“No, certainly I shall not leave you,” he responded. “But you will do better to be quiet for a little while. There is nothing to alarm you now.” He laid her down on the cushions as he spoke and she cried out as her head came to rest on them.
“By God, someone did hit her on the head!” Nicky exclaimed. “Cousin Elinor, who was it?”
She was lying with closed eyes, and a hand pressed to her brow. “I don’t know. I heard a noise. Then something struck me. I don’t know any more.”
“For heaven’s sake!” said Francis in a shrill voice, “will no one go out to make sure that somebody is not lurking in the garden? How can you be so inconsiderate, Nicholas? Have you no regard for the nerves of others less insensible than yourself? If you will not go, then Crawley must do so, but tell him to arm himself with my swordstick, for it would be a shocking thing if he were to be injured by some ruffian! I cannot bear to have strangers about me, and if he were to be incapacitated I should be obliged to do so.”
“Well, I will go out to look, but you may depend upon it there is no one there,” Nicky said. “If there was ever someone he will have made off long since!”
“Go and see,” said Carlyon. He nodded to Mrs. Barrow who had brought in a bowl of water and some strips of old linen. “Thank you, Mrs. Barrow, that is all.” He waited until she had left the room and then bent over Elinor again. “Where does it pain you?”
She had turned her head sideways on the pillow and now moved her hand cautiously to the back of it, just above the neck. Her own touch made her wince. She opened her eyes, saying, “Oh, I have such a bruise! I can feel the bump already!”
“Will you let me raise you so that it may be attended to?” he said, slipping his arm under her shoulders again.
She bore it mutely, but her senses seemed to swim, and she was obliged to lean her brow against his arm. Miss Beccles was already soaking a cold compress and would have laid it to the back of her head had not Carlyon taken it out of her hand and gently applied it to the bruise. Elinor sighed with relief and murmured, “Thank you. You are very good.”
“If someone would call Crawley to me again I will desire him to mix a glass of hartshorn and water,” said Francis. “Two glasses, for I think I should take a little myself. My hand is shaking dreadfully still, and I feel quite unwell. The thought of this horrid violence, following, as it does, the shock I have already sustained, has been too much for me. If it were not that I do trust I was able to be of some slight assistance to Mrs. Cheviot, I should be almost inclined to wish that I had not left my room. But I thought it right to make the effort, and so I did. The windows in my room fit very ill. There is a shocking draft, and no good could come of my remaining there.”