THE RALSTONS

THE RALSTONS

BY
F. MARION CRAWFORD
Author of “A Roman Singer,” “Pietro Ghisleri,”
“Katharine Lauderdale,” etc.
TWO VOLUMES IN ONE
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd.
1902
All rights reserved
Copyright, 1893,
By F. MARION CRAWFORD.

Set up and electrotyped January, 1894. Printed December,
1894. Reprinted January, February twice, 1895. Two volumes
printed in one, June, 1899; July, 1902.

Twenty-second Thousand
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.

THE RALSTONS

CHAPTER I.

Alexander Lauderdale Junior was very much exercised in spirit concerning the welfare of his two daughters, of whom the elder was Charlotte and the younger was Katharine. Charlotte had been married, nearly two years before the opening of this tale, to Benjamin Slayback, the well-known member of Congress from Nevada, and lived in Washington. Katharine was still at home, living with her father and mother and grandfather, in the old house in Clinton Place, in the city of New York.

Mr. Lauderdale, the son of the still living philanthropist, and the nephew of the latter’s younger brother, the great millionaire, Robert Lauderdale, sat in his carefully swept, garnished and polished office on a Saturday morning early in April. In outward appearance, as well as in inward sympathy, he was in perfect harmony with his surroundings. He resembled a magnificent piece of mechanism exhibited in a splendid show-case—a spare man, extremely well proportioned, with a severe cast of face, hard grey eyes, and a look all over him which recalled a well-kept locomotive. He sat facing the bright light which fell through the clear plate glass. One of his hands, cool, smooth, lean, lay perfectly still, spread out upon the broad sheet of a type-written letter on the table; the other, equally motionless, hung idly over his knee. They were grasping hands, with long, curved nails, naturally highly polished. It was not probable that the great Trust Company, in which Alexander Junior held such an important position, should ever lose the fraction of a fractional interest through any oversight of his.

So far as his own fortune was concerned, he often said that he was poor. He lived in an old house which had been his grandfather’s and father’s in turn, but which, although his father was alive and continued to live in it, had become his own property some years previous to the beginning of this story. For Alexander Lauderdale Senior was a philanthropist; and although his brother, the rich Robert, gave liberally toward the support of the institutions in which he was interested, Alexander had little by little turned everything he possessed into money, applying it chiefly to the education of idiots. The consequence was that he depended, almost unconsciously, upon his only son for the actual necessities of life. The old house was situated on the north side of Clinton Place, which had never been a fashionable street, though it lay in what had once been a most fashionable neighbourhood. No one need be surprised if the near relatives of such a very rich man as Robert Lauderdale lived very quietly, so far as expenditure was concerned. He was a very generous man, and would have done much more for his nephew and the latter’s family if he had believed that they wished or expected it. But in his sensible view, they had all they needed,—a good house, a sufficient amount of luxury, and a very prominent position in society. He knew, moreover, that, however much he might give, the money would either find its way into the vast charities in which his brother was interested, or would disappear, as other sums and bits of property had disappeared before now, to some place—presumably one of safety—of which his nephew never spoke. For he suspected that Alexander Junior was not nearly so poor as he represented himself to be, and he was not exactly pleased with the fact that he himself was the only person before whom Alexander Junior bowed down and offered incense.

For this younger Lauderdale was a very rigid man in almost all respects: in his religion, which took the Presbyterian form, and took it in earnest; in his uprightness, which was cruelly sincere; and in his outward manner, which was in the highest degree conventionally correct.

It was this extreme correctness which lay at the root of his present troubles, since, in his opinion, both his daughters had departed from it in opposite directions and in an almost equal degree. He did not recognize himself in either of them, and, as he believed his own character to be an excellent model for his family, his vanity was wounded by nature’s perverseness. Furthermore, he distinctly disliked that sort of social prominence which is the portion of those who are not like the majority, or who do not think with the majority and say so. Both Mrs. Slayback and Miss Lauderdale attracted attention in that way.

Mrs. Slayback was handsome and vain, and believed herself to be proud in the better sense of the word. She had married her husband for two reasons: because she found the paternal home intolerable, and because, besides being rich, Benjamin Slayback was thought to be a man who had a brilliant future before him in the world of politics. Charlotte had believed that she could rule him, and herself become a power. In this she had been disappointed at the outset, having been deceived by a certain almost childlike simplicity of exterior, which was in reality one of Slayback’s strongest weapons. He admired her very much; he looked up to her with admiration for her superior social acquirements, and he treated her with a sort of barbaric liberality to which she had not been accustomed. But within himself he followed his own political devices without consulting her, and with a smiling reticence which convinced her most unpleasantly that she was not intellectually a match for him. This was all the more painful as she considered him to be her social inferior, a point of view which was popular with some of her intimate friends in New York, but much less so in Washington, and not at all in Nevada.

