508 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. LV. HE had told her, the first evening she ever spent at' Garden- court, that if she should live to suffer enough she might some day see the ghost with which the old house was duly provided. She apparently had fulfilled the necessary condition ; for the next morning, in the cold, faint dawn, she knew that a spirit was standing by her bed. She had lain down without undress- ing, for it was her belief that Ralph would not outlast the night. She had no inclination to sleep; 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 grey, she started up from her pillow as abruptly as if she had received a summons. It seemed to her for an instant that Ralph was standing there a dim, hovering figure in the dimness of the room. She stared a moment ; she saw his white face his kind eyes ; then she saw there was nothing. She was not afraid ; she was only sure. She went out of her room, and in her certainty passed through dark corridors and down a flight of oaken steps that shone in the vague light of a hall-window. Outside of Ralph's door she stopped a moment, listening ; but she seemed to hear only the hush that filled it. She opened the door with a hand as gentle as if she were lifting a veil from the face of the dead, and saw Mrs. Touchett sitting motionless and upright beside the couch of her son, with one of his hands in her own. The doctor was on the other side, with poor Ralph's further wrist resting in his professional fingers. The nurse was at the foot, between them. Mrs. Touchett took no notice of Isabel, but the doctor looked at her very hard ; then he gently placed Ralph's hand in a proper position, close beside him. The nurse looked at her very hard too, and no one said a word ; but Isabel only looked at what she had come to see. It was fairer than Ralph had ever been in life, and there was a strange resem- blance to the face of his father, which, six years before, she had seen lying on the same pillow. She went to her aunt and put her arm round her ; and Mrs. Touchett, who as a general thing neither invited nor enjoyed caresses, submitted for a moment to this one, rising, as it were, to take it. But she was stiff and dry-eyed ; her acute white face was terrible. " Poor Aunt Lydia," Isabel murmured.
