He knew that she loved me--at any rate in
some quality of love. For Isabel used this word freely in the ecstasies
of her spirit, in the rapturous atmosphere of Italy. "I love James,
Uncle Tom--not as I love you; but I really love him! How wonderful that
he should come to us. He is like my brother, but he is something more.
He is a great friend." Uncle Tom would smile benignantly upon this
radiant woman, whom he had married for her youthful vitality, for which
he gave the happiness that comes of wealth. Perhaps in his ageing
psychology he did not know that there was passion in our hearts. Yet I
think he was a great soul, wishing Isabel to have every happiness. I
know he was my friend. There was nothing in him of the envy of January
because of my younger years, nor reproof for the Maytime sunshine that
was in the heart of Isabel.
Isabel and I had been to the Vatican several times. Uncle Tom disliked
pictures; above all he dreaded the fatigue of walking and the cold of
the churches and rooms where he was obliged to remove his hat. One
afternoon Isabel proposed that we go again to the Vatican; there was a
face there she wished to show me. We asked Uncle Tom to come with us;
but this was one of the days when he did not feel strong enough for
anything. He was keeping to his room. Perhaps later he would go to
Canape's.
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