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Updated: July 28, 2025
He found Miss Stackpole, however, in the sitting-room, where she had just risen from her luncheon, and this lady immediately expressed her regret at his father's illness. "He's a grand old man," she said; "he's faithful to the last. If it's really to be the last pardon my alluding to it, but you must often have thought of the possibility I'm sorry that I shall not be at Gardencourt."
She had hoped she should see him again hoped too that she should see a few others. Gardencourt was not dull; the place itself was sovereign, her uncle was more and more a sort of golden grandfather, and Ralph was unlike any cousin she had ever encountered her idea of cousins having tended to gloom.
Of painting she was devotedly fond, and made no more of brushing in a sketch than of pulling off her gloves. At Gardencourt she was perpetually taking advantage of an hour's sunshine to go out with a camp-stool and a box of water-colours.
He had excellent ways, but she felt sure that if he had come to Gardencourt he would have seen Madame Merle, and that if he had seen her he would have liked her and betrayed to her that he was in love with her young friend. It so happened that during this lady's previous visits to Gardencourt each of them much shorter than the present he had either not been at Lockleigh or had not called at Mr.
She had gone up to London, and it was from that centre that she took the train for the station nearest to Gardencourt, where Isabel and Ralph were in waiting to receive her. "Shall I love her or shall I hate her?" Ralph asked while they moved along the platform. "Whichever you do will matter very little to her," said Isabel. "She doesn't care a straw what men think of her."
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.
Certain obligations were involved in the very fact of marriage, and were quite independent of the quantity of enjoyment extracted from it. Isabel thought of her husband as little as might be; but now that she was at a distance, beyond its spell, she thought with a kind of spiritual shudder of Rome. There was a penetrating chill in the image, and she drew back into the deepest shade of Gardencourt.
Others too have changed," said Madame Merle with a quiet noble pathos. She paused a moment, then added: "And you'll see dear old Gardencourt again!" "I shall not enjoy it much," Isabel answered. "Naturally in your grief. But it's on the whole, of all the houses I know, and I know many, the one I should have liked best to live in.
She answered the enquiries made of her by Isabel, however, and in which the young man ventured to join, with copious lucidity; and later, in the library at Gardencourt, when she had made the acquaintance of Mr. "Well, I should like to know whether you consider yourselves American or English," she broke out. "If once I knew I could talk to you accordingly."
I heard from him that he had determined to give up his custom of wintering abroad and to remain in England, indoors, in what he called an artificial climate." "Poor fellow, he doesn't succeed with the artificial! I went to see him three weeks ago, at Gardencourt, and found him thoroughly ill. He has been getting worse every year, and now he has no strength left. He smokes no more cigarettes!
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