504 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. herself would sit with him for the rest of the evening. He had opened his eyes and recognised her, and had moved his hand, which lay very helpless beside him, so that she might take it. But he was unable to speak; he closed his eyes again and remained perfectly still, only keeping her hand in his own. She sat with him a long time till the nurse came back ; but he gave no further sign. He might have passed away while she looked at him ; he was already the figure and pattern of death. She had thought him far gone in Rome, but this was worse ; there was only one change possible now. There was a strange tranquillity in his face ; it was as still as the lid of a box. With this, he was a mere lattice of bones ; when he opened his eyes to greet her, it was as if she were looking into immeasurable space. It was not till midnight that the nurse came back ; but the hours, to Isabel, had not seemed long ; it was exactly what she had come for. If she had come simply to wait, she found ample occasion, for he lay for three days in a kind of grateful silence. He recognised her, and at moments he seemed to wish to speak ; but he found no voice. Then he closed his eyes again, as if he too were waiting for something for something that certainly would come. He was so absolutely quiet that it seemed to her what was coming had already arrived ; and yet she never lost the sense that they were still together. But they were not always together ; there were other hours that she passed in wandering through the empty house and listening for a voice that was not poor Ralph's. She had a constant fear ; she thought it possible her husband would write to her. But he remained silent, and she only got a letter from Florence from the Countess Gemini. Ralph, however, spoke at last, on the evening of the third day. " I feel better to-night," he murmured, abruptly, in the soundless dimness of her vigil ; " I think I can say something." She sank upon her knees beside his pillow; took his thin hand in her own ; begged him not to make an effort not to tire himself. His face was of necessity serious it was incapable of the muscular play of a smile ; but its owner apparently had not lost a perception of incongruities. " What does it matter if I am tired, when I have all eternity to rest ? " he asked. " There is no harm in making an effort when it is the very last. Don't people always feel better just before the end 1 ? I have often heard of that; it's what I was waiting for. Ever since you have been here ; I thought it would come. I tried two or three times ; I was afraid you would get tired of sitting there." He
