Chapter LIV
 
Isabel’s arrival at Gardencourt on this second occasion was even quieter than it had been on the first. Ralph Touchett kept but a small household, and to the new servants Mrs. Osmond was a stranger; so that instead of being conducted to her own apartment she was coldly shown into the drawing-room and left to wait while her name was carried up to her aunt. She waited a long time; Mrs. Touchett appeared in no hurry to come to her. She grew impatient at last; she grew nervous and scared — as scared as if the objects about her had begun to show for conscious things, watching her trouble with grotesque grimaces. The day was dark and cold; the dusk was thick in the corners of the wide brown rooms. The house was perfectly still — with a stillness that Isabel remembered; it had filled all the place for days before the death of her uncle. She left the drawing-room and wandered about — strolled into the library and along the gallery of pictures, where, in the deep silence, her footstep made an echo. Nothing was changed; she recognised everything she had seen years before; it might have been only yesterday she had stood there. She envied the security of valuable “pieces” which change by no hair’s breadth, only grow in value, while their owners lose inch by inch youth, happiness, beauty; and she became aware that she was walking about as her aunt had done on the day she had come to see her in Albany. She was changed enough since then — that had been the beginning. It suddenly struck her that if her Aunt Lydia had not come that day in just that way and found her alone, everything might have been different. She might have had another life and she might have been a woman more blest. She stopped in the gallery in front of a small picture — a charming and precious Bonington — upon which her eyes rested a long time. But she was not looking at the picture; she was wondering whether if her aunt had not come that day in Albany she would have married Caspar Goodwood.
 
Mrs. Touchett appeared at last, just after Isabel had returned to the big uninhabited drawing-room. She looked a good deal older, but her eye was as bright as ever and her head as erect; her thin lips seemed a repository of latent meanings. She wore a little grey dress of the most undecorated fashion, and Isabel wondered, as she had wondered the first time, if her remarkable kinswoman resembled more a queen-regent or the matron of a gaol. Her lips felt very thin indeed on Isabel’s hot cheek.
 
“I’ve kept you waiting because I’ve been sitting with Ralph,” Mrs. Touchett said. “The nurse had gone to luncheon and I had taken her place. He has a man who’s supposed to look after him, but the man’s good for nothing; he’s always looking out of the window — as if there were anything to see! I didn’t wish to move, because Ralph seemed to be sleeping and I was afraid the sound would disturb him. I waited till the nurse came back. I remembered you knew the house.”
 
“I find I know it better even than I thought; I’ve been walking everywhere,” Isabel answered. And then she asked if Ralph slept much.
 
“He lies with his eyes closed; he doesn’t move. But I’m not sure that it’s always sleep.”
 
“Will he see me? Can he speak to me?”
 
Mrs. Touchett declined the office of saying. “You can try him,” was the limit of her extravagance. And then she offered to conduct Isabel to her room. “I thought they had taken you there; but it’s not my house, it’s Ralph’s; and I don’t know what they do. They must at least have taken your luggage; I don’t suppose you’ve brought much. Not that I care, however. I believe they’ve given you the same room you had before; when Ralph heard you were coming he said you must have that one.”
 
“Did he say anything else?”
 
“Ah, my dear, he doesn’t chatter as he used!” cried Mrs. Touchett as she preceded her niece up the staircase.
 
It was the same room, and something told Isabel it had not been slept in since she occupied it. Her luggage was there and was not voluminous; Mrs. Touchett sat down a moment with her eyes upon it. “Is there really no hope?” our young woman asked as she stood before her.
 
“None whatever. There never has been. It has not been a successful life.”
 
“No — it has only been a beautiful one.” Isabel found herself already contradicting her aunt; she was irritated by her dryness.
 
“I don’t know what you mean by that; there’s no beauty without health. That is a very odd dress to travel in.”
 
Isabel glanced at her garment. “I left Rome at an hour’s notice; I took the first that came.”
 
“Your sisters, in America, wished to know how you dress. That seemed to be their principal interest. I wasn’t able to tell them — but they seemed to have the right idea: that you never wear anything less than black brocade.”
 
“They think I’m more brilliant than I am; I’m afraid to tell them the truth,” said Isabel. “Lily wrote me you had dined with her.”
 
“She invited me four times, and I went once. After the second time she should have let me alone. The dinner was very good; it must have been expensive. Her husband has a very bad manner. Did I enjoy my visit to America? Why should I have enjoyed it? I didn’t go for my pleasure.”
 
