“Pneumonia? Dear me! At his age, people rarely live through it — however, he’s very strong, of course. Difference!” he exclaimed, softly. “Yes — a great difference. It — it will make a great gap in the family, Emma. We’re all so fond of him, and I’m deeply attached to him, for my part. As for my poor father, he will be quite overcome. I hope he has not been told yet.”
“No — I thought I’d wait and see you first.”
“Quite right, my dear — quite right — very wise. In the meantime, I think we should be going. Yes — it’s just as well that you didn’t take off your hat.”
He rose as he spoke, and touched one of the row of electric buttons on his desk. A man in the livery of the Company appeared at the door, just as Alexander was taking up his overcoat.
“I’m going up town a little earlier than usual, Donald,” he said. “Inform Mr. Arbuckle. If anything unusual should occur, send to Mr. Harrison Beman.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all, Donald.”
The man faced about and left the office, having stood still for several seconds, staring at Alexander. Donald had been twenty years in the Company’s service, and did not remember that Mr. Lauderdale had ever left the office before hours in all the ten years since he had been chief, nor in the preceding ten during which he had occupied more or less subordinate positions.
Mrs. Lauderdale daintily pulled down her veil and pulled up her gloves, shook out her frock a little and looked at the points of her shoes, then straightened her tall figure and stood ready. Alexander had slipped on his coat, and was smoothing his hat with a silk handkerchief which he always carried about him for that purpose. He had discovered that it made the hat last longer. Both he and his wife had unconsciously assumed that indescribable air which people put on when they are about to go to church.
“We’ll take the Third Avenue Elevated,” said Mr. Lauderdale. “It’s shorter for us.”
Robert Lauderdale’s house was close to the Park. The pair went out together into Broad Street, and the people stared at them as they threaded their way through the crowd. They were a handsome and striking couple, well contrasted, the dark man, just turning grey, and the fair woman, still as fair as ever. It might even be said that there was something imposing in their appearance. They had that look of unaffectedly conscious superiority which those who most dislike it most strenuously endeavour to imitate. Moreover, when a lady, of even passably good looks, appears down town between eleven and twelve o’clock in the morning, she is certain to be stared at. Very soon, however, the Lauderdales had left the busiest part of the multitude behind them. They walked quickly, with a preoccupied manner, exchanging a few words from time to time. Lauderdale was gradually recovering from his first surprise.
“Did Routh say that there was no hope?” he asked, as they paused at a crossing.
“No,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale. “He didn’t say that. He said that uncle Robert’s condition caused him grave anxiety. Those were his very words. You know how he speaks when a thing is serious. He said he thought that we all ought to know it.”
“Of course — of course. Very proper. We should be the first, I’m sure.”
It would not be fair, perhaps, to say that Alexander’s voice expressed disappointment. But he spoke very coldly and his lips closed mechanically, like a trap, after his words. They went on a little further. Then Mrs. Lauderdale spoke, with some hesitation.
“Alexander — I suppose you don’t know exactly — do you?” She turned and looked at his face as she walked.
“About what?” he asked, glancing at her and then looking on before him again.
“Well — you know — about the will—”
“My dear, what a very foolish question!” answered Alexander, with some emphasis. “We have often talked about it. How in the world should I know any better than any one else? Uncle Robert is a secretive man. He never told me anything.”
“Because there are the Ralstons, you know,” pursued Mrs. Lauderdale. “After all, they’re just as near as you are, in the way of relationship.”
“My father is the elder — older than uncle Robert,” said Alexander. “Katharine Ralston’s father was the youngest of the three.”
“Does that make a difference?” asked Mrs. Lauderdale.
“It ought to!” Alexander answered, energetically.
CHAPTER II.
“I’M NOT DYING, I tell you! Don’t bother me, Routh!”
Robert Lauderdale turned impatiently on his side as he spoke, and pointed to a chair with one of his big, old hands. Doctor Routh, an immensely tall, elderly man, with a long grey beard and violet blue eyes, laughed a little under his breath, and sat down.
