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!