physical exercise, finally altered his body from a vigorous, quick-moving, well-balanced organism into one where plethora of substance was
clogging every essential function. His liver, kidneys, spleen, pancreas—
every organ, in fact—had been overtaxed for some time to keep up the
process of digestion and elimination. In the past seven years he had
become uncomfortably heavy. His kidneys were weak, and so were the
arteries of his brain. By dieting, proper exercise, the right mental attitude, he might have lived to be eighty or ninety. As a matter of fact, he was
allowing himself to drift into a physical state in which even a slight
malady might prove dangerous. The result was inevitable, and it came.
It so happened that he and Letty had gone to the North Cape on a cruise
with a party of friends. Lester, in order to attend to some important
business, decided to return to Chicago late in November; he arranged to
have his wife meet him in New York just before the Christmas holidays.
He wrote Watson to expect him, and engaged rooms at the Auditorium,
for he had sold the Chicago residence some two years before and was
now living permanently in New York.
One late November day, after having attended to a number of details and
cleared up his affairs very materially, Lester was seized with what the
doctor who was called to attend him described as a cold in the intestines
—a disturbance usually symptomatic of some other weakness, either of
the blood or of some organ. He suffered great pain, and the usual
remedies in that case were applied. There were bandages of red flannel
with a mustard dressing, and specifics were also administered. He
experienced some relief, but he was troubled with a sense of impending
disaster. He had Watson cable his wife— there was nothing serious about
it, but he was ill. A trained nurse was in attendance and his valet stood guard at the door to prevent annoyance of any kind. It was plain that
Letty could not reach Chicago under three weeks. He had the feeling that
he would not see her again.
Curiously enough, not only because he was in Chicago, but because he
had never been spiritually separated from Jennie, he was thinking about
her constantly at this time. He had intended to go out and see her just as soon as he was through with his business engagements and before he left
the city. He had asked Watson how she was getting along, and had been
informed that everything was well with her. She was living quietly and
looking in good health, so Watson said. Lester wished he could see her.
This thought grew as the days passed and he grew no better. He was
suffering from time to time with severe attacks of griping pains that
seemed to tie his viscera into knots and left him very weak. Several times the physician administered cocaine with a needle in order to relieve him
of useless pain.
After one of the severe attacks he called Watson to his side, told him to send the nurse away, and then said: "Watson, I'd like to have you do me a favour. Ask Mrs. Stover if she won't come here to see me. You'd better go and get her. Just send the nurse and Kozo (the valet) away for the
afternoon, or while she's here. If she comes at any other time I'd like to have her admitted."
Watson understood. He liked this expression of sentiment. He was sorry
for Jennie. He was sorry for Lester. He wondered what the world would
think if it could know of this bit of romance in connection with so
prominent a man. Lester was decent. He had made Watson prosperous.
The latter was only too glad to serve him in any way.
He called a carriage and rode out to Jennie's residence. He found her
watering some plants; her face expressed her surprise at his unusual
presence.
"I come on a rather troublesome errand, Mrs. Stover," he said, using her assumed name. "Your—that is, Mr. Kane is quite sick at the Auditorium.
His wife is in Europe, and he wanted to know if I wouldn't come out here
and ask you to come and see him. He wanted me to bring you, if possible.
Could you come with me now?"
"Why yes," said Jennie, her face a study. The children were in school. An old Swedish housekeeper was in the kitchen. She could go as well as not.
But there was coming back to her in detail a dream she had had several
nights before. It had seemed to her that she was out on a dark, mystic
body of water over which was hanging something like a fog, or a pall of
smoke. She heard the water ripple, or stir faintly, and then out of the
surrounding darkness a boat appeared. It was a little boat, oarless, or not visibly propelled, and in it were her mother, and Vesta, and some one
whom she could not make out. Her mother's face was pale and sad, very
much as she had often seen it in life. She looked at Jennie solemnly,
sympathetically, and then suddenly Jennie realised that the third occupant of the boat was Lester. He looked at her gloomily—an expression she had
never seen on his face before—and then her mother remarked, "Well, we must go now." The boat began to move, a great sense of loss came over her, and she cried, "Oh, don't leave me, mamma!"
But her mother only looked at her out of deep, sad, still eyes, and the boat was gone.
She woke with a start, half fancying that Lester was beside her. She
stretched out her hand to touch his arm; then she drew herself up in the
dark and rubbed her eyes, realising that she was alone. A great sense of
depression remained with her, and for two days it haunted her. Then,
when it seemed as if it were nothing, Mr. Watson appeared with his
ominous message.
She went to dress, and reappeared, looking as troubled as were her
thoughts. She was very pleasing in her appearance yet, a sweet, kindly
woman, well dressed and shapely. She had never been separated mentally
from Lester, just as he had never grown entirely away from her. She was
always with him in thought, just as in the years when they were together.
Her fondest memories were of the days when he first courted her in
Cleveland—the days when he had carried her off, much as the cave-man
seized his mate—by force. Now she longed to do what she could for him.
For this call was as much a testimony as a shock. He loved her—he loved
her, after all. The carriage rolled briskly through the long streets into the smoky downtown district. It arrived at the Auditorium, and Jennie was
escorted to Lester's room. Watson had been considerate. He had talked
little, leaving her to her thoughts. In this great hotel she felt diffident after so long a period of complete retirement. As she entered the room she
looked at Lester with large, grey, sympathetic eyes. He was lying propped up on two pillows, his solid head with its growth of once dark brown hair slightly greyed. He looked at her curiously out of his wise old eyes, a
light of sympathy and affection shining in them—weary as they were.
Jennie was greatly distressed. His pale face, slightly drawn from
suffering, cut her like a knife. She took his hand, which was outside the coverlet, and pressed it. She leaned over and kissed his lips.
"I'm so sorry, Lester," she murmured. "I'm so sorry. You're not very sick though, are you? You must get well, Lester—and soon!" She patted his hand gently.
"Yes, Jennie, but I'm pretty bad," he said. "I don't feel right about this business. I don't seem able to shake it off. But tell me, how have you
been?"
"Oh, just the same, dear," she replied. "I'm all right. You mustn't talk like that, though. You're going to be all right very soon now."