“I’m not at all sure that you are going to die,” he said, pleasantly.
“That’s a comfort, at all events,” answered the sick man, in a husky voice, but quite distinctly. “What the deuce made you say I was going to die, if I wasn’t?”
“Some people are stronger than others,” answered the doctor.
“I used to be, when I was a boy.”
“It won’t do you any good to talk. If you can’t keep quiet, I shall have to go away.”
“All right. I say — mayn’t I smoke?”
“No. Positively not.”
Doctor Routh smiled again; for he considered it a hopeful sign that the old man should have a distinct taste for anything, considering how ill he had been. A long silence followed, during which the two looked at one another occasionally. Lauderdale was twenty years older than the doctor, who was the friend, as well as the physician, of all the Lauderdale tribe — with one or two exceptions.
The room was larger and higher than most bedrooms in New York, but it was simply furnished, and there was very little which could be properly considered as ornamental. Everything which was of wood was of white pear, and the curtains were of plain white velvet, without trimmings. Such metal work as was visible was of steel. There was a large white Persian carpet in the middle of the room, and two or three skins of Persian sheep served for rugs. Robert Lauderdale loved light and whiteness, a strange fancy for so old a man; but the room was in harmony with his personality, and, to some extent, with his appearance. The colour was all gone from his face, his blue eyes were sunken and his cheeks were hollow, but his hair, once red, looked sandy by contrast with the snow-white stuffs, and his beard had beautiful, pale, smoke-coloured shadows in it, like clouded meerschaum. It was not surprising that Routh should have believed him, and believed him still, to be in very great danger. Nevertheless, there was strength in him yet, and if he recovered he might last a few years longer. He breathed rather painfully, and moved uneasily from time to time, as though trying to find a position in which he could draw breath with less effort. Routh sat motionless by his bedside in the white stillness.
“What’s the name of that fellow who’s written a book?” asked the sick man, suddenly.
“What book?” enquired the doctor.
“Novel — about the social question — don’t you know? There’s an old chap in it who has money — something like me.”
“Oh! I know. Griggs — that’s the man’s name.”
“What is Griggs, anyway?” asked Robert Lauderdale, in the hoarse growl which served him for a voice at present.
“Griggs? He’s what they call a man of letters, or a literary man, or a novelist, or a genius, or a humbug. I’ve always known him a little, though he’s younger than I am. The only good thing I know about him is that he works hard. Now don’t talk. It isn’t good for you.”
“Well — you talk, then. I’ll listen,” grumbled old Lauderdale.
Thereupon both relapsed into silence, Doctor Routh being one of those people who cannot make conversation to order. Indeed, he was a taciturn man at most times. Lauderdale watched him, coughed a little and turned uneasily, but made a sign to him that he wanted no help.
“Why don’t you talk?” he enquired, at last.
“About Griggs? I haven’t read b
ut one or two of his books. I don’t know what to say about him.”
“Do you think he’s a dangerous friend for a young girl, Routh?”
“Griggs?” Routh laughed in his grey beard. “Hardly! He’s as ugly as a camel, to begin with — and he’s getting on. Griggs — why, Griggs must be fifty, at least. Did you never see him? He’s been about all the spring — came back from the Caucasus in January or February. What put it into your head that he would be a dangerous acquaintance for a young woman?”
“I don’t mean his looks — I mean his ideas.”
“Stuff!” ejaculated Doctor Routh. “He’s only got the modern mania for psychology. What harm can that do?”
“Is that all? Alexander’s an ass.”
Robert Lauderdale turned his head away as though he had settled the question which had tormented him. Again there was a silence in the room. The doctor looked at his patient with a rather inscrutable expression, then took out his watch, replaced it, and consulted his pocket-book. At last he rose and walked toward the window noiselessly on the thick, white carpet.
“I shall have to be going,” he said. “I’ve got a consultation. Cheever’s downstairs.”
