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.