And so their return home, one bright, warm October day, on the S. S. Halliwell direct from Lisbon, arriving in the lower harbor of New York and steaming up the Hudson to dock at Twenty-third Street.
As they cruised slowly along, paralleling the familiar towering skyline of the city, Berenice became lost in thought of the enormous contrast which her years in India was now presenting to her.
Here were clean streets, tall, expensive buildings, power, wealth, material comforts of all descriptions, well-fed and well-dressed people. She felt that she had changed, but what that change was comprised of she was not as yet aware.
She had seen hunger in its ugliest form, and she could not forget it.
Nor could she forget the haunting expressions of some of the faces she had looked into, especially the children’s.
What, if anything, could be done about it?
And yet, this was her country, her native land, which she loved more than any soil in the world.
And for reason of this her heart throbbed a little faster at the most commonplace sights, such as, for instance, the endless advertising signs and their pretense to values which, even when blared in color or type twelve inches high, were still so often non-existent; the loud shrill cries of the newsboys; the raucous horns of the taxis, autos, and trucks; and the vanity and show of the average American traveler, with often so little to substantiate it.
After deciding to take residence at the Plaza Hotel, for a few weeks at least, she and her mother declared their baggage and later climbed into a taxi with a happy sense of being home at last.
Berenice’s first impulse, after they were settled in their hotel suite, was to call on Dr. James.
She longed to talk to him about Cowperwood, herself, India, and everything pertaining to the past, as well as her own future.
And when she saw him in his private office in his home on West Eightieth Street, she was overjoyed by his warm and cordial reception and his very great interest in all she had to tell about her travels and experiences.
At the same time, he felt that she was wanting to hear everything relating to Cowperwood’s estate.
And as much as he disliked reviewing the unsatisfactory handling of the entire affair, he felt it his duty to explain to her exactly what had happened during her absence.
Hence, first he told her of Aileen’s death a few months before.
This greatly shocked and surprised Berenice, for she had always thought of Aileen as the one to carry out Cowperwood’s wishes in connection with his estate.
Immediately she thought of the hospital, the founding of which she knew had been one of his sincerest desires.
“What about the hospital he intended to have built in the Bronx?” she earnestly inquired.
“Oh, that,” replied Dr. James. “That never materialized.
Too many legal vultures descended on the estate right after Frank’s death.
They came from everywhere, with their claims and counterclaims, foreclosure papers, and even legal disputes over the choice of executors.
Four and a half million dollars’ worth of bonds were declared worthless.
Bills for interest on mortgages, legal expenses of all kinds, always mounting against the estate, until finally it dwindled to a tenth of what it had been originally.”
“And the art gallery?” queried Berenice anxiously.
“All dissipated—auctioned off.
The mansion itself sold for taxes and other claims against it.
Aileen was compelled to move to an apartment.
Then she got pneumonia and died.
Unquestionably, grief over all of this trouble contributed to her death.”
“Oh, how terrible!” exclaimed Berenice.
“How sad it would make him feel if he knew!
He worked so hard to build it up.”
“Yes, he did,” commented James, “but they never gave him credit for good intentions.
Why, even after Aileen’s death, there were articles in the newspapers describing Cowperwood as a social and almost criminal failure, because, as they said, his millions ‘had faded like a dream.’
In fact, one article was headed
‘What Availeth It?’ and painted Frank as a complete failure. Yes, there were many unkind articles, and all based on the fact that after he was gone, his fortune, through the legal connivance of many people, had shrunk to almost nothing.”
“Oh, Dr. James, isn’t it dreadful to think that the fine things he contemplated doing should have come to nothing?”
“Yes, nothing is left but a tomb, and memories.”
Berenice went on to tell him of her philosophical findings: the inward change she felt had come over her.
The things that she once had felt were so important had lost their glamor, her anxiety over her own social position in connection with Cowperwood, for instance.
More important to her, she said, was the tragic situation of the Indian people as a whole, some of which she recited to him: the poverty, starvation, malnutrition, illiteracy, and ignorance, much of which had grown out of religious and social delusions connected with superstitions; in sum, the absolute non-understanding of the world’s social, technical, and scientific advance.
James listened intently, remarking, in places,
“Dreadful!”
“Amazing!” until she had finished, after which he observed:
“Actually, Berenice, all that you say of India is true.
But it is also true, I fear, that America and England are not without their social defects.
In fact, right here in this country, there are certainly many social evils and miseries.
If you would care to come with me some day on a little tour of New York, I could show you large districts filled with people just about as miserable as your Hindu beggars, and neglected children, whose chance for physical and mental survival is practically non-existent.
They are born in poverty, and, in most cases, end in it, and their intermediate years are nothing that could be called living in the sense that we think of it.
And then there are the poor sections in our manufacturing and mill towns, where the living conditions are as deplorable as those to be found in any part of the world.”