After leaving the doctor’s office, he felt himself not so much concerned with his own condition as with the effect of his final passing on the several personalities so closely connected with him throughout his life: Aileen, Berenice, Sippens; his son, Frank Cowperwood, Jr.; his first wife, Anna (now Mrs. Wheeler); and their daughter Anna, whom he had not seen for years, still for whom he had made ample provision over a long period. And there were others to whom he felt obligated.
On his way to Pryor’s Cove later on in the day, he kept turning over in his mind the necessity of putting all his affairs in order. The first thing to do now was to make his will, even though these specialists might be wrong. He must provide financially for all those who were closest to him. And then there was his treasured art gallery, which he intended to leave to the public. There was also the hospital which he had always desired so keenly to establish in New York. He must do something about that. After paying the various heirs and such beneficiaries as he proposed to favor, there should still be ample means for a hospital that offered the best services to all who chanced to be without funds and had no place else to turn.
Besides, there was the matter of the tomb which he wished to erect for himself and Aileen. He must consult an architect and have him carry out a design that would be beautiful and appropriate. It might compensate in some way for his seeming neglect of her.
But what about Berenice? As he now saw it, he could not provide for her openly in his will. He did not wish to expose her to the prying inquiries of the press and the inescapable envy of the public in general. But he would arrange the matter now in a different way. Though he had already established an independent trust fund for her, he would now cash an additional block of bonds and shares which he held in various corporations, and transfer the cash to her. This would insure her against danger of lack of funds in the years to come.
But by now his carriage had arrived at Pryor’s Cove, and his troublesome train of thought was interrupted by the appearance of Berenice, smiling affectionately and anxious to hear what the doctor had said. But, as usual, in his independent, stoical way, he waved her inquiry aside as not too important.
“It isn’t anything of consequence, dear,” he said. “A little irritation of the bladder, possibly due to overeating. He gave me a prescription and advised me to ease up on work.”
“There I knew it! That’s what I’ve been saying all along! You should rest more, Frank, and not be doing so much actual physical labor.”
But here Cowperwood successfully changed the subject.
“Speaking of hard work,” he said, “is anyone around here doing anything about those squabs and that special bottle of wine you were telling me about this morning . . .?”
“Oh, you incorrigible! Here comes Phenie now to set the table. We’re having dinner on the terrace.”
He seized her hand, saying: “You see, God protects the honest and the industrious . . .”
And cheerfully, hand in hand, they walked into the house together.
Chapter 60
Although Cowperwood appeared to have enjoyed his dinner with Berenice very much, his mind had been, treadmill fashion, going round and round in a circle which included in one section his various commercial and financial interests and in another the various individuals, men and women, who had labored with him toward the completion of the great traction systems in which he had been so absorbed. The men, in the main so helpful, the women so entertaining; all of whom, collectively, had made him some thirty colorful years. And now, although he did not really believe the doctor’s diagnosis to be as fateful as it had sounded, nevertheless, because of their prediction as to the finality of his days, plus this lovely hour with Berenice, here by the Thames, and this pleasant lawn that spread before them, he could not help but feel the fleeting beauty of life and its haunting poignancy. For his life had been so full, so dramatic, and so memorable. Only now to be made to contemplate the possibility of the sudden cessation of all that he could look upon as himself, had a tendency to emphasize the value of all he had been and enjoyed. Berenice—so young, so wise, and so entertaining—who, under favorable conditions, could be with him for so many years to come. And that was what she was so cheerfully and helpfully thinking about, as he could feel. For once he could not contemplate the fatal processes of life with his usual equanimity. Actually he could only consider the poetic value of this hour, and its fleetingness, which involved sorrow and nothing but sorrow.
However his outward manner indicated nothing of his mental depression, for he had already concluded that he must pretend, act. He must go about his affairs as usual until the very hour or moment when this medical prediction should be fulfilled, if it were to be fulfilled. So he left Pryor’s Cove in the morning for his office, as usual, where he went through his daily routine with the same calm and precision as he had always displayed in connection with decisions, procedure, etc. Only now he felt called upon to set in motion such varying processes as would lead to the fulfilment of all his personal wishes in the event of his death.
One of these was the tomb for himself and the disappointed Aileen. Accordingly he called in Jamieson, his secretary, and asked him to report to him the names and unquestionable skill of any architect, either in England or on the Continent, who had achieved a reputation for the building of mausoleums. He wished the data as soon as possible, as he was getting it for a friend. This done, he turned his attention to his favorite interest: his art gallery, to which he wanted to add such paintings as would make his an outstanding collection. To this end he addressed a number of letters to persons who bought and sold such masterpieces, and eventually secured some very valuable paintings: among them a Bouguereau, “Invading Cupid’s Realm”; Corot’s “The Path to the Village”; a Frans Hals, “Portrait of a Woman”; Rembrandt’s “Resurrection of St. Lazarus.” These he shipped to New York.
