Dr. Wayne and ask him to come over and take a look at me . . .” a suggestion that sent Berenice at once to the telephone.
When the doctor arrived, he was surprised to find Cowperwood looking so drawn, and after partially examining him and writing a prescription to be filled at once, he asked him to come to his office next morning for a thorough check-up, which Cowperwood agreed to do. However, within a week, after two of the best specialists in London had been called in by Dr. Wayne and reported to him their conclusions, he was shocked to learn that severe kidney condition had developed that might end fatally within a comparatively short time. He ordered Cowperwood to rest and take the prescribed drugs that were meant to induce less activity.
However, when Cowperwood came into Dr. Wayne’s office a few days later for his physical report, he told the doctor that he was feeling better and his appetite appeared to be normal.
“The trouble with these cases, Mr. Cowperwood,” said Dr. Wayne, very quietly, at this point, “is that they are eccentric in their effects, and the pain they produce sometimes stops for a time. However, that doesn’t mean that the patient is cured, or even better. The pains may return, and this often causes definite and disturbing predictions on the part of our specialists, who are not always correct by any means. Rather, the patient may grow better and live for years. On the other hand, he may grow worse, and that is one of the conditions which makes this disease so difficult to deal with. So you see, Mr. Cowperwood, that is why I cannot speak to you as definitely as I would like to.”
Here Cowperwood interrupted him.
“I feel there’s something you’d like to tell me, Dr. Wayne. And I would most certainly like to know exactly what the report of the specialists is. It doesn’t matter what it is, I want to know. Are my kidneys so bad? Is there any organic trouble which is fatal?”
Dr. Wayne looked at him with a steady gaze.
“Well, the specialists report that with rest and no hard work, you may live a year or a little more. With extreme care, you may even live longer. Yours is a case of chronic nephritis, or Bright’s disease, Mr. Cowperwood. However, as I have explained to you, they are not always right.”
This studied reply was received by Cowperwood calmly and thoughtfully, even though now, for the first time in his almost uniformly healthy life, he was faced with news of a probably fatal disease. Death! Probably no more than a year to live! An end to all of his creative labors! And yet, if it was to be, it was to be, and he must brace himself and take it.
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
