Chapter 51

CHAPTER LI

The Countess was not banished, but she felt the insecurity of her
tenure of her brother's hospitality. A week after this incident
Isabel received a telegram from England, dated from Gardencourt
and bearing the stamp of Mrs. Touchett's authorship. "Ralph
cannot last many days," it ran, "and if convenient would like to
see you. Wishes me to say that you must come only if you've not
other duties. Say, for myself, that you used to talk a good deal
about your duty and to wonder what it was; shall be curious to
see whether you've found it out. Ralph is really dying, and
there's no other company." Isabel was prepared for this news,
having received from Henrietta Stackpole a detailed account of
her journey to England with her appreciative patient. Ralph had
arrived more dead than alive, but she had managed to convey him
to Gardencourt, where he had taken to his bed, which, as Miss
Stackpole wrote, he evidently would never leave again. She added
that she had really had two patients on her hands instead of one,
inasmuch as Mr. Goodwood, who had been of no earthly use, was
quite as ailing, in a different way, as Mr. Touchett. Afterwards
she wrote that she had been obliged to surrender the field to
Mrs. Touchett, who had just returned from America and had
promptly given her to understand that she didn't wish any
interviewing at Gardencourt. Isabel had written to her aunt shortly
after Ralph came to Rome, letting her know of his critical
condition and suggesting that she should lose no time in returning
to Europe. Mrs. Touchett had telegraphed an acknowledgement of
this admonition, and the only further news Isabel received from
her was the second telegram I have just quoted.

Isabel stood a moment looking at the latter missive; then,
thrusting it into her pocket, she went straight to the door of
her husband's study. Here she again paused an instant, after
which she opened the door and went in. Osmond was seated at the
table near the window with a folio volume before him, propped
against a pile of books. This volume was open at a page of small
coloured plates, and Isabel presently saw that he had been
copying from it the drawing of an antique coin. A box of
water-colours and fine brushes lay before him, and he had already
transferred to a sheet of immaculate paper the delicate,
finely-tinted disk. His back was turned toward the door, but he
recognised his wife without looking round.

"Excuse me for disturbing you," she said.

"When I come to your room I always knock," he answered, going on
with his work.

"I forgot; I had something else to think of. My cousin's dying."

"Ah, I don't believe that," said Osmond, looking at his drawing
through a magnifying