You know I
have loved you in every way a woman can. I love you as I loved Uncle
Tom; for you are my friend, as he was. But what will the future be? I
have been compelled all my life to center my thought upon books and
music, friends, travel, and devotion to Uncle Tom. I have developed this
power of concentration and self-denial; but would you bring me to live
over again what I lived with Uncle Tom? Oh, my friend, no man can
understand and fathom the maternal desire in a woman. It is a mystery
which she alone knows."
What life remained in me sank down just as a stricken eagle falls into
the thickets and is still; and breathes quietly and draws the film over
its eyes. I could not answer her. The October air was mild. The house
was overheated. A window was open. An entering wind began to stir my
hair. I thought of how it must look to another, these beginnings of
gray hair. Age had come to me. And I could see Isabel with my feelings
alone, sitting beside me so pale, so tender, so sorrowful.
The clock strikes three. Isabel arouses, turns slightly from me, and
gradually sits up. "That was three, wasn't it?" she asked. "Your train
leaves early in the morning. You must sleep a few hours. I shall not see
you at breakfast. The maid will bring it to you. Shall we have a glass
of wine together?"
She poured wine for me and we drank.
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