“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 but 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.”

Again the two exchanged a little pressure of hands, and there was silence.

“It will be different when the money is divided,” said old Lauderdale, at last. “You’ll have to acknowledge your marriage then.”

Katharine started slightly. She had her back to the windows, but the whiteness of everything in the room threw reflected light into her face, and the blush that very rarely came spread all over it in an instant.

Only four living persons knew that she had been secretly married to John Ralston during the winter; namely, John and herself, the clergyman who had married them, and Robert Lauderdale. At that time she had with great difficulty persuaded John to go through the ceremony, hoping thereby to force her uncle into finding her husband some congenial occupation in the West. Half an hour after taking the decisive step, she had come to Robert Lauderdale with her story, and he had demonstrated to her that John’s only path to success lay through the office of a banker or a lawyer, and John had then returned to Beman Brothers, after refusing to accept a large sum of money, with which old Lauderdale had proposed to make him independent. He had not been willing to give his uncle the smallest chance of thinking that he had married Katharine as a begging speculator, nor had the old gentleman succeeded in making him change his mind since then. Nor had he referred to the marriage when speaking with Katharine, except on one or two occasions, when it had seemed absolutely necessary to do so. And now that he had spoken of it, he saw the burning blush and did not understand it. Women had entered little into his long life. He fancied that he had hurt her, and was very sorry. The great hand closed slowly, as though with an effort, upon the white young fingers.

“I didn’t mean to pain you, my dear; forgive me,” he said, simply.

Katharine looked at him with a little surprise, and the blush instantly disappeared. Then she laughed softly and bent forward with a quick movement.

“You didn’t, uncle dear! You didn’t pain me in the least. It’s only—sometimes I don’t quite realize that I’m Jack’s wife. When I do—like that, just now—it makes me happy. That’s all.”

Robert Lauderdale looked at her, tried to understand, failed, and nodded his big head kindly but vacantly.

“Well—I’m glad,” he said. “But you see, my dear child, when John’s a rich man, you can acknowledge your marriage, and have a house of your own. You really must, and of course you will. John can’t refuse to take his share. We never quarrelled, that I know of, but that once, last winter, and you say he has forgotten that. Has he? Are you quite sure?”

Katharine nodded quickly and a whispered ‘yes’ just parted her fresh lips. In her eyes there was a gentle, almost entreating look, as though she besought him to believe her.

“Well,” he said, and he spoke very slowly—“well—I’m glad. He can’t refuse to take his share when I’m dead and gone—his fair share and no more.” He paused for some seconds. “Katharine,” he said, very earnestly, at last, “there’s a great deal of money to be divided amongst you all. Many of them want it. They’ll all have some—perhaps more than they expect. There’s a great deal of money, child.”

“Yes, I know there is,” answered Katharine, quietly.

“When I’m gone they’ll say that the old man was richer than they thought he was. I can hear them—I’ve heard it so often about other men! ‘Just guess how much old Bob Lauderdale left,’ they’ll say. ‘Nearly eighty-two millions! Who’d have thought it!’ That’s what the men will be saying to each other. Eighty millions is a vast amount of money, child. You can’t guess how much it is.”

“Eighty millions.” Katharine repeated the stupendous words softly, as though trying to realize their meaning.

“No—you can’t understand.” The old man’s eyes closed wearily. A few moments later they opened again, and he smiled at her.

“How did you ever manage to make so much?” she asked, smiling, too, and with a look of wonder.

“I don’t know,” answered the great millionaire, as simply as a child. “I worked hard at first, and I saved small things for a purpose. My father was rich—in those days. He left us each a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Your uncle Alexander gave it to the poor—as much of it as the poor did not take without asking his leave. Ralph spent some of it, and left the rest to Katharine Ralston when he was killed in the war. I saved mine. It seemed good to have money. And then it came—it came—somehow. I was lucky—fortunate investments in land. I ran after it till I was forty-five; then it began to run after me, and it’s outrun me, every time. But I wasn’t a miser, Katharine. I don’t want you to think that I was mean and miserly when I was young. You don’t, do you, my dear?”

