Page 813 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

alive as to see others die. That’s the sensation of life-the
sense that we remain. I’ve had it-even I. But now I’m of no
use but to give it to others. With me it’s all over.’ And then
he paused. Isabel bowed her head further, till it rested on
the two hands that were clasped upon his own. She couldn’t
see him now; but his far-away voice was close to her ear. ‘Is-
abel,’ he went on suddenly, ‘I wish it were over for you.’ She
answered nothing; she had burst into sobs; she remained
so, with her buried face. He lay silent, listening to her sobs;
at last he gave a long groan. ‘Ah, what is it you have done
for me?’
‘What is it you did for me?’ she cried, her now extreme
agitation half smothered by her attitude. She had lost all
her shame, all wish to hide things. Now he must know; she
wished him to know, for it brought them supremely togeth-
er, and he was beyond the reach of pain. ‘You did something
once-you know it. O Ralph, you’ve been everything! What
have I done for you-what can I do to-day? I would die if you
could live. But I don’t wish you to live; I would die myself,
not to lose you.’ Her voice was as broken as his own and full
of tears and anguish.
‘You won’t lose me-you’ll keep me. Keep me in your
heart; I shall be nearer to you than I’ve ever been. Dear Isa-
bel, life is better; for in life there’s love. Death is good-but
there’s no love.’
‘I never thanked you-I never spoke-I never was what I
should be!’
Isabel went on. She felt a passionate need to cry out and
accuse herself, to let her sorrow possess her. All her trou-

813