The immediate consequence of this state of affairs was that Charlotte and her husband did not agree. Both were disappointed, though in an unequal measure. Slayback claimed that any woman should be contented who had what he gave his wife. Charlotte thought that she showed great forbearance in not leaving a man whom she could not rule. It was not worth while, she said to herself, to have accepted a man who had, at her first acquaintance with him, worn a green tie; whose speech at home was remarkable rather for its ‘burr’ than for its grammar, and who did queer things with his knife and fork—unless his undeniable intelligence and force were to be at her service in such a way as to make her feel that she was at least as powerful a person as he. She had condemned the green tie, and he had submitted, and she had successfully conveyed hints against cutting fish and potatoes with a steel knife; but in the matter of grammar she had been less successful. When Benjamin was on his legs on the floor of the House, as he often was, he could speak very well indeed, which made it all the more unpleasant when he relapsed into the use of dialect, not to say slang, at his own table. He was a jovial man over his dinner, too, and she particularly detested jovial men, especially when they spoke English not altogether correctly. She had vaguely hoped that Benjamin would be spoken of as Mrs. Slayback’s husband, but it had turned out that, in spite of her beauty and brilliant conversation, she was spoken of as Benjamin Slayback’s wife. By way of outshining him, she had conceived the plan of outshining everybody else in matters of fashion and fashionable eccentricity. She had spoken to more than one member of the family of obtaining a divorce on the ground of incompatibility of temper, which, she said, could be managed in Nevada, since New York was so absurdly strict about divorces. It was evidently within the bounds of the possible that she might have spoken in this sense to friends who were not related to her, as her father knew. Altogether, he was aware that she was talked of and he suspected that she was laughed at. She had been seen to smoke cigarettes, it was reported that she had driven four-in-hand, and Alexander would have been less surprised than shocked if he had heard that she played poker with her intimates and bet on horse-races.

It was hard that such a man should have such a daughter, he thought, and that all this should be the result of so much careful and highly correct training and education. It was harder still that his younger child should be as completely out of sympathy with him as her elder sister, especially as Katharine outwardly resembled him, at least a little, whereas Charlotte had inherited her fair complexion from her mother.

Of the two, Katharine was the more difficult to deal with, and he was glad that her peculiarities were mental rather than outwardly manifested in her behaviour, as her sister’s were. But of their kind, they were strong and caused him great anxiety. There was a mystery about her thoughts, too, which he could not fathom, and which influenced her conduct, as though she had some secret motive for some of her actions and for many of her opinions, which might, perhaps, have explained both, but which she was not willing to divulge. Katharine held views upon religion which were of the most disquieting character, and Katharine flatly refused to speak of being married. These were Alexander Junior’s principal grievances against her.

So far as the second of these was concerned, he might have found plenty of excuse for her, had he sought it, in his own character. Whatever his faults might be, he had been a very faithful man. He had married Emma Camperdown, the famous beauty from Kentucky, when they had both been very young, and he had loved her all his life, in spite of the fact that she was a Roman Catholic and he a very puritanically inclined Presbyterian of the older school. Love that will bear the strain of religious differences, when religious conviction exists on both sides, must be of a very robust nature, and Alexander’s had borne it for a quarter of a century. It was true that his wife, who had been born a Catholic, was not aggressively devout; but in his view of the matter, her errors were mortal ones, and the thought of her probable fate in a future existence had really saddened the hard man’s life. But it had not diminished nor shaken his love. About that, there was nothing romantic, nor Quixotic, nor emotional. It had none of the fine, outward qualities which often belong abundantly to transient passions. There was in it a good deal of the sense of property, which was very clearly defined with him, and he lacked in most ways the delicacies and tendernesses which are the rarest and most beautiful ornaments of the strong. But such as it was, its endurance and good faith were unquestionable. Indeed, endurance and uprightness were Alexander’s principal virtues. Both were genuine, and both were so remarkable as to raise him high in the respect of his fellow-men. If he had secrets, he had a right to keep them, for they concerned nobody but himself, and he was naturally reticent.

