How could I help but make comparisons between Isabel and Dorothy? I had
never known any women but Dorothy and Abigail, Sarah, Mother Clayton. I
had never come into romantic contact with any woman but Dorothy. Now I
was advancing to this relationship with Isabel. I began to wonder if I
had given Dorothy love. I had given her perfect loyalty. Was there a
form of treason to Dorothy's memory in the fast beating of my heart here
in the presence of Isabel, under this sky, in this charming place?
Perhaps I had been starved too. Yet because of her personality, the
radiant flame which was herself, the laughing and girlish genius which
was in her, but above all the spiritual integrity which was hers, I
stood in awe of her. But that awe was sufficiently explained by her
devotion to her husband. I saw in her eyes honor and truth, and the
peace of mind that sometimes comes with them, all the while that I felt
the blood surge around my heart and pulsate in my hands. There seemed to
be nothing now of which we could not speak. Her interest in children
betrayed itself in exclamations over the ragged little Italians playing
in the court. I wondered if my heart had ever been profoundly stirred. I
had married Dorothy. But suppose Zoe had not been in my life to have
offended and alienated Dorothy's interest for a time, and thus to have
energized this English will which was mine for conquest of the farm, for
the killing of Lamborn--for the continued pursuit of Dorothy? In such
case had I married Dorothy? What would life have been to me if I had met
Isabel when I first knew Dorothy? This woman of white flame talking of
art, of travel, of Rome, of religion, of beauty; giving way to girlish
chuckles and laughter.
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