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.

We buried Uncle Tom.  Then Isabel began to prepare to sail for America.  Of course no trip now around the world.  She must go back to Connecticut, but she must go alone.  That was her wish.  It was understood that I should follow her later.  This much was definite between us.  Many plans filled her mind.  She had a large estate to put in order.  There were lawyers and agents to consult.  I really wished to return with her in order to assist her.  But she said:  “It is best for you to stay here for a while.  We shall write to each other.  Later I wish you to come.”