Katharine had some similar qualities. She had loved her distant cousin, John Ralston, a long time, and she was as faithful and enduring as her father. Ralston loved her quite as dearly and truly, but Alexander Junior would not have him for a son-in-law, and had told him so in an exceedingly plain and forcible manner. His objection was that Ralston seemed unable to do anything for himself, and had, moreover, acquired a reputation for being fast and dissipated. He was not rich, either. His father, Admiral Ralston, had been dead several years, and John lived with his mother on twelve thousand a year. The young man had made two attempts at steady work and was now making his third, the previous ones having resulted in his leaving the lawyer’s office in which he had placed himself, at the end of three months, and the great banking establishment of Beman Brothers, in Broad Street, after a trial of only six weeks. He had now gone back to Beman’s, having been readmitted as an especial favour to Mr. Robert Lauderdale, with no salary and with an unlimited period of probation before him. He was a popular young fellow enough, but he was not what is called a promising youth, though his ways had improved considerably during the last few months. Mr. Beman said that he came regularly to the bank and seemed disposed to work, but that his ignorance of business was something phenomenal. Nevertheless, to please old Robert the Rich, John Ralston was tolerated, so long as he behaved himself properly.

And Katharine loved him, in spite of her father’s disapproval and her mother’s good advice. For during the preceding winter Mrs. Lauderdale, who had once favoured the match, had gone over to the enemy, and showed a very great and almost unbecoming anxiety to see Katharine married. Hamilton Bright, another distant relative and the junior partner of Beman Brothers, would have married her at any moment, and he was a very desirable man. The fact that he was a relative was in his favour, too, for both he and Katharine would probably in the end inherit a share of the enormous Lauderdale fortune, and it would be as well that the money should not go out of the family. Robert Lauderdale had never married, and was now well over seventy years of age, though his strength had not as yet come to labour and sorrow.

Katharine did not talk of John Ralston. Especially of late, she avoided saying anything about him. But she would look at no one else, though she had no lack of suitors besides Hamilton Bright, and in spite of her reticence it was easy to see that her feelings towards Ralston had not undergone any change. Once, during the preceding winter, Alexander had been visited by a ray of hope. Ralston had been reported by the newspapers as having got into a bad scrape, winding up with an encounter with a pugilist, and ending in his being brought home by policemen in the middle of the night. It had actually been said that he had been the worse for too much champagne, and during a few hours Mr. Lauderdale had hoped that Katharine would be disgusted and would give him up. But it turned out to have been all a mistake. No less a personage than the celebrated Doctor Routh had at once written to the papers, stating that he had attended John Ralston when he had been brought home, that he had met with an accident, and that the current statements about his condition were utterly false and libellous. And there the matter had ended. Alexander might congratulate himself upon having got the alliance of his wife against John, but their united efforts to move their daughter had proved as fruitless as his own had been when unassisted.

There was nothing for it but to wait patiently, and to hope that she might forget her cousin in the course of time. Meanwhile, another anxiety presented itself, almost as serious, in her father’s opinion. She had been brought up as a Presbyterian, like her sister, in accordance with his wishes, and in this respect Mrs. Lauderdale had been conscientious, though her antagonism to her husband’s church was deep-seated and abiding. But of late Katharine had begun to express very dangerous and subversive opinions in regard to things in general and in respect of religion in particular. Her mind seemed to have reached its growth and to have entered upon its development. Katharine was going astray after strange new doctrines, Alexander thought, and he did not like the savour of mysticism in the fragments of her conversation which he occasionally overheard. Though he could not with equanimity bear to hear any one deny the existence of the soul, he disliked almost more to hear it spoken of as though humanity could have anything to do with it directly, beyond believing in its presence and future destiny. Whether this was due to the form of the traditions in which he had been brought up, or was the result of his own exceedingly vague beliefs in regard to the soul’s nature, it is of no use to enquire. The fact was the same in its consequences. He was very much disturbed about Katharine’s views, as he called them, and at the same time he was conscious for the first time in his life that no confidence existed between her and him, and that their spheres of thought on all subjects were separated by a blank and impenetrable wall.

Then, too, Katharine had of late shown a strong predilection for the society of Paul Griggs, a man of letters and of considerable reputation, who was said to have strange views upon many subjects, who had lived in many countries, and who had about him something half mysterious, which offended the commonplace respectability of Alexander Lauderdale’s character. Not that Alexander thought himself commonplace, and as for his respectability, it was of the solid kind which the world calls social position, and which such people themselves secretly look upon as the proud inheritance of an ancient and honourable family. Everything that Paul Griggs said jarred unpleasantly on Alexander Lauderdale’s single but sensitive string, which was his conservatism.

