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."
He smiled grimly. "Do you think so?" He shook his head, for he thought differently. "Sit down, dear," he went on, "I'm not worrying about that. I want to talk to you again. I want you near me." He sighed and shut his eyes for a minute.
She drew up a chair close beside the bed, her face toward his, and took
his hand. It seemed such a beautiful thing that he should send for her. Her eyes showed the mingled sympathy, affection, and gratitude of her heart.
At the same time fear gripped her; how ill he looked!
"I can't tell what may happen," he went on. "Letty is in Europe. I've wanted to see you again for some time. I was coming out this trip. We are living in New York, you know. You're a little stouter, Jennie."
"Yes, I'm getting old, Lester," she smiled.
"Oh, that doesn't make any difference," he replied, looking at her fixedly.
"Age doesn't count. We are all in that boat. It's how we feel about life."
He stopped and stared at the ceiling. A slight twinge of pain reminded
him of the vigorous seizures he had been through. He couldn't stand many
more paroxysms like the last one.
"I couldn't go, Jennie, without seeing you again," he observed, when the slight twinge ceased and he was free to think again; "I've always wanted to say to you, Jennie," he went on, "that I haven't been satisfied with the way we parted. It wasn't the right thing, after all. I haven't been any
happier. I'm sorry. I wish now, for my own peace of mind, that I hadn't
done it."
"Don't say that, Lester," she demurred, going over in her mind all that had been between them. This was such a testimony to their real union—their
real spiritual compatibility. "It's all right. It doesn't make any difference.
You've been very good to me. I wouldn't have been satisfied to have you
lose your fortune. It couldn't be that way. I've been a lot better satisfied as it is. It's been hard, but, dear, everything is hard at times." She paused.
"No," he said. "It wasn't right. The thing wasn't worked out right from the start; but that wasn't your fault. I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you that. I'm glad I'm here to do it."
"Don't talk that way, Lester—please don't," she pleaded. "It's all right.
You needn't be sorry. There's nothing to be sorry for. You have always
been so good to me. Why, when I think—" she stopped, for it was hard for her to speak. She was choking with affection and sympathy. She
pressed his hands. She was recalling the house he took for her family in
Cleveland, his generous treatment of Gerhardt, all the long ago tokens of love and kindness.
"Well, I've told you now, and I feel better. You're a good woman, Jennie, and you're kind to come to me this way. I loved you. I love you now. I
want to tell you that. It seems strange, but you're the only woman I ever did love truly. We should never have parted."
Jennie caught her breath. It was the one thing she had waited for all these years—this testimony. It was the one thing that could make everything
right—this confession of spiritual if not material union. Now she could
live happily. Now die so. "Oh, Lester," she exclaimed with a sob, and pressed his hand. He returned the pressure. There was a little silence.
Then he spoke again.
"How are the two orphans?" he asked.
"Oh, they're lovely," she answered, entering upon a detailed description of her diminutive personalities. He listened comfortably, for her voice was
soothing to him. Her whole personality was grateful to him. When it
came time for her to go he seemed desirous of keeping her.
"Going, Jennie?"
"I can stay just as well as not, Lester," she volunteered. "I'll take a room. I can send a note out to Mrs. Swenson. It will be all right."
"You needn't do that," he said, but she could see that he wanted her, that he did not want to be alone.
From that time on until the hour of his death she was not out of the hotel.
CHAPTER LXII
The end came after four days during which Jennie was by his bedside
almost constantly. The nurse in charge welcomed her at first as a relief
and company, but the physician was inclined to object. Lester, however,