“No, indeed!” Katharine gave the answer readily enough. “But, uncle Robert, aren’t you talking too much? Doctor Routh said you were not to—that it might hurt you. And your voice is so hoarse! I am sure it can’t be good for you.”

The old man patted her hand laboriously, for he was very weak.

“I want my talk out,” he said. “It doesn’t matter much whether it hurts me. A year or two, more or less, when I’ve had it all, everything, and so long. I’m tired, my child, though when I am well I look so strong. It isn’t only strength that’s needed to live with. It takes more.”

“But there are other things—there is so much in your life—so many people. There are all of us. Don’t you care to live for our sakes—just a little, uncle?”

“If they were all like you—more like you—well, I might. I’m very fond of you, Katharine. You know it, don’t you? Yes. That’s why I sent for you. I don’t believe I’m going to die—I told Routh so half an hour ago. But I might—I may. I didn’t want to go over without having had my talk out with you. That’s it. I want to have my talk out with you. I should be sorry to slip away without seeing you. There are things—things that come into my head when I’m alone—and I’ve been alone a great deal in my life. Oh, I could have married, if I had liked. Queens would have married me—queer, little, divorced queens from out-of-the-way little kingdoms, you know. But I didn’t want to be married for my money, and there were no Katharine Lauderdales when I was young.”

Again, with an unsteady, laboured movement, the old hand caressed the young one as it lay on the soft, white, knitted Shetland shawl which covered the bed, and again Katharine smiled affectionately and laughed gently at the flattery. Then all was quiet. She leaned back in her chair, thinking—the aged head rested on the white pillow, thinking.

“Katharine,”—the eyes opened again,—“what does it all mean, child?”

“What?” asked the young girl, meeting him again out of her reverie.

“Life.”

“Ah—if I knew that—”

“You’re at the beginning of it—I’m at the end—almost, or quite, it doesn’t matter. What’s the meaning of all those things I’ve done, and which you’re going to do? They must mean something. I ought to have got at the meaning in so many years.”

Katharine was silent. Of late, she, too, had heard the great question asked, which rattles in the throat of the dying century, and is to-day in the ears of all, whether they desire to hear it or not. And no man has answered it yet. A year earlier Katharine would have said but one word in reply. She could not say it now.

In the still, white room she sat by the old man’s side and bowed her head silently.

“It’s puzzled me a great deal,” he said, at last, in his familiar speech. “So long as I cared for things,—money, principally, I suppose,—it didn’t puzzle me at all. It all seemed quite natural. But when I got worn out inside—used up with the wear and tear of having too much—well, then I couldn’t care for things any more, and I began to think. And it’s all a puzzle, Katharine. It’s all a puzzle. We find it all in bits when we come, taken to pieces by the people who have just gone. We spend all our lives in trying to put the thing together on some theory of our own, and in the end we give it up, and go to sleep—‘perchance to dream’—that’s Hamlet, isn’t it? But I never dreamt much. If it’s anything, it isn’t a dream. Well, then, what is it?”

Katharine looked up at him with a little, half-childish glance of wonder.

“Why, uncle Robert,” she said, “I always thought you were a religious man—like papa, you know.”

“No.” The old man smiled faintly. “I’m not like your father. I fancy I’m more like you—in some ways. Aren’t you religious, as you call it, my dear?”

“I’m religious, as I call it—but not as ‘they’ call it.” She laughed a little, perhaps at herself. “I seem to see something, and I believe in it, without quite seeing it. Oh, I can’t explain! I’ve tried so often, but it’s quite hopeless.”

“Try again,” said old Lauderdale. “It can’t do any harm, and it may do me good. I’m so lonely.”

Katharine was perhaps too young to understand that loneliness, but the look in the sunken blue eyes touched her. She rose and bent over him, and kissed the pale, wrinkled forehead twice.

“It’s our fault—the fault of all us,” she said, sinking into her seat again.

“No; it’s not,” he answered. “I didn’t want you all, and I couldn’t have the ones I wanted. It doesn’t matter now. I want to hear you talk. Try and tell me what you think it all means, from your end of life. I’ve forgotten—it’s so long ago.”

