CHAPTER XVIII
It had occurred to Ralph that, in the conditions, Isabel's parting withher friend might be of a slightly embarrassed nature, and he went downto the door of the hotel in advance of his cousin, who, after a slightdelay, followed with the traces of an unaccepted remonstrance, as hethought, in her eyes. The two made the journey to Gardencourt in almostunbroken silence, and the servant who met them at the station had nobetter news to give them of Mr. Touchett--a fact which caused Ralph tocongratulate himself afresh on Sir Matthew Hope's having promised tocome down in the five o'clock train and spend the night. Mrs. Touchett,he learned, on reaching home, had been constantly with the old man andwas with him at that moment; and this fact made Ralph say to himselfthat, after all, what his mother wanted was just easy occasion. Thefiner natures were those that shone at the larger times. Isabel went toher own room, noting throughout the house that perceptible hush whichprecedes a crisis. At the end of an hour, however, she came downstairsin search of her aunt, whom she wished to ask about Mr. Touchett. Shewent into the library, but Mrs. Touchett was not there, and as theweather, which had been damp and chill, was now altogether spoiled, itwas not probable she had gone for her usual walk in the grounds. Isabelwas on the point of ringing to send a question to her room, when thispurpose quickly yielded to an unexpected sound--the sound of low musicproceeding apparently from the saloon. She knew her aunt never touchedthe piano, and the musician was therefore probably Ralph, who played forhis own amusement. That he should have resorted to this recreation atthe present time indicated apparently that his anxiety about his fatherhad been relieved; so that the girl took her way, almost with restoredcheer, toward the source of the harmony. The drawing-room at Gardencourtwas an apartment of great distances, and, as the piano was placed atthe end of it furthest removed from the door at which she entered, herarrival was not noticed by the person seated before the instrument.This person was neither Ralph nor his mother; it was a lady whomIsabel immediately saw to be a stranger to herself, though her back waspresented to the door. This back--an ample and well-dressed one--Isabelviewed for some moments with surprise. The lady was of course a visitorwho had arrived during her absence and who had not been mentioned byeither of the servants--one of them her aunt's maid--of whom she had hadspeech since her return. Isabel had already learned, however, withwhat treasures of reserve the function of receiving orders may beaccompanied, and she was particularly conscious of having been treatedwith dryness by her aunt's maid, through whose hands she had slippedperhaps a little too mistrustfully and with an effect of plumage butthe more lustrous. The advent of a guest was in itself far fromdisconcerting; she had not yet divested herself of a young faith thateach new acquaintance would exert some momentous influence on her life.By the time she had made these reflexions she became aware that thelady at the piano played remarkably well. She was playing somethingof Schubert's--Isabel knew not what, but recognised Schubert--and shetouched the piano with a discretion of her own. It showed skill, itshowed feeling; Isabel sat down noiselessly on the nearest chair andwaited till the end of the piece. When it was finished she felt a strongdesire to thank the player, and rose from her seat to do so, while atthe same time the stranger turned quickly round, as if but just aware ofher presence.
”That's very beautiful, and your playing makes it more beautiful still,”said Isabel with all the young radiance with which she usually uttered atruthful rapture.
”You don't think I disturbed Mr. Touchett then?” the musician answeredas sweetly as this compliment deserved. ”The house is so large and hisroom so far away that I thought I might venture, especially as I playedjust--just du bout des doigts.”
”She's a Frenchwoman,” Isabel said to herself; ”she says that as if shewere French.” And this supposition made the visitor more interesting toour speculative heroine. ”I hope my uncle's doing well,” Isabel added.”I should think that to hear such lovely music as that would really makehim feel better.”
The lady smiled and discriminated. ”I'm afraid there are moments in lifewhen even Schubert has nothing to say to us. We must admit, however,that they are our worst.”
”I'm not in that state now then,” said Isabel. ”On the contrary I shouldbe so glad if you would play something more.”
”If it will give you pleasure--delighted.” And this obliging person tookher place again and struck a few chords, while Isabel sat down nearerthe instrument. Suddenly the new-comer stopped with her hands on thekeys, half-turning and looking over her shoulder. She was forty yearsold and not pretty, though her expression charmed. ”Pardon me,” shesaid; ”but are you the niece--the young American?”
”I'm my aunt's niece,” Isabel replied with simplicity.