Griggs disclaimed ever having had anything to do with modern Buddhism, for instance. But he had somehow got the reputation of being what people call a Buddhist when they know nothing of Buddha. As a matter of fact, he happened to be a Roman Catholic. But Mr. Lauderdale had heard him use expressions which had fixed the popular impression in his mind. The conversation of such a man could not be good for an impressionable girl like Katharine, he thought. He took it for granted that Katharine was impressionable because she was a girl and young. Mr. Griggs said very paradoxical things sometimes, and Katharine quoted them afterwards. Mr. Lauderdale hated paradox as he hated everything which was in direct opposition to generally received opinion. It was most disagreeable to him to hear that there was no such thing as a future, as distinguished from past or present, when so much of his private meditation had for its object the definition of the future state for himself and others. He did not like Mr. Griggs’ way of referring to the popular idea of the Supreme Being as a ‘magnified, non-natural man’—and when Griggs quoted Dante’s opinion in the matter, Alexander Lauderdale set down Dante Alighieri as an insignificant agnostic, which was unjust, and branded Mr. Griggs as another, which was an exaggeration. Now, whatever the truth might be, he considered that Katharine was in great danger, and that although Providence was necessarily just, it might have shown more kindness and discretion in selecting the olive branches it had vouchsafed to him.

It need hardly be said that of the two extremes to which his daughters seemed inclined to go, he preferred the one chosen by Katharine. That, at least, gave no open offence. Morally, it was worse to dissect the traditional soul as it had been handed down in its accepted form through many generations of religious men, than to smoke a cigarette after a dinner party. But in practice, the effect of the cigarette upon the opinion of society was out of all proportion greater, and Charlotte was therefore worse than Katharine, as a daughter, though she might not be so bad when looked upon as a subject for potential salvation.

All this disturbed Alexander Lauderdale very much, for he saw no immediate prospect of any improvement in the condition of things. For once in his life his daughters were almost his chief preoccupation. If he had been subject to absence of mind, something might, perhaps, have got out of order in the minute details of the Trust Company’s working. In that respect, however, he was superior to circumstances. But when he was momentarily idle, his mind reverted to its accustomed channels, and the problem regarding the future of his daughters got into the way and upset his financial calculations, and made him really unhappy. For his financial calculations were apparently of a nature which made them pleasant to contemplate, although he declared himself to be so very poor.

On that particular Saturday morning he was interrupted in his solitude by the sudden appearance of his wife. It was not often that she had entered his office during the ten years since he had been installed in it, and he was so much surprised by her coming that he positively started, and half rose out of his chair.

Mrs. Lauderdale was a beautiful woman still, and would be beautiful if she lived to extreme old age. But she was already past the period up to which a woman may hope to preserve the freshness of a late youth. The certainty that her beauty was waning had come over her very suddenly on a winter’s evening not long ago, when she had noticed that the man who was talking to her looked persistently at Katharine instead of at herself; and just then, catching sight of her face in a mirror, and being tired at the time, she had realized that she was no longer supreme. It had been a bitter moment, and had left a wound never to be healed. The perfect, classic features, the beautiful blue eyes, the fair waving hair, were all present still. Her tall figure was upright and active, and she had no tendency to grow stout or heavy. She had many reasons for congratulating herself, but the magic halo was gone, and she knew it. Some women never find it out until they are really old, and they suffer less.

At the present moment, as she entered her husband’s office, it would have been hard to believe that Mrs. Lauderdale could be more than five and thirty years of age. The dark coat she wore showed her figure well, and her thin veil separated and hid away the imperfections of what had once been perfect. She was a little agitated, too, and the colour was in her cheeks—a trifle too much of it, perhaps, but softened to the delicacy of a peach blossom by the dark gauze.

She paused a moment as she closed the door behind her, glancing first at her husband, and then looking about the unfamiliar room, to satisfy herself that they were alone.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Emma,” said Alexander Junior, rising definitely and coming to meet her.

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale. “I don’t often come, do I? I know you don’t like to be disturbed. But as this is Saturday, and I knew you would be coming up town early, I thought you wouldn’t mind. It’s rather important.”

“I trust nothing bad has happened,” observed Alexander, drawing up a chair for her.

“Bad? Well—I don’t know. Yes—of course it is! It’s serious, at all events. Uncle Robert’s dying. I thought you ought to know—”

“Dying? Uncle Robert?”

Alexander Lauderdale’s metallic voice rang through the room, and his smooth, lean hands grasped the arms of his chair.

An instant later he looked a little nervously at the door, as though hoping that no one had heard his words, nor the tone in which he had spoken them. A dark flush rose in his face and the veins at his temple swelled suddenly, while his grip on the chair seemed to tighten, and he turned his eyes on his wife.

“Dying!” he repeated in a low voice. “What has happened to him? When did you hear of this?”

Mrs. Lauderdale had not expected him to show so much feeling. She, herself, was far from calm, however, and did not notice his extreme agitation as though it were anything unnatural.

“Doctor Routh came to tell me,” she answered. “He’s been there all the morning—and as there was time before luncheon, I thought I’d come—”

“But what’s the matter with the old gentleman? This is very surprising news—very sad news, Emma.”

