Page 84 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

‘I care for nothing but you, dear cousin,’ said Ralph.
‘If I could believe even that, I should be very glad.’
‘Ah well, I should hope so!’ the young man exclaimed.
Isabel might have believed it and not have been far from
the truth. He thought a great deal about her; she was con-
stantly present to his mind. At a time when his thoughts
had been a good deal of a burden to him her sudden arrival,
which promised nothing and was an open-handed gift of
fate, had refreshed and quickened them, given them wings
and something to fly for. Poor Ralph had been for many
weeks steeped in melancholy; his outlook, habitually som-
bre, lay under the shadow of a deeper cloud. He had grown
anxious about his father, whose gout, hitherto confined to
his legs, had begun to ascend into regions more vital. The
old man had been gravely ill in the spring, and the doc-
tors had whispered to Ralph that another attack would be
less easy to deal with. Just now he appeared disburdened of
pain, but Ralph could not rid himself of a suspicion that this
was a subterfuge of the enemy, who was waiting to take him
off his guard. If the manoeuvre should succeed there would
be little hope of any great resistance. Ralph had always tak-
en for granted that his father would survive him—that his
own name would be the first grimly called. The father and
son had been close companions, and the idea of being left
alone with the remnant of a tasteless life on his hands was
not gratifying to the young man, who had always and tacitly
counted upon his elder’s help in making the best of a poor
business. At the prospect of losing his great motive Ralph
lost indeed his one inspiration. If they might die at the same

84 The Portrait of a Lady