The lady at the piano sat still a moment longer, casting her air ofinterest over her shoulder. ”That's very well; we're compatriots.” Andthen she began to play.
”Ah then she's not French,” Isabel murmured; and as the oppositesupposition had made her romantic it might have seemed that thisrevelation would have marked a drop. But such was not the fact; rarereven than to be French seemed it to be American on such interestingterms.
The lady played in the same manner as before, softly and solemnly, andwhile she played the shadows deepened in the room. The autumn twilightgathered in, and from her place Isabel could see the rain, which had nowbegun in earnest, washing the cold-looking lawn and the wind shaking thegreat trees. At last, when the music had ceased, her companion got upand, coming nearer with a smile, before Isabel had time to thank heragain, said: ”I'm very glad you've come back; I've heard a great dealabout you.”
Isabel thought her a very attractive person, but nevertheless spoke witha certain abruptness in reply to this speech. ”From whom have you heardabout me?”
The stranger hesitated a single moment and then, ”From your uncle,” sheanswered. ”I've been here three days, and the first day he let me comeand pay him a visit in his room. Then he talked constantly of you.”
”As you didn't know me that must rather have bored you.”
”It made me want to know you. All the more that since then--your auntbeing so much with Mr. Touchett--I've been quite alone and have gotrather tired of my own society. I've not chosen a good moment for myvisit.”
A servant had come in with lamps and was presently followed by anotherbearing the tea-tray. On the appearance of this repast Mrs. Touchett hadapparently been notified, for she now arrived and addressed herself tothe tea-pot. Her greeting to her niece did not differ materially fromher manner of raising the lid of this receptacle in order to glance atthe contents: in neither act was it becoming to make a show of avidity.Questioned about her husband she was unable to say he was better; butthe local doctor was with him, and much light was expected from thisgentleman's consultation with Sir Matthew Hope.
”I suppose you two ladies have made acquaintance,” she pursued. ”If youhaven't I recommend you to do so; for so long as we continue--Ralph andI--to cluster about Mr. Touchett's bed you're not likely to have muchsociety but each other.”
”I know nothing about you but that you're a great musician,” Isabel saidto the visitor.
”There's a good deal more than that to know,” Mrs. Touchett affirmed inher little dry tone.
”A very little of it, I am sure, will content Miss Archer!” the ladyexclaimed with a light laugh. ”I'm an old friend of your aunt's.I've lived much in Florence. I'm Madame Merle.” She made this lastannouncement as if she were referring to a person of tolerably distinctidentity. For Isabel, however, it represented little; she could onlycontinue to feel that Madame Merle had as charming a manner as any shehad ever encountered.
”She's not a foreigner in spite of her name,” said Mrs. Touchett.
”She was born--I always forget where you were born.”
”It's hardly worth while then I should tell you.”
”On the contrary,” said Mrs. Touchett, who rarely missed a logicalpoint; ”if I remembered your telling me would be quite superfluous.”
Madame Merle glanced at Isabel with a sort of world-wide smile, athing that over-reached frontiers. ”I was born under the shadow of thenational banner.”
”She's too fond of mystery,” said Mrs. Touchett; ”that's her greatfault.”
”Ah,” exclaimed Madame Merle, ”I've great faults, but I don't thinkthat's one of then; it certainly isn't the greatest. I came into theworld in the Brooklyn navy-yard. My father was a high officer in theUnited States Navy, and had a post--a post of responsibility--in thatestablishment at the time. I suppose I ought to love the sea, but I hateit. That's why I don't return to America. I love the land; the greatthing is to love something.”
