“No—it was last night,” said Katharine, rather faintly. “Jack, dear—get me a cup of tea. I don’t feel well.”
Ralston hurried away, saying something to himself which was not audible to the others, and which may as well be omitted here. The black and white of paper and ink make youth’s blood seem too red. Old Lauderdale’s anger was still at the boiling-point, and broke out again.
“Do you mean to say that he’s been maltreating you, child?” he asked, his face reddening again. “If he has—”
“No—not exactly, uncle dear—I’ll tell you—but—I’m a little faint. Don’t worry.”
She sighed and closed her eyes, as she finished speaking. She was in great pain now that the arm was swelling.
“Best not talk, Mr. Lauderdale,” said Mrs. Deems. “I’ll get some ice and napkins.”
And she also left the room. The old man, alone with Katharine, bent over her with difficulty, and kissed her white forehead. His old head trembled as he raised himself again and looked shyly round, as though he had done something to be ashamed of. The young girl opened her eyes, smiled a little, and closed them again at once.
“Do you feel very ill, little girl?” asked Robert Lauderdale.
There was something pathetic in the evident attempt to make his unnatural, hollow voice sound gentle and kind, and he stroked her thick black hair with one bony hand, while the other rested on the back of the chair.
“Oh, no—it’s nothing—only the pain in my arm. Don’t be frightened, uncle Robert—I’m not going to die!”