Alongside of these specific activities, however, were the inevitable details in connection with the underground project. Claims, quarrels, interference from rivals, petty lawsuits! However, after a time, he was able to meet all of the requirements of the situation, and also, by this time, he was beginning to feel so much better that he concluded there was nothing of import to the original pains which had caused him to consult a physician. In fact, his future looked more rosy than at any time since first he had come to London. Even Berenice decided that his old physical stamina had reasserted itself.
In the meantime, Lord Stane, impressed by Cowperwood’s creative energy, which was expressing itself in so many new and original ideas, decided that now would be the time to stage a social affair in Cowperwood’s honor at his lovely sea place, Tregasal, where at least two hundred guests could be accommodated. And so, after much meditation as to the important persons to be invited, the date was set, and Tregasal, with its beautiful grounds and its huge ballroom, with chandeliers rivaling the glitter of the moonlight, the scene of the ball.
Lord Stane, standing near the main entrance, greeted the inpouring guests. And, as he now saw Berenice entering on Cowperwood’s arm, he thought she was especially beautiful tonight, in a trailing white gown of Greek design and simplicity, held at the waist with a golden cord, her red hair crowning this costume as might a wreath of gold. And to climax all for Stane, as she approached she looked and smiled at him in such a way that all he could say was: “Berenice! Beautiful: You are a dream of loveliness!”—a greeting which Cowperwood, stopping to exchange a few words with one of his most important stockholders, failed to catch.
“I must have the second dance,” said Stane, holding her hand for a moment. And she graciously nodded her head.
After greeting Berenice, he welcomed Cowperwood, his honored guest, in most cordial manner, detaining him long enough for the numerous officials of the Underground and their wives to greet him.
It was not long before supper was announced, and the guests, entering and seating themselves, were indulging in conversation and sipping wines of rare vintage, plus a special brand of
champagne which Stane was satisfied would please the most exacting taste. Laughter and the murmur of conversation increased in volume, pleasingly modified by the soft notes of the music floating in from the adjoining chamber.
Berenice found herself seated near the head of the table, with Lord Stane on one side and the Earl of Bracken on the other, the latter a rather attractive young man, who, long before the end of the third course, was urging her to be charitable enough to save for him at the least the third or fourth dance. But while she was both interested and flattered, her eyes were constantly following the motions of Cowperwood, who, at the other end of the table, was indulging in lively conversation with an exceedingly attractive brunette on one side while obviously not neglecting a very engaging beauty on the other. She was pleased to find him relaxed and entertained, since for some time she had not seen him so.
However, the dining being of considerable duration, and the supply of champagne unlimited, she harbored some fear as to Cowperwood. His gestures and conversation, she noted, were becoming more and more enthusiastic, obviously because of the champagne, and this troubled her. And when, finally, Lord Stane made the announcement that all who wished to dance could now adjourn to the ballroom, and Cowperwood came over to claim her for a dance, she was still further troubled by his elated manner. And yet he walked with the air of one who was as sober as anyone present. As they moved together in rhythmic measures of the waltz, she whispered to him. “Are you happy, darling?”
“Never happier,” he answered. “I’m with you, my beautiful!”
“Darling!” whispered Berenice.
“Isn’t it wonderful, Bevy? You, this place, these people! This is what I’ve been seeking all my life!”
She smiled affectionately at him, but just then she felt him sway slightly and then pause and place his hand to his heart, murmuring: “Air, air; I must get outside!”
She took firm hold of his hand and led him toward an open door out onto a balcony facing the sea. She urged and aided him to the nearest bench, on which he sank limply and heavily. By now she was terribly alarmed, and ran toward a servant who was passing with a tray, exclaiming: “Please! I need help! Get someone, and help me get him to a bedroom. He is seriously ill.”
The frightened servant immediately called the butler, who had Cowperwood carried into an unoccupied chamber on the same floor, after which Lord Stane was notified. He, upon his arrival, was so shocked by Berenice’s distress that he ordered the butler to remove Cowperwood to his own suite on the second floor, and at once called his own physician, Dr. Middleton. Also the butler was instructed to insure silence on the part of all of the servants in regard to this.
In the meantime, Cowperwood was beginning to stir, and as Dr. Middleton came in, was so revived as to be conscious of the need of caution and to say to Stane that the less said about this the better, other than that he had tripped and fallen. He was sure, he said, he would be all right in the morning. Dr. Middleton, however, had a different idea about his illness, and gave him a sedative. After which he advised the sick man remain where he was for a day or two, at least, in order that he might discover whether there were any complications. For, as he said to Stane, Cowperwood’s condition was probably more serious than a fainting spell.
Chapter 61
The next morning, when Cowperwood awakened in the Stane suite, he found himself, except for the goings and comings of very courteous servants, alone for a time, and it was then that he began to run over in his mind the fairly disturbing phases of all that had so swiftly happened to him. For he was a little startled by the fact that, after having arrived at a sense of relative security in connection with his physical welfare, he should be so suddenly made aware of his illness.