Isabel, as a dispassionate witness, had not been struck with theforce of Mrs. Touchett's characterisation of her visitor, who had anexpressive, communicative, responsive face, by no means of the sortwhich, to Isabel's mind, suggested a secretive disposition. It was aface that told of an amplitude of nature and of quick and free motionsand, though it had no regular beauty, was in the highest degree engagingand attaching. Madame Merle was a tall, fair, smooth woman; everythingin her person was round and replete, though without those accumulationswhich suggest heaviness. Her features were thick but in perfectproportion and harmony, and her complexion had a healthy clearness.Her grey eyes were small but full of light and incapable ofstupidity--incapable, according to some people, even of tears; she hada liberal, full-rimmed mouth which when she smiled drew itself upward tothe left side in a manner that most people thought very odd, some veryaffected and a few very graceful. Isabel inclined to range herself inthe last category. Madame Merle had thick, fair hair, arranged somehow”classically” and as if she were a Bust, Isabel judged--a Juno or aNiobe; and large white hands, of a perfect shape, a shape so perfectthat their possessor, preferring to leave them unadorned, wore nojewelled rings. Isabel had taken her at first, as we have seen, fora Frenchwoman; but extended observation might have ranked her as aGerman--a German of high degree, perhaps an Austrian, a baroness, acountess, a princess. It would never have been supposed she had comeinto the world in Brooklyn--though one could doubtless not have carriedthrough any argument that the air of distinction marking her in soeminent a degree was inconsistent with such a birth. It was true thatthe national banner had floated immediately over her cradle, and thebreezy freedom of the stars and stripes might have shed an influenceupon the attitude she there took towards life. And yet she had evidentlynothing of the fluttered, flapping quality of a morsel of bunting in thewind; her manner expressed the repose and confidence which come from alarge experience. Experience, however, had not quenched her youth; ithad simply made her sympathetic and supple. She was in a word a woman ofstrong impulses kept in admirable order. This commended itself to Isabelas an ideal combination.
The girl made these reflexions while the three ladies sat at their tea,but that ceremony was interrupted before long by the arrival of thegreat doctor from London, who had been immediately ushered into thedrawing-room. Mrs. Touchett took him off to the library for a privatetalk; and then Madame Merle and Isabel parted, to meet again at dinner.The idea of seeing more of this interesting woman did much to mitigateIsabel's sense of the sadness now settling on Gardencourt.
When she came into the drawing-room before dinner she found the placeempty; but in the course of a moment Ralph arrived. His anxiety abouthis father had been lightened; Sir Matthew Hope's view of his conditionwas less depressed than his own had been. The doctor recommended thatthe nurse alone should remain with the old man for the next three orfour hours; so that Ralph, his mother and the great physician himselfwere free to dine at table. Mrs. Touchett and Sir Matthew appeared;Madame Merle was the last.
Before she came Isabel spoke of her to Ralph, who was standing beforethe fireplace. ”Pray who is this Madame Merle?”
”The cleverest woman I know, not excepting yourself,” said Ralph.
”I thought she seemed very pleasant.”
”I was sure you'd think her very pleasant.”
”Is that why you invited her?”
”I didn't invite her, and when we came back from London I didn't knowshe was here. No one invited her. She's a friend of my mother's, andjust after you and I went to town my mother got a note from her. She hadarrived in England (she usually lives abroad, though she has first andlast spent a good deal of time here), and asked leave to come down fora few days. She's a woman who can make such proposals with perfectconfidence; she's so welcome wherever she goes. And with my mother therecould be no question of hesitating; she's the one person in the worldwhom my mother very much admires. If she were not herself (which sheafter all much prefers), she would like to be Madame Merle. It wouldindeed be a great change.”
”Well, she's very charming,” said Isabel. ”And she plays beautifully.”
”She does everything beautifully. She's 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 husbandof Madame Merle would be likely to pass away.”
Isabel gazed at her cousin again. ”I don't know what you mean. You meansomething--that you don't mean. What was Monsieur Merle?”
”The husband of Madame.”
”You're very odious. Has she any children?”
”Not the least little child--fortunately.”
”Fortunately?”
”I mean fortunately for the child. She'd be sure to spoil it.”
Isabel was apparently on the point of assuring her cousin for the thirdtime that he was odious; but the discussion was interrupted by thearrival of the lady who was the topic of it. She came rustling inquickly, apologising for being late, fastening a bracelet, dressed indark blue satin, which exposed a white bosom that was ineffectuallycovered by a curious silver necklace. Ralph offered her his arm with theexaggerated alertness of a man who was no longer a lover.