These were interesting items, but Mrs. Touchett soon left her niece, whom she was to meet in half an hour at the midday meal. For this repast the two ladies faced each other at an abbreviated table in the melancholy dining-room. Here, after a little, Isabel saw her aunt not to be so dry as she appeared, and her old pity for the poor woman’s inexpressiveness, her want of regret, of disappointment, came back to her. Unmistakeably she would have found it a blessing to-day to be able to feel a defeat, a mistake, even a shame or two. She wondered if she were not even missing those enrichments of consciousness and privately trying — reaching out for some aftertaste of life, dregs of the banquet; the testimony of pain or the cold recreation of remorse. On the other hand perhaps she was afraid; if she should begin to know remorse at all it might take her too far. Isabel could perceive, however, how it had come over her dimly that she had failed of something, that she saw herself in the future as an old woman without memories. Her little sharp face looked tragical. She told her niece that Ralph had as yet not moved, but that he probably would be able to see her before dinner. And then in a moment she added that he had seen Lord Warburton the day before; an announcement which startled Isabel a little, as it seemed an intimation that this personage was in the neighbourhood and that an accident might bring them together. Such an accident would not be happy; she had not come to England to struggle again with Lord Warburton. She none the less presently said to her aunt that he had been very kind to Ralph; she had seen something of that in Rome.
 
“He has something else to think of now,” Mrs. Touchett returned. And she paused with a gaze like a gimlet.
 
Isabel saw she meant something, and instantly guessed what she meant. But her reply concealed her guess; her heart beat faster and she wished to gain a moment. “Ah yes — the House of Lords and all that.”
 
“He’s not thinking of the Lords; he’s thinking of the ladies. At least he’s thinking of one of them; he told Ralph he’s engaged to be married.”
 
“Ah, to be married!” Isabel mildly exclaimed.
 
“Unless he breaks it off. He seemed to think Ralph would like to know. Poor Ralph can’t go to the wedding, though I believe it’s to take place very soon.
 
“And who’s the young lady?”
 
“A member of the aristocracy; Lady Flora, Lady Felicia — something of that sort.”
 
“I’m very glad,” Isabel said. “It must be a sudden decision.”
 
“Sudden enough, I believe; a courtship of three weeks. It has only just been made public.”
 
“I’m very glad,” Isabel repeated with a larger emphasis. She knew her aunt was watching her — looking for the signs of some imputed soreness, and the desire to prevent her companion from seeing anything of this kind enabled her to speak in the tone of quick satisfaction, the tone almost of relief. Mrs. Touchett of course followed the tradition that ladies, even married ones, regard the marriage of their old lovers as an offence to themselves. Isabel’s first care therefore was to show that however that might be in general she was not offended now. But meanwhile, as I say, her heart beat faster; and if she sat for some moments thoughtful — she presently forgot Mrs. Touchett’s observation — it was not because she had lost an admirer. Her imagination had traversed half Europe; it halted, panting, and even trembling a little, in the city of Rome. She figured herself announcing to her husband that Lord Warburton was to lead a bride to the altar, and she was of course not aware how extremely wan she must have looked while she made this intellectual effort. But at last she collected herself and said to her aunt: “He was sure to do it some time or other.”
 
Mrs. Touchett was silent; then she gave a sharp little shake of the head. “Ah, my dear, you’re beyond me!” she cried suddenly. They went on with their luncheon in silence; Isabel felt as if she had heard of Lord Warburton’s death. She had known him only as a suitor, and now that was all over. He was dead for poor Pansy; by Pansy he might have lived. A servant had been hovering about; at last Mrs. Touchett requested him to leave them alone. She had finished her meal; she sat with her hands folded on the edge of the table. “I should like to ask you three questions,” she observed when the servant had gone.
 
“Three are a great many.”
 
“I can’t do with less; I’ve been thinking. They’re all very good ones.”
 
“That’s what I’m afraid of. The best questions are the worst,” Isabel answered. Mrs. Touchett had pushed back her chair, and as her niece left the table and walked, rather consciously, to one of the deep windows, she felt herself followed by her eyes.
 
“Have you ever been sorry you didn’t marry Lord Warburton?” Mrs. Touchett enquired.
 
Isabel shook her head slowly, but not heavily. “No, dear aunt.”
 
“Good. I ought to tell you that I propose to believe what you say.”
 
“Your believing me’s an immense temptation,” she declared, smiling still.
 
“A temptation to lie? I don’t recommend you to do that, for when I’m misinformed I’m as dangerous as a poisoned rat. I don’t mean to crow over you.”
 
“It’s my husband who doesn’t get on with me,” said Isabel.
 
“I could have told him he wouldn’t. I don’t call that crowing over YOU,” Mrs. Touchett added. “Do you still like Serena Merle?” she went on.
 
“Not as I once did. But it doesn’t matter, for she’s going to America.”
 
“To America? She must have done something very bad.”
 
“Yes — very bad.”
 
“May I ask what it is?”
 
“She made a convenience of me.”
 
“Ah,” cried Mrs. Touchett, “so sh............