Doctor Cheever was Doctor Routh’s assistant, who did not leave the house during Mr. Lauderdale’s illness.
“And you can send away the undertaker, if he’s waiting,” growled the sick man, with an attempt at a laugh. “I say — can I see people, if they call? I suppose my nephews and nieces will be here before long.”
“It’s no use to tell you what to do. You’ll do just what you please, anyway. Professionally, I tell you to keep quiet, not to talk, and to sleep if you can. You’re not like other people,” added Routh, thoughtfully.
“Why not?”
“Most men in your position are badly scared when it comes to going out. The efforts they make to save themselves sometimes kill them. You seem rather indifferent about it. Yet you have a good deal to leave behind you.”
“H’m — I’ve had it all — and a long time. But I want to see Katharine Lauderdale, if she comes.”
“I’ll send for her if it’s anything important,” said Doctor Routh, promptly.
The sick man looked quickly at him. It seemed as though his readiness to send for Katharine implied some doubts as to his patient’s safety.
“I don’t believe I’m going to die,” he said, slowly. “What are my chances, Routh? It’s your duty to tell me, if you know.”
“I don’t know. If I did, I’d tell you. You’re a very sick man — and they’ll all want to see you, of course. I — well, I don’t mean to say anything disagreeable about them. On the contrary — it is natural that they should take an interest—”
“Devilish natural,” answered old Lauderdale, with the noise that represented a laugh. “But I want to see Katharine.”
“Very well. Then see her. But don’t talk too much. That’s one reason why I’m going now. You can’t keep quiet for five minutes while I’m in the room. Good-bye. I’ll be back in the afternoon, sometime. If you feel any worse, send for me. Cheever will come and look at you now and then — he won’t talk, and he’ll call me up at my telephone station, if I’m wanted.”
“Well — if you think it’s touch and go, send for Katharine — I mean Katharine Lauderdale, not Katharine Ralston. If you think I’m all right, then leave her alone. She’s not the kind to come of her own accord.”
“All right.”
Doctor Routh held his old friend’s hand for a moment, and then went away. He exchanged a few words with the nurse, who sat reading in the next room, and then slowly descended the stairs. He was considering and weighing the chances of life and death, and trying to make up his mind as to whether he should send for Robert Lauderdale’s grand-niece or not. It was rather a difficult question to solve, for he knew that if Katharine appeared, the sick man would take her coming for a sign that his condition was desperate, and the impression might do him harm. On the other hand, though he was so strong and believed so firmly that he was to live, there was more than a possibility that he might die that night. With old people, the heart sometimes fails very suddenly. And Routh could not tell but that his patient’s wish to see the girl might proceed from some intention on his part which should produce a permanent effect upon her welfare. It would be very hard on her not to send for her, if her appearance in the sick-room were to be of any advantage to her in future.
It was natural enough that he should ultimately decide the matter in Katharine’s favour, for he liked her and Mrs. Ralston best of all the family, next to old Robert himself. Before he left the house he went into the library, which was on the ground floor, to speak with his assistant, Doctor Cheever, whom he had not yet seen, and who had spent the night in the house. The latter gave him an account of the patient’s condition during the last twelve hours, which recalled at once the discouragement Doctor Routh had at first felt that morning. Once out of the old man’s presence, the personal impression of his strength was less vivid, and the danger seemed to be proportionately magnified, even in the mind of such an experienced physician. Doctor Routh had also more than once experienced the painful consequences of having omitted, out of sheer hopefulness, to warn people of a dying relation’s peril, and he at once decided to go to the Lauderdales himself and tell them what he thought of the case.
He drove down to Clinton Place, and, as luck would have it, he met Katharine just coming out of the house alone. He explained the matter in half a dozen words, put her into his own carriage and sent her to Robert Lauderdale at once, telling the coachman to come back for him. Then he went in and saw Mrs. Lauderdale, and told her all that was occurring. She at once asked him so many questions and required such clear answers, that he forgot to say anything about his meeting with Katharine on the doorstep. As has been seen, he was no sooner gone than Mrs. Lauderdale went down town to speak to her husband. Before Doctor Routh had left Clinton Place, Katharine was sitting at old Robert Lauderdale’s bedside.