A rather spasmodic, electric smile had momentarily appeared on Alexander Lauderdale’s face, disappearing again instantly, as he uttered the last words.

“I’m very much overcome by this news,” he added, after a short hesitation.

He did not appear to be so deeply grieved as he said that he was, but the words were appropriate, and Mrs. Lauderdale recognized the fact at once.

“It will make a great difference,” she said.

“Yes, I should say so. I should say so,” repeated Alexander Junior, not with emphasis, but slowly and thoughtfully. “However,” he continued, suddenly, “we mustn’t count—I mean—yes—we—we mustn’t altogether place our confidence in man—though Doctor Routh certainly stands at the head of his profession. It’s our duty to see that other physicians are called in consultation. We must do our utmost to help. Indeed—it might have been wiser if you had gone there at once and had sent a messenger for me, instead of coming here. But—yes—you haven’t told me what the matter is, my dear. Is it—anything in the nature of apoplexy—or the heart—you know? At his age, people rarely—but, of course, while there’s life, there’s hope. We mustn’t forget that.”

He seemed unable to wait for his wife’s answer to his questions.

“Why, no, my dear,” she replied. “You know he’s not been very well for some days. He’s worse—that’s all. It was nothing but a cold at first, but it’s turned into pneumonia.”

“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 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.”

CHAPTER III.

Katharine said nothing, not knowing what to say. During what seemed to her a long time, old Lauderdale lay quite still. Then he seemed to rouse himself, and as he turned his head he coughed painfully.

“I want you to know how I’ve left the money,” he said abruptly, when he had recovered his breath.

“Do you think I ought to know?” asked Katharine, in some surprise.

“Yes—I don’t know whether you ought—no. But I want you to know. I’ve confidence in your judgment, my dear.”

“Oh, uncle Robert! As though your own were not a thousand times better!”

“In matters of business it may be. But this is quite another thing. You see, there are a good many who ought to have a share, and a good many who expect some of it, whether they have any claim or not. I want to know if you think I’ve acted fairly by everybody. Will you tell me, quite honestly? Nobody else would—except Katharine Ralston, perhaps.”

“But I don’t want to be made the judge of your actions, dear uncle Robert!” protested Katharine.

“Well—make a sacrifice, then, and do something you don’t like,” answered the old man, gruffly.

It would have pleased Doctor Routh to see how soon his temper rose at the merest sign of opposition.

“Well—tell me, then,” said Katharine, reluctantly.

“It’s a simple will,” began the old man, and then he paused, as though reflecting upon it. “Well—you see,” he continued, presently, “I argued in this way. I said to myself that the money ought either to go back to its original source—I’ve thought a great deal about that, too, and I’ve made sketches of wills leaving everything to the poor, in a big trust—I suppose every rich man has made rough sketches of queer wills at one time or another.” He paused a moment and seemed to be thinking. “Yes,” he resumed, presently, “either it should go back to the people, or else it ought to go amongst the Lauderdales, as directly as possible. Now there’s my brother, first—your grandfather. He’s older than I am, but he’s careless and foolish about money. He’d give it all away—better leave something to his asylums and things, and give him an income but no capital. He doesn’t want anything for himself—he’s a good man, and I wish I were like him. Then there’s your father, next, and Katharine Ralston—my nephew and niece. They don’t want a lot of money, either, do they?”

Katharine’s eyes expressed a little astonishment in spite of herself, and the old man saw it. He hesitated a while, coughed, cleared his throat, and then seemed to make up his mind.

“It’s been my opinion for a long time,” he said, slowly, “that your father has a good deal of his own.”

“Papa!” exclaimed Katharine. “Why—he always says he’s so poor! You don’t know how economical he is, and makes us be. I’m sure he can’t be rich.”

“Rich—h’m—that’s a relative expression nowadays. He’s not rich, compared with me—but he has enough, he has quite enough.”

“Oh—enough—yes,” answered the young girl. “The house is comfortable, and we have plenty to eat.” She laughed a little. “But as for clothes, you know—well, if my mother didn’t sell her miniatures, I don’t know exactly what she and I should do—nor what Charlotte would have done, before she was married.”

Robert Lauderdale looked at her intently for several seconds.

“Do you mean to say,” he asked, at length, “that when your dear mother sells her little paintings, it’s to get money for her and you to dress on?”

“Yes—of course. What did you think?”

“I thought it was for her small charities,” he answered, bending his rough brows with an expression of mingled pain and anger. “It seemed to me a good thing that she should have that interest. If I’d known that your father kept you all so close—”

“But I really think he’s poor, uncle Robert.”

