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Chapter 45






Meanwhile, in New York, Cowperwood was seemingly still in full enjoyment of his latest passion, but in the background, and the very immediate background, at that, were thoughts of Berenice. As was almost always the case with him, his purely sensual enthusiasms were limited in duration. There was something in his very blood stream which, in due course, invariably brought about a sudden and, even to himself, almost inexplicable cessation of interest. After Berenice, however, he found himself troubled by a conviction that at last, and for the first time in his life, he was courting a loss which was not purely sensual and which, therefore, could prove not only aesthetically but mentally devitalizing. Alone among women she had brought something besides passion and cleverness into his life, something sensitively involved with beauty and creative thought.

And now, there were two other things which gave him pause. The first, and most important, was the receipt of Berenice’s letter telling him of Stane’s visit to Pryor’s Cove and the invitation he had extended to her and her mother to visit Tregasal. This disturbed him very much, for Stane’s physical and mental charms were clear to him. And he had sensed that these would appeal to Berenice. Should he be done with Lorna at once and return to England to forefend against any inroads on the part of Stane? Or should he linger a little longer in order to enjoy to the full his relationship with Lorna, and by so doing indicate to Berenice that he was not really jealous, could calmly brook so distinguished and competent a rival, and thereby persuade her to the thought that he was the more secure of the two?

But in addition there was another matter which complicated his mood. This was the sudden and most unexpected illness of Caroline Hand. Of all the personalities preceding Berenice, Caroline had been the most helpful. And her intelligent letters had continued to assure him of her unchanging devotion and to wish him success in his London project. But now came word from her that she would shortly have to be operated on because of appendicitis. She desired to see him, if only for an hour or two. There were many things she wanted to say to him. And since he was back in this country, he might be able to come. Feeling it to be a duty, he decided to go to Chicago to see her.

Now, in all of his life, Cowperwood had never been called upon to attend even so much as a slight illness in connection with one of his mistresses. They had all been such gay, youthful, passing affairs. And now, on his arrival in Chicago, to find Carrie, as he called her, suffering great pain and about to be removed to a hospital, was quite sufficient to cause him to meditate seriously on the tenuousness of human existence. One of Caroline’s objects in asking him to come to her was to seek his advice. For assuming that things did not turn out right, as she said gayly enough, she would like him to see that certain wishes of hers were carried out. There was a sister in Colorado, with two children, to whom she was devoted, and to whom she wished certain bonds to be transferred. These Cowperwood had advised her to buy, and they were now in trust for her at his New York bank.

He was quick to belittle Caroline’s precautions against death at her age—he was twenty-five years her senior—while at the same time thinking it was possible. She might die, of course, as they all might die, Lorna, Berenice, anyone. And how really futile this brief struggle which at sixty he was entering upon with almost youthful enthusiasm, while Caroline, at thirty-five, was fearing that she would be compelled to relinquish it. Strange. Sad.

Yet, true enough, balancing her caution exactly, she did die within forty-eight hours after her entrance into the hospital. On hearing of her death, he felt it advisable to leave Chicago immediately, since locally she had been known to have been his mistress. However, before his departure, he sent for one of his Chicago lawyers and gave him instructions as to what was to be done.

Just the same, her death preyed on his mind. She had been so gallant, so vivid, so witty, even, as she left for the hospital. The last thing she said before leaving the house, and after he had expressed his regret that he could not accompany her, was: “You know me, Frank, I’m a darn good accompanist myself. Only don’t go away till I come back. There are still a few duets left in me.”

And then she had not returned. And with her had gone one of the gayest of his Chicago memories, the time when he was in the midst of his great fight and had been able to snatch only moments with her. And now Caroline was gone. Aileen, too, was really gone, however much she might seem to be near him. Haguenin was gone, as was Stephanie Platow, and others. He was getting along. How much more was there for him? He had a sudden overwhelming desire to return to Berenice.


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