Many people said that Katharine had never been so beautiful as she was that year. It is possible that as her mother’s loveliness began to fade, her own suffered less from the comparison, for her mother had been supreme in her way. But Katharine was a great contrast to her. Katharine had her father’s regular features, and his natural, healthy pallor, and her eyes were grey like his. But there the resemblance ceased. Where her father’s face was hard as a medal engraved in steel, hers was soft and delicate as moulded moonlight. Instead of his even, steel-trap mouth, she had lips of that indescribable hue which is only found with dark complexions — not rosy red, nor exactly salmon-pink, and yet with something of the colouring of both, and a tone of its own besides. Her black hair made no ringlets on her forehead, and she did not torture it against its nature. It separated in broad, natural waves, and she wore it as it chose to grow. She had broad, black eyebrows. They make even a meek face look strong, and in strong faces they give a stronger power of expression, and under certain conditions can lend both tenderness and pathos to the eyes they overshadow.
In figure, Katharine was tall and strong, well-grown, neither slight nor heavy. In this, too, she was like her father, who had been an athlete in his day, and still, at fifty years, was a splendid specimen of manhood, though he was growing thinner and smaller than he had been. His daughter moved like him, deliberately, with that grace which is the result of good proportion and easily applied strength, direct and unconscious of effort. Katharine may, perhaps, have been aware of her advantages in this respect. At all events, she dressed so simply that the colour and material of what she wore never attracted a stranger’s eye so soon as her figure and presence. Then he might discover that her frock was of plain grey homespun, exceedingly well made, indeed, but quite without superfluity in the way of ornament.
Long-limbed, easy and graceful as a thoroughbred, she entered the white room and stooped down to kiss the old man’s pale forehead. His sunken blue eyes looked up at her as his hand sought hers, and she was shocked at
the change in his appearance. She sat down, still holding his hand, and leaned back, looking at him.
“You’ve been very ill, uncle Robert,” she said, softly. “I’m so glad you’re better.”
“Did Routh tell you I was better?” asked the old man, and his gruff, hoarse voice startled Katharine a little.
“Not exactly getting well — but well enough to see people,” she answered. “That’s a good deal, you know.”
“I should want to see you, even if I were dying,” said Robert Lauderdale, pressing her hand with his great fingers.
“Thank you, uncle dear! A lover couldn’t say it more prettily.” She smiled and returned the pressure.
“Jack Ralston could — for your ears, my dear.”
“Ah — Jack — perhaps!”
A very gentle shadow seemed to descend upon Katharine’s face, veiling her heart’s thoughts and hiding her real expression, though she did not turn her eyes away from the old man. A short silence followed.
“I hear that Jack is doing very well,” he said, at last. “Jack’s a good fellow at heart, Katharine. I think he’s forgiven me for what happened last winter. I was angry, you know — and he looked very wild.”
“He’s forgotten all about it, I’m sure. He never speaks of it now. I think he only mentioned it once after it happened, when he explained everything to me. Don’t imagine that he bears you any malice. Besides — after all you’ve done—”
“I’ve done nothing for him, because he won’t let me,” growled Robert Lauderdale, and a discontented look came into his face. “But I’m glad he’s doing well — I’m very glad.”
“It’s slow, of course,” said Katharine, thoughtfully. “It will be long before he can hope to be a partner.”
“Not so long as you think, child. I’ve been very ill, and I am very ill. I may be dead to-morrow.”
“Don’t talk like that! So may I, or anybody — by an accident in the street.”
“No, no! I’m in earnest. Not that I care much, I think. It’s time to be going, and I’ve had my share — and the share of many others, I’m afraid. Never mind. Never mind — we won’t talk of it any more. You’re so young. It makes you sad.”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 712