Even if this had still been his condition, however, Ralph had otherthings to think about. The great doctor spent the night at Gardencourtand, returning to London on the morrow, after another consultation withMr. Touchett's own medical adviser, concurred in Ralph's desire that heshould see the patient again on the day following. On the day followingSir Matthew Hope reappeared at Gardencourt, and now took a lessencouraging view of the old man, who had grown worse in the twenty-fourhours. His feebleness was extreme, and to his son, who constantly satby his bedside, it often seemed that his end must be at hand. The localdoctor, a very sagacious man, in whom Ralph had secretly more confidencethan in his distinguished colleague, was constantly in attendance, andSir Matthew Hope came back several times. Mr. Touchett was much of thetime unconscious; he slept a great deal; he rarely spoke. Isabel had agreat desire to be useful to him and was allowed to watch with him athours when his other attendants (of whom Mrs. Touchett was not the leastregular) went to take rest. He never seemed to know her, and she alwayssaid to herself ”Suppose he should die while I'm sitting here;” an ideawhich excited her and kept her awake. Once he opened his eyes for awhile and fixed them upon her intelligently, but when she went to him,hoping he would recognise her, he closed them and relapsed into stupor.The day after this, however, he revived for a longer time; but on thisoccasion Ralph only was with him. The old man began to talk, much to hisson's satisfaction, who assured him that they should presently have himsitting up.
”No, my boy,” said Mr. Touchett, ”not unless you bury me in a sittingposture, as some of the ancients--was it the ancients?--used to do.”
”Ah, daddy, don't talk about that,” Ralph murmured. ”You mustn't denythat you're getting better.”
”There will be no need of my denying it if you don't say it,” the oldman answered. ”Why should we prevaricate just at the last? We neverprevaricated before. I've got to die some time, and it's better to diewhen one's sick than when one's well. I'm very sick--as sick as I shallever be. I hope you don't want to prove that I shall ever be worse thanthis? That would be too bad. You don't? Well then.”
Having made this excellent point he became quiet; but the next time thatRalph was with him he again addressed himself to conversation. Thenurse had gone to her supper and Ralph was alone in charge, having justrelieved Mrs. Touchett, who had been on guard since dinner. The room waslighted only by the flickering fire, which of late had become necessary,and Ralph's tall shadow was projected over wall and ceiling with anoutline constantly varying but always grotesque.
”Who's 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 alittle,” he went on.
”Won't it tire you?” Ralph demurred.
”It won't matter if it does. I shall have a long rest. I want to talkabout YOU.”
Ralph had drawn nearer to the bed; he sat leaning forward with his handon his father's. ”You had better select a brighter topic.”
”You were always bright; I used to be proud of your brightness. I shouldlike so much to think you'd do something.”
”If you leave us,” said Ralph, ”I shall do nothing but miss you.”
”That's just what I don't want; it's what I want to talk about. You mustget a new interest.”
”I don't want a new interest, daddy. I have more old ones than I knowwhat to do with.”
The old man lay there looking at his son his face was the face of thedying, but his eyes were the eyes of Daniel Touchett. He seemed to bereckoning over Ralph's interests. ”Of course you have your mother,” hesaid at last. ”You'll take care of her.”
”My mother will always take care of herself,” Ralph returned.
”Well,” said his father, ”perhaps as she grows older she'll need alittle help.”
”I shall not see that. She'll outlive me.”
”Very likely she will; but that's no reason--!” Mr. Touchett let hisphrase die away in a helpless but not quite querulous sigh and remainedsilent again.
”Don't trouble yourself about us,” said his son, ”My mother and I get onvery 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 can't besaid 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've left her a goodwife's portion, just as if she had been a good wife.”
”She has been one, daddy, according to her own theory. She has nevertroubled you.”
”Ah, some troubles are pleasant,” Mr. Touchett murmured. ”Those you'vegiven me for instance. But your mother has been less--less--what shallI call it? less out of the way since I've been ill. I presume she knowsI've noticed it.”
”I shall certainly tell her so; I'm 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 a while trying to thinkwhy she did it. ”She does it because it suits her. But that's not whatI want to talk about,” he added. ”It's about you. You'll be very welloff.”
”Yes,” said Ralph, ”I know that. But I hope you've not forgotten thetalk we had a year ago--when I told you exactly what money I should needand 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 itwas the first time such a thing had happened--a young man trying to geta will made against him.”
”It is not against me,” said Ralph. ”It would be against me to have alarge property to take care of. It's impossible for a man in my state ofhealth to spend much money, and enough is as good as a feast.”
”Well, you'll have enough--and something over. There will be more thanenough 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'm gone, will beto marry.”
Ralph had foreseen what his father was coming to, and this suggestionwas by no means fresh. It had long been Mr. Touchett's most ingeniousway of taking the cheerful view of his son's possible duration. Ralphhad usually treated it facetiously; but present circumstances proscribedthe facetious. He simply fell back in his chair and returned hisfather's appealing gaze.
