Uncle Tom seemed to be falling into more frequent indisposition. He often lay in bed for the greater part of the morning. There were days when he did not leave his room. Again he would go forth to Canape's; and while he was rarely in anything like a stagger, he was often saturated with wine, heavy and sleepy from its influence. Isabel through it all treated him with unfailing kindness; and some of our excursions were interrupted because of Uncle Tom's taking to bed after returning from Canape's; or because he could not arise before noon after an evening with his friends. She would not desert his side. Was there something in my presence with his life with Isabel, our friendship for each other, that woke nerves to suffering which only drink could dull?
The day of the service in St. Peter's we all set forth in one carriage, Reverdy riding on the box, and Isabel, Uncle Tom, and I in the seat. I noticed that Uncle Tom was more than usually self-absorbed. Isabel patted his hand or held it, and talked to him of the objects of interest along the way.
The service was about to begin when we entered. We walked as far as the bronze plate which marks the comparative length of the Cathedral of Milan, and I was looking toward the bronze pavilion with its twisted columns which tents the tomb of St. 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. "Write," says Uncle Tom; and I write.
The will is written. The doctor has come again. Uncle Tom signs the will in our presence. Then he asks the doctor for medicine for his lungs. "I seem to have a cough," he says. But it is not his lungs but his heart. We are standing by the bed. Uncle Tom takes our hands and puts them together. Instantly his head sinks upon the pillow. He is dead. The doctor walks from the room. Isabel and I stand by the bed with closed eyes, holding hands.
CHAPTER LV
Standing beside the dead body of this man a future with Isabel took form in my heart. Love is a great solemnity itself. And in this moment I felt that Isabel shared my vision.