“I don’t know, Mr. Lauderdale,” answered the nurse, a calm, ugly, middle-aged woman from New England. “It was a woman’s voice. Shall I go and ask?”
“No—no!” he cried, huskily. “It was my niece—help me up, Mrs. Deems—help me up. I’ll go as I am.”
He was clad in loose garments of white velvet—the only luxurious fancy of his old age. He got up on his feet, steadying himself by the nurse’s arm.
“Let me ring for the men, Mr. Lauderdale,” she said, rather anxiously.
“No, no! I can go so, if you’ll help me a little—oh, God! The child must be hurt! Quick, Mrs. Deems—I can walk quicker than this—hold your arm a little higher, please. Yes—we shall get along nicely so—why didn’t I have a lift in the house! I was always so strong! Quickly, Mrs. Deems—quickly.”
When Robert Lauderdale entered the drawing-room, he saw a crowd of people gathering together round something which they hid from him.
“Go away! Go away!” he cried, in his hollow, broken voice.
The servants fell back at the voice of the master, only the butler remaining at hand. Katharine was lying back in a deep arm-chair, her broken arm resting upon a little table which had been hastily pushed to her side. John Ralston was bending over it, and looking at it rather helplessly, as pale as death. Opposite him, on Katharine’s left, stood her father, his face still darkly flushed, his lips swollen and purple from Ralston’s blow.
“Clear the room—and send for Doctor Routh,” said old Lauderdale, turning his head a little towards Leek as he passed him.
“Yes, sir.”