”If I, with a wife who hasn't been very fond of me, have had a veryhappy life,” said the old man, carrying his ingenuity further still,”what a life mightn't you have if you should marry a person differentfrom Mrs. Touchett. There are more different from her than there arelike her.” Ralph still said nothing; and after a pause his fatherresumed softly: ”What do you think of your cousin?”
At this Ralph started, meeting the question with a strained smile. ”Do Iunderstand you to propose that I should marry Isabel?”
”Well, that's what it comes to in the end. Don't you like Isabel?”
”Yes, very much.” And Ralph got up from his chair and wandered over tothe fire. He stood before it an instant and then he stooped and stirredit mechanically. ”I like Isabel very much,” he repeated.
”Well,” said his father, ”I know she likes you. She has told me how muchshe likes you.”
”Did she remark that she would like to marry me?”
”No, but she can't have anything against you. And she's the mostcharming young lady I've ever seen. And she would be good to you. I havethought a great deal about it.”
”So have I,” said Ralph, coming back to the bedside again. ”I don't mindtelling you that.”
”You ARE in love with her then? I should think you would be. It's as ifshe came over on purpose.”
”No, I'm not in love with her; but I should be if--if certain thingswere different.”
”Ah, things are always different from what they might be,” said the oldman. ”If you wait for them to change you'll never do anything. I don'tknow whether you know,” he went on ”but I suppose there's no harm inmy alluding to it at such an hour as this: there was some one wanted tomarry Isabel the other day, and she wouldn't have him.”
”I know she refused Warburton: he told me himself.”
”Well, that proves there's a chance for somebody else.”
”Somebody else took his chance the other day in London--and got nothingby it.”
”Was it you?” Mr. Touchett eagerly asked.
”No, it was an older friend; a poor gentleman who came over from Americato see about it.”
”Well, I'm sorry for him, whoever he was. But it only proves what Isay--that the way's open to you.”
”If it is, dear father, it's all the greater pity that I'm unable totread it. I haven't many convictions; but I have three or four that Ihold strongly. One is that people, on the whole, had better not marrytheir cousins. Another is that people in an advanced stage of pulmonarydisorder had better not marry at all.”
The old man raised his weak hand and moved it to and fro before hisface. ”What do you mean by that? You look at things in a way that wouldmake everything wrong. What sort of a cousin is a cousin that youhad never seen for more than twenty years of her life? We're all eachother's cousins, and if we stopped at that the human race would die out.It's just the same with your bad lung. You're a great deal better thanyou used to be. All you want is to lead a natural life. It is a greatdeal more natural to marry a pretty young lady that you're in love withthan it is to remain single on false principles.”
”I'm not in love with Isabel,” said Ralph.
”You said just now that you would be if you didn't think it wrong. Iwant to prove to you that it isn't wrong.”
”It will only tire you, dear daddy,” said Ralph, who marvelled at hisfather's tenacity and at his finding strength to insist. ”Then whereshall we all be?”
”Where shall you be if I don't provide for you? You won't have anythingto do with the bank, and you won't have me to take care of. You sayyou've so many interests; but I can't make them out.”
Ralph leaned back in his chair with folded arms; his eyes were fixed forsome time in meditation. At last, with the air of a man fairly musteringcourage, ”I take a great interest in my cousin,” he said, ”but not thesort of interest you desire. I shall not live many years; but I hope Ishall live long enough to see what she does with herself. She's entirelyindependent 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 shewants. She wants to see the world for instance. I should like to putmoney in her purse.”
”Ah, I'm glad you've thought of that,” said the old man. ”But I'vethought of it too. I've left her a legacy--five thousand pounds.”
”That's capital; it's very kind of you. But I should like to do a littlemore.”
Something of that veiled acuteness with which it had been on DanielTouchett's part the habit of a lifetime to listen to a financialproposition still lingered in the face in which the invalid had notobliterated the man of business. ”I shall be happy to consider it,” hesaid softly.
”Isabel's poor then. My mother tells me that she has but a few hundreddollars a year. I should like to make her rich.”
”What do you mean by rich?”
”I call people rich when they're able to meet the requirements of theirimagination. Isabel has a great deal of imagination.”
”So have you, my son,” said Mr. Touchett, listening very attentively buta little confusedly.