Was it really true that he had fallen victim to this fatal Bright’s disease? At the time of Dr. Middleton’s call he had not been sufficiently alert to discuss this matter of his collapse. For one thing, as he now recalled, he had had the sensation of extreme shortness of breath, which finally resulted in the physical weakness which caused him to fall. Was that due to a kidney condition, as earlier described by Dr. Wayne, or was it a matter of too much champagne, too much food? The doctor, as he recalled, had impressed upon him that he was not to drink anything but water and eat very lightly.
To make sure that he was following the right course in regard to himself, he decided to have Berenice cable his old-time friend and personal physician, Dr. Jefferson James, in New York, to come to London at once. This trusted friend would be the one to satisfy him as to his true condition.
However, as he slowly and somewhat calmly surveyed the situation, there was a tap at the door, and Lord Stane entered, making of his coming a very cheerful and gracious affair.
“There you are!” he exclaimed. “You and your beautiful girls and your champagne! Think of it! Aren’t you really ashamed of yourself?” Cowperwood smiled broadly. “And, incidentally,” went on Stane, “I have an order to inflict severe punishment on you for at least twenty-four hours. No champagne! Instead, water! No caviar, not a grain, only a thin sliver of beef, plus more water! Perhaps, when you’re about ready to collapse, a bowl of thin gruel and more water!”
Cowperwood sat up. “I call that tops for cruelty,” he said. “But perhaps, you can be induced to share my water and gruel. In the meantime, and strictly in confidence, you might tell me what Dr. Middleton told you.”
“Well,” replied Stane, “what he really said was that you were forgetting that your years are creeping up on you, and that champagne and caviar are entirely outside your present powers of digestion. Also dancing until sunrise. Hence your collapse on my over polished ballroom floor. And hence Dr. Middleton’s approaching visit to find out how you’re getting along, although he says he cannot find that there is anything seriously wrong with you other than overwork, which is something you can easily remedy. And I must tell you that your lovely ward, who was good enough to accept my offer of lodging for the night, will be down shortly. I need not tell you, of course, that she is as greatly concerned as I am, regardless of Dr. Middleton’s conclusions”—a statement which caused Cowperwood to assert rather positively:
“But there’s nothing of any consequence the matter with me. I may not be as good as new, but I’m still somewhere near it. And as far as business is concerned, I’ll be on hand to cope with any difficulties there. As a matter of fact, you should be able to judge for yourself, by the results so far, whether our affairs are being managed capably or not.”
There was just a tingle of reproach in his tone, which Stane noticed.
“The results have been tremendous,” he said. “Anyone who could come over here with such a proposition as yours and secure $25,000,000 from American investors, certainly deserves nothing but compliments from me. And I’m glad to express my gratitude, and that of our investors, for your interest and your services. The only trouble is, Cowperwood, it all rests on your broad American shoulders and your continued health and strength. And that is important.”
At this point there was a knock on the door, following which Berenice entered. After greetings and light conversation, Stane urged both to stay as long as they wished, whether it be a week or a month. But Cowperwood, feeling the need of extreme privacy as well as quiet and rest, insisted on their early departure. After Stane had left, he turned to Berenice, and said:
“It isn’t that I feel so badly, dearest. I don’t, but because of the need of avoiding publicity of any kind, I would like us to leave here as soon as possible, and if I had my choice, I would rather go to Pryor’s Cove than to the hotel. Won’t you please arrange it with Lord Stane so that we may leave here in the morning?”
“Of course, dear,” replied Berenice, “if that’s what you want. I would feel better myself if you were over there near me.”
“There’s one other thing, Bevy,” went on Cowperwood. “I want you to get Jamieson to cable to Dr. Jefferson James in New York. He’s my old physician and friend. Ask him, if possible, to come to London.
Tell Jamieson this is to be confidential and in code. He can reach him at the New York Medical Society.”
“Then you do feel that there is something wrong with you?” Her tone indicated her nervousness.
“No! Not as bad as all that by any means, but, as you see for yourself, I’m in a rather uncertain state as to what’s really wrong with me. Besides, as far as my public affairs are concerned, it might strike any person, particularly my stockholders and investors, as very peculiar that a man should suddenly collapse for no apparent reason, although I may have overdone my eating and drinking a little bit last night, particularly as to the champagne. But certainly I never felt like that before. And I surely would like to see Jefferson. He’ll know, and will tell me the truth.”
“Frank,” interrupted Berenice at this point, “what did Dr. Wayne tell you the last time you saw him that you did not tell me? What did the specialists’ report show?”
“Oh, Dr. Wayne said that the pain I had at that time might be distantly related to Bright’s disease, only he was not sure, because, he said, there are two phases of Bright’s disease, chronic and acute. Mine, he said, was neither one nor the other. He said I would have to wait and see if anything of a more serious nature developed before any specialist could give a correct diagnosis.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I think Dr. James should come over. I’ll get Jamieson to cable him tomorrow. In the meantime, I certainly think that Pryor’s Cove is the place for you until such time as Dr. James feels you are all right.”
Whereupon she crossed to the window, drawing the shade, and asked him to try and rest for a period while she went to make all the arrangements necessary for their departure in the morning. But even as she did this, her mind was wrestling with the import of all this to him, and though she was outwardly gracious, she was trembling inwardly.
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