Tears crept down her cheeks. And
I was silent, in a kind of madness of fear, passion, regret, nameless
sorrow. What could I say, to what could she listen? There was a long
silence. Then Isabel began to speak.
"Help me, my friend," she said. "How can I tell you how to be my friend?
Still it must be. I care for you so deeply. Let me speak, but understand
me as I try to speak, and help me. You are young and strong. You are so
companionable; I never grow tired of you--but you must know that I am
not different from you in all impulses, imaginings. But be my friend.
Take into your being the beauty we have together; these flowers of
friendship attend and keep for our garden--our Villa d'Este. Let it be
open to the sky and wind as this is, a place where innocence and
kindness may come, where children may play and the old rest. Ah, my
friend, you have lived and now be strong for me. Uncle Tom is so fond of
you. Think of all you have. You have had a wife, and you have a son. Be
noble, be understanding, for really you see I am poor and you are rich.
If possible these hands of passion which you have placed on mine must
change, and my hands must forget what you have done. Otherwise what is
the future to be?"
Isabel began to sob, between her words crying: "Oh, be my friend!" How
could I comfort her? The very comfort that her heart craved was that
which her sorrow strove to deny me the giving.
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