”You tell me I shall have money enough for two. What I want is that youshould kindly relieve me of my superfluity and make it over to Isabel.Divide my inheritance into two equal halves and give her the second.”
”To do what she likes with?”
”Absolutely what she likes.”
”And without an equivalent?”
”What equivalent could there be?”
”The one I've already mentioned.”
”Her marrying--some one or other? It's just to do away with anything ofthat sort that I make my suggestion. If she has an easy income she'llnever have to marry for a support. That's what I want cannily toprevent. 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'tsee why you appeal to me. The money will be yours, and you can easilygive it to her yourself.”
Ralph openly stared. ”Ah, dear father, I can't offer Isabel money!”
The old man gave a groan. ”Don't tell me you're not in love with her! Doyou want me to have the credit of it?”
”Entirely. I should like it simply to be a clause in your will, withoutthe 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 alittle lively.”
”You must telegraph to Mr. Hilary then. I'll do nothing without mysolicitor.”
”You shall see Mr. Hilary to-morrow.”
”He'll think we've 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 verysharp, quite horrid and strange, with you.”
The humour of this appeared to touch his father, who lay a little whiletaking it in. ”I'll do anything you like,” Mr. Touchett 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 mere amusement.”
”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 agirl--when I was young--I wanted to do more than look at her.”
”You've scruples that I shouldn't have had, and you've ideas that Ishouldn't have had either. You say Isabel wants to be free, and thather being rich will keep her from marrying for money. Do you think thatshe's a girl to do that?”
”By no means. But she has less money than she has ever had before. Herfather then 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'treally know how meagre they are--she has yet to learn it. My mother hastold me all about it. Isabel will learn it when she's really thrown uponthe world, and it would be very painful to me to think of her coming tothe consciousness of a lot of wants she should be unable to satisfy.”
”I've left her five thousand pounds. She can satisfy a good many wantswith that.”
”She can indeed. But she would probably spend it in two or three years.”
”You think she'd be extravagant then?”
”Most certainly,” said Ralph, smiling serenely.
Poor Mr. Touchett's acuteness was rapidly giving place to pureconfusion. ”It would merely be a question of time then, her spending thelarger sum?”
”No--though at first I think she'd plunge into that pretty freely: she'dprobably make over a part of it to each of her sisters. But after thatshe'd come to her senses, remember she has still a lifetime before her,and live within her means.”
”Well, you HAVE worked it out,” said the old man helplessly. ”You dotake an interest in her, certainly.”
”You can't consistently say I go too far. You wished me to go further.”
”Well, I don't know,” Mr. Touchett answered. ”I don't think I enter intoyour spirit. It seems to me immoral.”
”Immoral, dear daddy?”
”Well, I don't know that it's right to make everything so easy for aperson.”
”It surely depends upon the person. When the person's good, your makingthings easy is all to the credit of virtue. To facilitate the executionof good impulses, what can be a nobler act?”
This was a little difficult to follow, and Mr. Touchett considered itfor a while. At last he said: ”Isabel's a sweet young thing; but do youthink she's so good as that?”
”She's as good as her best opportunities,” Ralph returned.
”Well,” Mr. Touchett declared, ”she ought to get a great manyopportunities for sixty thousand pounds.”
”I've no doubt she will.”
”Of course I'll do what you want,” said the old man. ”I only want tounderstand it a little.”
”Well, dear daddy, don't you understand it now?” his son caressinglyasked. ”If you don't we won't take any more trouble about it. We'llleave it alone.”
Mr. Touchett lay a long time still. Ralph supposed he had given up theattempt to follow. But at last, quite lucidly, he began again. ”Tellme this first. Doesn't it occur to you that a young lady with sixtythousand pounds may fall a victim to the fortune-hunters?”
”She'll hardly fall a victim to more than one.”
”Well, one's too many.”
”Decidedly. That's a risk, and it has entered into my calculation. Ithink it's appreciable, but I think it's small, and I'm prepared to takeit.”
Poor Mr. Touchett's acuteness had passed into perplexity, and hisperplexity now passed into admiration. ”Well, you have gone into it!” herepeated. ”But I don't see what good you're to get of it.”
Ralph leaned over his father's pillows and gently smoothed them; he wasaware their talk had been unduly prolonged. ”I shall get just the goodI said a few moments ago I wished to put into Isabel's reach--that ofhaving met the requirements of my imagination. But it's scandalous, theway I've taken advantage of you!”