He sighed, then coughed, raising himself a little, and then sank back upon his pillow and closed his eyes, as though to listen.

“People say so many things,” Katharine began. “Perhaps that’s the trouble. One hears so much that disturbs one’s belief, and one hears nothing that settles it in any new way. That’s what happens to every one. In trying to find reasons for things, people ruin the things themselves with the tools they use. You can’t find out the reason of a flower—certainly not by sticking the point of a steel knife into it and cutting the heart out. You can see how it’s made—that’s science. But the reason of its being a flower has nothing to do with science. If it had, science would find it out, because science can do anything possible in its own line. But it’s always the steel knife—always, always. You can’t tell why things exist, by taking them to pieces, can you?”

“No—no—that’s it.” The old man turned his head slowly from side to side. Then it trembled a little and lay still again. “And the short cut is to say there is no reason for things—that they’re all accidents, by selection.”

“Yes; that’s the short cut, as you say,” answered Katharine. “The trouble is that when we’ve taken it, if we don’t want to go back, we ought to want to go on to the end. Nobody will do that. They meet you with a moral right and wrong, after denying that there’s a ground for morality. I know—I’ve talked with a great many people this winter. It’s very funny, if you listen to them from any one point of view, no matter which. Then they all seem to be mad. But if one listens inside,—with one’s self, I mean,—it’s different. It hurts, then. It would break my heart to believe that I had no soul, as some people do. Better believe that one has one’s own to begin with, and the fragments of a dozen others clinging to it besides, than to have none at all.”

“What’s that?” asked the old man, opening his eyes with a look of interest. “What’s that about fragments of other people’s souls?”

“Oh—it’s what some people say. I got it from Mr. Griggs. Of course it’s nonsense—at least—I don’t know. It’s the one idea that appeals to one—that we go on living over and over again. And he says that in that theory there’s an original self, sometimes dormant, sometimes dominant, but which goes on forever—or indefinitely, at least; and then that fragments of the other personalities, of the people we have lived with in a former state, better or worse than the original self, fasten themselves on our own self, and influence its doings, and may put it to sleep, and may eat it up altogether—and that’s why we don’t always seem to ourselves to be the same person. But I can’t begin to remember it all. You should get Mr. Griggs to talk about it. He’s very interesting.”

“It’s a curious theory,” said old Lauderdale, evidently disappointed. “It’s an ingenious explanation, but it isn’t a reason. Explanations aren’t reasons—I mean, they’re not causes.”

“No,” answered Katharine, “of course they’re not. The belief is the cause, I suppose.”

The sick man glanced at her keenly and then closed his eyes once more. Katharine rose quietly and went to the windows to draw down the shades a little.

“Don’t!” cried Lauderdale, sharply, in his hoarse voice. “I like the light. It’s all the light I have.”

Katharine came back and sat down beside him again.

“I wasn’t going to sleep,” he said, presently. “I was thinking of what you had said, that belief was the cause. Well—if I believe in God, I must ask, ‘Domine quo vadis?’—mustn’t I? You know enough Latin to understand that. What do you answer?”

“Tendit ad astra.”

It was one of those quick replies which any girl who knew a few Latin phrases might easily make. But it struck the ears of the man whose strength was far spent. He raised his hands a little, and brought them together with a strangely devout gesture.

“To the stars,” he said in a whisper, and his eyes looked upwards.

Katharine rested her chin upon her hand, leaning forwards and watching him. An expression passed over his face which she had never seen, though she had read of the mysterious brightness which sometimes illuminates the features of dying persons. She thought it must be that, and she was suddenly afraid, yet fascinated. But she was mistaken. It was only a gleam of hope. Words can mean so much more than the things they name.

And a dream-like interpretation of the two Latin phrases suggested itself to her. It was as though, looking at the venerable and just man who was departing, she had asked of him, ‘Sir, whither goest thou?’ And as though a voice had answered her, ‘Starwards’—and as though her own eyes might be those stars—the stars of youth and life—from which he had come long ago and to which he was even now returning, to take new childish strength and to live again through the years. Then he spoke, and the dream vanished.

“I believe in Something,” he said. “Call it God, child, and let me pray to It, and die in peace.”