“Poor! Nonsense! He’s got a million, anyway. I know it. Don’t look at me like that—as though you didn’t believe me. I tell you, I know it. I don’t know how much more he has, but he’s got that.”

He moved restlessly on his side, with more energy than he had yet shown, for he was growing angry.

“There’s some money in the drawer of that little table,” he said, pointing with his hand, which trembled a little. “It’s open—just get what there is and bring it here, will you?”

Katharine rose.

“I don’t want any money, if you mean to give it to me,” she said, as she crossed the room.

She brought him a roll of bills.

“Count it,” he said.

She counted carefully, turning back the crisp green notes over her delicate fingers. It was new money.

“There are three hundred and fifty dollars,” she said. “At least, I think I’ve counted right.”

“Near enough. Make a note of it, my dear. There are pencil and paper on the table. There—just write down the figure. Now put the money into your pocket, and go and spend it on some trifle.”

“I’d rather not,” answered Katharine, hesitating.

She had never had so much money in her hand in her whole life, though she was the grand-niece of Robert the Rich.

“Do as I tell you!” cried the old man, almost fiercely, and in a much stronger voice than he had been able to find hitherto.

Katharine obeyed, seeing that he was really losing his temper.

“You may as well spend it on toys as leave it to the servants,” he said. “They’d have stolen it as soon as I was dead. Not that I mean to die, though. Not till I’ve settled one or two things like this. I feel stronger.”

“I’m so glad!” exclaimed Katharine.

“So am I,” growled the sick man. “You’ve saved my life.”

“I?”

“Yes, child. Go and tell Routh that I said so. Upon my word!” he grumbled, half audibly. “Selling her poor little miniatures to buy clothes for herself and her children—my nieces—that’s just a little too much, you know—can’t see how I could die decently—well—without telling him what I think about it. Katharine,” he said, more loudly, addressing her, “it amounts to this. I’ve left a few charities, and I’ve left the Miners a little something to make them comfortable, and I’ve given a million to the Brights—Hamilton and Hester and their mother—and I’ve left the rest to you three young ones—you and Charlotte and Jack Ralston. That ought to make about twenty-five millions for each of you. I want to know if you think I’ve done right?”

Katharine’s hands dropped by her side. For the first time in her life she was literally struck dumb.

“That doesn’t mean,” continued the old man, watching her keenly, as the light came back to his eyes, “that doesn’t mean that I give you all that money, just as I gave you that roll of bills just now. It’s all tied up in trusts, just as far as the law would allow me to do it. You couldn’t take it and throw it into the street, nor speculate, nor buy a railway, nor do anything of the kind. You and Charlotte will have to pay half your income to your father and mother while they live, and you’ll have to leave it to your children—at least, Charlotte must, and I hope you will, my dear. And Jack must give half of his income to his mother. You see, as there are three parents, that will make it exactly equal. And all three of you have to pay something to make up an income for your grandfather. So it will still be equally shared. I like you best, my dear, but I couldn’t show any favouritism in my will. The end of it will be that you will each have something less than half the income of twenty-five millions to spend. That’s better than selling miniatures to buy clothes, anyway. Isn’t it, now?”

He laughed hoarsely and then coughed.

“Go home, child,” he said, presently. “I’ve talked too much. Stop, though. What I’ve told you is not to be repeated on any account. I wanted to know what you thought of the right and wrong of the thing—but I’ve taken your breath away. Go home and think about it. Come and see me day after to-morrow—there, I shouldn’t have said that an hour ago—give me a little of that beef tea, please, my dear. I’m hungry—and I’d rather have it from your hand than from Mrs. Deems’s. Thank you.”

He drank eagerly, and she took the cup from him and set it down again.

“She’s a good creature, the nurse,” he said. “A very good creature—a sort of holy scarecrow. I shan’t need her much longer.”

“You really do seem better,” said Katharine, wondering how she could ever have believed that he was dying.

“I’m going to get well this time. I told Routh this morning that I wasn’t going to die. You’ve saved my life. There’s nothing like rage for the action of the heart, I believe. I shall be out next week.”

He began to cough again.

“Go home—go home,” he managed to say, between the short spasms. “I’m talking too much.”

Katharine bent down and kissed his forehead quickly, looked at him affectionately and left the room, for she saw that what he said was true. She closed the door softly and found her way to the stairs. She was in haste to get out into the air and to be alone, for she wished, if possible, to realize the stupendous possibilities of life which the last few minutes had brought into her range of mental vision. It was not a light thing to have been told that she was one day to be among the richest of her very rich acquaintances, after having been brought up in such a penurious fashion.

In the hall she came suddenly upon her father and mother, who were parleying with the butler.

