Peter, through and around these
columns at the candles on the altar. Chanting voices echoed, soared in
hollow reverberations up and about the arches, the domes; an organ was
giving forth soft thunder in some hidden quarter.
Suddenly Uncle Tom steps back, sways, coughs. Isabel utters a slight
cry; I look at Uncle Tom and take him by the arm. Bystanders help me
support him. He has turned very pale, blue at the lips. With the
assistance of two men we take him to a carriage, drive to the pension.
We put him to bed and send for a physician.
Reverdy is sent away, and Isabel and I watch. For Uncle Tom is dying.
The doctor says it is only a matter of a few hours. Uncle Tom wishes to
make a will. Will I write it out for him? His thoughts are clear. He
remembers his possessions, his relations. To brothers and sisters he
gives handsome purses, all the rest to Isabel.
"Isabel," he says with difficulty. "Yes, my dear," she replies in a
voice of great tenderness. "Isabel, I want to give Jimmy something--ten
thousand dollars." Before she can speak I interject: "I do not need it,
Uncle Tom." He rolled his head in a negative, turned his hand feebly. "I
give it to you that you may do something for her. Then it will be from
you and from me too." Isabel stifles a sob by placing her hands tightly
over her mouth.
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