A broken arm seemed a very slight matter to Routh, compared with the wish of his old friend. He did not hesitate, but touched the bell for Mrs. Deems, who appeared at the door.
“He wishes to see Miss Lauderdale,” he whispered. “You must help her to wrap herself up, and bring her here.”
Mrs. Deems nodded, and looked at the doctor with the grave glance of enquiry which means the one question, ‘Life or death?’ And Routh answered with the other glance, which means ‘Death.’ Mrs. Deems nodded again, and left the room. Routh returned to the bedside.
“When she comes—leave us alone—please,” said the sick man.
There was silence again for a few minutes. Again the lids were half closed, and the old eyes stared out beneath them into the soft whiteness, and perhaps beyond. But the beard moved a little from time to time, as though the lips were framing words, and Routh knew that the end was near.
Then Katharine came, waxen pale, her raven hair coiled loosely upon her shapely head, her creamy throat collarless, her left arm and hand free, the rest of her wrapped and draped in soft, dark things. She, too, looked up into Routh’s face with the glance of the question, ‘Life or death?’ And again the answer was, ‘Death.’
But Mrs. Deems had told her. Her eyes said that she knew, and her face told that she felt. Robert Lauderdale’s great head turned again, slowly and painfully, towards her. She bent down to him, and the doctor left the room, taking the nurse with him. He did not quite close the door. He could almost hear, beforehand, the low cry the young girl would utter when the end came.
Katharine bent down and laid her hand softly upon the old man’s brow.
“Uncle dear—you’re not going,” she said. “You’ll get well, after all.”
“I’m going to give up the ghost,” he said, as he had said to Doctor Routh.