“Here’s Miss Katharine, sir,” said the servant, and he immediately fell back, glad to avoid further discussion with such a very obstinate person as Alexander Junior.

“Why, Katharine!” exclaimed Mrs. Lauderdale, in surprise. “Do you mean to say you’re here?”

“Yes—didn’t you know? Doctor Routh sent me up in his carriage. He met me on the steps just as he was going in to see you. Didn’t he tell you?”

“No—how very extraordinary!”

Mrs. Lauderdale’s face assumed a grave expression not untinged with displeasure.

“This is very strange,” said her husband. “And Leek has just been telling us that uncle Robert could see no one.”

“I beg pardon, sir,” said the butler, coming forward respectfully. “There were orders that when Miss Katharine came, Mr. Lauderdale was not to be disturbed.”

“Yes,” answered Alexander Junior, coldly. “I understand. Come, Emma—come, Katharine—we shall be late for luncheon.”

“It isn’t half-past twelve yet,” observed Katharine, glancing at the great old clock, which at that moment gave ‘warning’ of the coming chime for the half-hour.

“It’s of no consequence what time it is,” said her father, more coldly than ever. “Come!”

They went out together, and the door closed behind them. Alexander Lauderdale stood still upon the pavement and faced his daughter, with a peculiarly hard look in his eyes.

“What does this all mean, Katharine?” he enquired, severely. “Your mother and I desire some explanation.”

“There’s nothing to explain,” answered the young girl. “Uncle Robert wanted to see me, and Doctor Routh told me so, and was kind enough to send me up in his carriage. I was coming away when I met you. There’s nothing to explain.”

Alexander Junior very nearly lost his temper. He could not recollect having done so since he had refused to accept John Ralston as his son-in-law, nearly eighteen months ago. But his steely grey eyes began to gleam now, and his clear, pale skin grew paler. It was evident that his mind was working rapidly in a direction which Katharine could not understand.

“I wish to know what he said to you,” he replied.

“Why do you want to know?” asked Katharine, unwisely, for she herself was agitated.

“I have a right to know,” answered her father, peremptorily.

It was unlike him to go to such lengths of insistence at once, and even Mrs. Lauderdale was surprised, and glanced at him somewhat timidly.

“Shall we walk on?” she suggested. “I’m cold—there’s a chilly wind from the corner.”

They began to move, Alexander Junior walking between them, with Katharine on his left. She did not reply to his last speech at once, and his anger rose.

“When I speak to you, Katharine, I expect to be answered,” he said.

“Yes,” replied Katharine, coolly. “I was thinking of what I should say.”

She had been taken unawares, and found it hard to decide how to act. She thought he was angry because he suspected her of trying to influence the old millionaire to do something which might facilitate her marriage with John Ralston, little guessing that in the eyes of the church and the law she was married already. So far as revealing anything about the dispositions of her great-uncle’s will might be concerned, she had not the slightest intention of saying anything about it, nor of even hinting that he had spoken of it. She was capable of quite as much obstinacy as her father, and she was far more intelligent; but she disliked a quarrel of any sort, and yet, placed as she was, she could not see how to avoid one, if he continued to insist. Mrs. Lauderdale saw that trouble was imminent, and tried to come to the rescue.

“How did he seem to be, dear?” she enquired, speaking across her husband. “Doctor Routh was not very encouraging.”

“He is better—really better, I’m sure,” answered Katharine, seizing the opportunity of turning the conversation. “When I first went in, he looked dreadfully ill. His eyes are quite sunken and his cheeks are positively hollow. But gradually, as we talked, he revived, and when I left him he really seemed quite cheerful.”

She paused, not seeing how she could go on talking about the old gentleman’s appearance much longer. She hoped her mother would ask another question, but her father interposed again, with senseless and almost brutal persistence.

“I’m glad to hear that he is better,” he said. “But I’m still waiting for an answer to my question. What was the nature of the conversation between you, Katharine? I insist upon knowing.”

“Really, papa,” answered the young girl, looking up to him with eyes almost as hard as his own, “I don’t see why you should be so determined to know.”

“It’s of no consequence why I wish to know. It should be sufficient for you to understand my wishes. I expect you to obey me at once and to give a clear account of what took place. Do you understand me?”

“Perfectly—oh, yes!”

It was evident from Katharine’s tone that she did not intend to satisfy him. Her mother thought that she might have excused herself instead of refusing so abruptly. She might have even given a harmless sketch of an imaginary conversation. But that was not her way, as she would have said.

Alexander’s anger increased with every moment, in a way by no means normal with him. He said nothing for a few moments, but walked stiffly on, biting his clean-shaven upper lip with his bright teeth. He felt himself helpless, which made the position worse.

“So uncle Robert is really better,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, pacifically inclined.

