluding to it in such an hour as this: there was some one wanted to marry Isabel the other day, and she wouldn’t have him.’’
‘‘I know she refused Lord Warburton; he told me himself.’’
‘‘Well, that proves that there is a chance for somebody else.’’
‘‘Somebody else took his chance the other day in London—and got nothing by it.’’
‘‘Was it you?’’ Mr. Touched asked, eagerly.
‘‘No, it was an older friend; a poor gentleman who came over from America to see about it.’’
‘‘Well, I am sorry for him. But it only proves what I say—that the way is open to you.’’
‘‘If it is, dear father, it is all the greater pity that I am unable to tread it. I haven’t many convictions; but I have three or four that I hold strongly. One is that people, on the whole, had better not marry their cousins. Another is, that people in an advanced stage of pulmonary weakness had better not marry at all.’’
The old man raised his feeble hand and moved it to and fro a little before his face. ‘‘What do you mean by that? You look at things in a way that would make everything wrong. What sort of a cousin is a cousin that you have never seen for more than twenty years of her life? We are all each other’s cousins, and if we stopped at that the human race would die out. It is just the same with your weak lungs. You are a great deal better than you used to be. All you want is to lead a natural life. It is a great deal more natural to marry a pretty young lady that you are in love with than it is to remain single on false principles.’’
‘‘I am not in love with Isabel,’’ said Ralph.
‘‘You said just now that you would be if you didn’t think it was wrong. I want to prove to you that it isn’t wrong.’’
‘‘It will only tire you, dear daddy,’’ said Ralph, who marvelled at his father’s tenacity and at his finding strength to insist. ‘‘Then where shall we all be?’’
‘‘Where shall you be if I don’t provide for you? You won’t have anything to do with the bank, and you won’t have me to take care of. You say you have got so many interests; but I can’t make them out.’’
Ralph leaned back in his chair, with folded arms; his eyes were fixed for some time in meditation. At last, with the air of a man fairly mustering courage—‘‘I take a great interest in my cousin,’’ he said, ‘‘but not the sort of interest you desire. I shall not live many years; but I hope I shall live long enough to see what she does with herself. She is entirely independent of me; I can exercise very little influence upon her life. But I should like to do something for her.’’
‘‘What should you like to do?’’
‘‘I should like to put a little wind in her sails.’’
‘‘What do you mean by that?’’
‘‘I should like to put it into her power to do some of the things she wants. She wants to see the world, for instance. I should like to put money in her purse.’’
‘‘Ah, I am glad you have thought of that,’’ said the old man. ‘‘But I have thought of it too. I have left her a legacy—five thousand pounds.’’
‘‘That is capital; it is very kind of you. But I should like to do a little more.’’
Something of that veiled acuteness with which it had been, on Daniel Touchett’s part, the habit of a lifetime to listen to a financial proposition still lingered in the face in which the invalid had not obliterated the man of business. ‘‘I shall be happy to consider it,’’ he said, softly.
‘‘Isabel is poor, then. My mother tells me that she has but a few hundred dollars a year. I should like to make her rich.’’
‘‘What do you mean by rich?’’
‘‘I call people rich when they are able to gratify their imagination. Isabel has a great deal of imagination.’’
‘‘So have you, my son,’’ said Mr. Touchett, listening very attentively, but a little confusedly.
‘‘You tell me I shall have money enough for two. What I want is that you should kindly relieve me of my superfluity and give it to Isabel. Divide my inheritance into two equal halves, and give the second half to her.’’
‘‘To do what she likes with?’’
‘‘Absolutely what she likes.’’
‘‘And without an equivalent?’’
‘‘What equivalent could there be?’’
‘‘The one I have already mentioned.’’
‘‘Her marrying—some one or other? It’s just to do away with anything of that sort that I make my suggestion. If she has an easy income she will never have to marry for a support. She wishes to be free, and your bequest will make her free.’’
‘‘Well, you seem to have thought it out,’’ said Mr. Touchett. ‘‘But I don’t see why you appeal to me. The money will be yours, and you can easily give it to her yourself.’’
Ralph started a little. ‘‘Ah, dear father, I can’t offer Isabel money!’’
The old man gave a groan. ‘‘Don’t tell me you are not in love with her! Do you want me to have the credit of it?’’
‘‘Entirely. I should like it simply to be a clause in your will, without the slightest reference to me.’’
‘‘Do you want me to make a new will, then?’’
‘‘A few words will do it; you can attend to it the next time you feel a little lively.’’
‘‘You must telegraph to Mr. Hilary, then. I will do nothing without my solicitor.’’
‘‘You shall see
Mr. Hilary to-morrow.’’
‘‘He will think we have quarrelled, you and I,’’ said the old man.
‘‘Very probably; I shall like him to think it,’’ said Ralph, smiling; ‘‘and to carry out the idea, I give you notice that I shall be very sharp with you.’’
The humour of this appeared to touch his father; he lay a little while taking it in.
‘‘I will do anything you like,’’ he said at last; ‘‘but I’m not sure it’s right. You say you want to put wind in her sails; but aren’t you afraid of putting too much?’’
‘‘I should like to see her going before the breeze!’’ Ralph answered.
‘‘You speak as if it were for your entertainment.’’
‘‘So it is, a good deal.’’
‘‘Well, I don’t think I understand,’’ said Mr. Touchett, with a sigh. ‘‘Young men are very different from what I was. When I cared for a girl—when I was young—I wanted to do more than look at her. You have scruples that I shouldn’t have had, and you have ideas that I shouldn’t have had either. You say that Isabel wants to be free, and that her being rich will keep her from marrying for money. Do you think that she is a girl to do that?’’
‘‘By no means. But she has less money than she has ever had before; her father gave her everything, because he used to spend his capital. She has nothing but the crumbs of that feast to live on, and she doesn’t really know how meagre they are—she has yet to learn it. My mother has told me all about it. Isabel will learn it when she is really thrown upon the world, and it would be very painful to me to think of her coming to the consciousness of a lot of wants that she should be unable to satisfy.’’