I thrill before Isabel, but I give my feelings no expression. There are
looks, no doubt, hesitations of speech, flutterings of the heart, that
she may hear. But she is encompassed with flame that bars my way. I do
not try to pass. We are all friends together, Isabel, Uncle Tom, and I.
No plans are made which exclude Uncle Tom. Isabel and I have no secrets,
no stealings away, no intimacies however slight, no quick withdrawals
upon the sound of his step. Everything is known to Uncle Tom. I had
impulses to all clearness of conduct in the circumstance that Uncle Tom
is so much my friend. He treats me like a father; he is always doing
generous things for me. He is delighted to see Isabel go with me to a
church or a gallery, when he is too tired or too ill to accompany us,
and that is often.
And day by day Isabel was happier. She became a creature of glories,
shining transparencies. We had books together, music together, our work
together. We had the companionship of the morning and the evening meal,
sacred rituals between beings who love each other. We had infinite talks
together with Uncle Tom or alone, as it happened. If Uncle Tom saw our
exaltation, nevertheless he knew all that was between us. For it was
beauty of life that Isabel and I shared, and who cannot know between
whom this secret exists, if he have eyes to see?
He knew I loved Isabel, if he had not forgotten all that moves in the
blood of a man of forty-two.
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