“I think so,” answered Katharine, mechanically.

“I’m very glad. Aren’t you glad, Alexander, my dear?” she asked, turning to her husband.

“Of course. What a foolish question!”

Mrs. Lauderdale felt that under the circumstances it had certainly been a very foolish question, and she relapsed into silence. She was, on the whole, a very good woman, and was sincere in saying that she was glad of the old man’s recovery. This was not inconsistent with her recent haste to inform her husband of the supposed danger. It had seemed quite natural to her to think of going instantly to old Robert Lauderdale’s bedside, if there were any possibility of his dying. She knew, also, far better than Katharine had known, what an immense sum was to be divided at his death, and considering the life she had led under her husband’s economic rule, she might be pardoned if, even being strongly attached to the old gentleman, she was a little agitated at the thought of the changes imminent in her own existence. There is a point at which humanity must be forgiven for being human. In the memorable struggle for the great Lauderdale fortune, which divided the tribe against itself, it must not be forgotten that Mrs. Lauderdale was sincerely fond of the man who had accumulated the wealth, though she afterwards took a distinct side in the affairs, and showed herself as eager as many others to obtain as much as possible for her husband and her children.

Meanwhile, in spite of her, the opening skirmish continued sharply. After walking nearly the length of a block in silence, Alexander Junior once more turned his head in the direction of his daughter.

“Am I to understand, Katharine, that you definitely refuse to speak?” he enquired, sternly.

“If you mean that I should tell you in detail all that uncle Robert and I said to each other this morning,—yes. I refuse.”

“Do you know that you are disobedient and undutiful?”

“It isn’t necessary to discuss that. I’m not a child any longer.”

“Very well. We shall see.”

And they continued to walk in silence. Alexander was fond of walking and of all sorts of exercise, when it did not interfere with the rigid punctuality of his business habits. He had been a very strong man in his youth.

This was the beginning of hostilities, and the events hitherto described took place in the month of April.

Robert Lauderdale’s instinct had not deceived him, in prompting him to say that he was not going to die when he seemed most ill. He rallied quickly, and within a fortnight of the day on which he had sent for Katharine, he was able to be driven in the Park, in the noon sunshine. He was changed, and had grown suddenly much thinner, but most of his friends thought that at his age this was no bad sign.

Ever since that crisis there had been a coldness between Katharine and her father. She felt that he was watching her perpetually, looking, perhaps, for an opportunity of making her feel his displeasure, and assuredly trying to find out what she knew. The subject was not mentioned, and Alexander Junior seemed to have accepted his defeat more calmly than might have been expected; but Katharine knew his character well enough to be sure that the humiliation rankled, and that the obstinate determination to find out the secret was as constantly present as ever.

Katharine’s life became more and more difficult and complicated, and she seemed to become more powerless every day, when she tried to see some way of simplifying it. She found herself, indeed, in a very extraordinary position, and one which requires a little elucidation for all those who are not acquainted with her previous history.

In the first place, she had been secretly married to her second cousin John Ralston, nearly five months before the beginning of this story. John Ralston had faults which could not be concealed. It had been said with some truth that he drank and occasionally played high; that he was a failure, as far as any worldly success was concerned, was evident enough, although he was now making what seemed to be a determined effort at regular work. He was certainly not a particularly good young man. His father, the admiral, who had been dead some years, had been a brave sailor and distinguished in the service, but there were many stories of his wild doings, so that those who trace all character to heredity may find an excuse for John’s evil tendencies in his father’s temperament. Be this as it may, he had undoubtedly been exceedingly ‘lively,’ as his distant cousin and best friend, Hamilton Bright, expressed it.

But he had his good points. He was honourable to a fault. He loved Katharine with a single-hearted devotion very rare in so young a man,—for he was only five and twenty years of age,—and for her sake had been making a desperate attempt to master his worse instincts. He could be said to have succeeded in that, at least, since he had made his good resolutions. Whether he could keep them for the rest of his life was another matter.

Katharine’s father, however, put no faith in him, and never would. Moreover, John was a poor man, a consideration which had great weight. No one could suspect that his great uncle intended to leave him a large share of the fortune, and it was very generally believed that they had quarrelled and that John Ralston was to be cut off with nothing. This opinion was partly due to the fact that John kept away from Robert Lauderdale’s house more than the rest of the family, because he dreaded the idea of being counted among the hangers on of the tribe. But Alexander Lauderdale could not forbid him the house, because he was a relation, but altogether refused to hear of a marriage with Katharine. He hoped to make for her a match as good as her sister’s, if not better. The scene with John had been almost violent, but the young lovers had contrived to see each other with the freedom afforded by society to near relatives.