A pause followed. John was very pale. Alexander Lauderdale’s face was dark with the blood that rose slowly under the grey olive skin. The hand that held his hat swung quickly by his side once or twice. Ralston’s fingers twitched nervously. By the door, Katharine held her breath.
“Look here, Mr. Lauderdale,” said John, in a low voice. “I’m not going to strike you here, but when I meet you in the street I will.”
“Jack! Jack!” cried Katharine, rushing forward and catching his arm, and throwing the other of her own round his neck.
She knew how much stronger her father was than he. At the sight of her, the deep red colour appeared at last in Alexander’s face, and his anger got the better of him altogether.
“Take your arms from that man’s neck!” he cried, furiously. “Don’t touch him, I say!”
But Katharine did not release her hold. A woman’s idea of protecting a man is to wind herself round him, so as to make him perfectly helpless to defend himself.
“Let me go, dear,” said Ralston, in a voice suddenly tender, but trembling a little.
“Katharine! Go, I say!” The white of Alexander’s eyes was bloodshot.
But Katharine tried to drag John back from him as he advanced.
“Go! Leave the room!” cried Alexander, roughly.
With a quick movement he seized her arm, almost where he had grasped it on the previous day, and he tried to pull her away from Ralston. His strong hand hurt her. At the same time Ralston, not seeing how tightly Alexander held her, tried to disengage himself from her, as gently as he could. The struggle was not apparently violent, yet Katharine was exerting all her strength to cling to Ralston.
The floor, under the Persian rug, was highly polished. As Katharine stood, overbalanced in her strained position, the carpet slipped under her feet. With a short, half-suppressed cry, more of surprise than of fear, she relaxed her hands, fell sideways, and swung downward, her arm still in her father’s iron grip. To tell the truth, he was trying to hold her up, though in reality he had thrown her down. Suddenly she uttered a piercing scream, and turned livid, as she fell upon the floor, and her father let go her arm.
At the same instant John Ralston struck Alexander Lauderdale a violent blow on the mouth, which sent the taller man staggering back two paces. It all happened in an instant. Alexander sprang forward again instinctively, and struck at John, who dodged the blow and closed with him. They were better matched at wrestling than with fists, for Ralston, though less strong by far, was the quicker, and had the advantage of youth. They swayed and twisted upon each other, the two lean, tough men, like tigers.
Katharine struggled to her feet. In getting up she tried to use her right hand, and uttered another cry of pain, as her weight rested on it a moment in making the effort. It was quite powerless.
In a few seconds the room was full of people. Katharine’s scream had echoed through the open door all over the house. The butler, the footmen, and the housemaids flocked in. The cry was heard even in Robert Lauderdale’s bedroom, and he was not asleep.
The old man started, listened, and raised himself on his elbow, at the same time touching the bell by which he called his nurse. She had gone out upon the landing, to try and find out what was the matter, but ran back at the sound of the bell.
“What is it? What’s happened?” asked old Lauderdale, and there was an unwonted colour in his face.
“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.”
“I’m afraid it’s broken,” Ralston was saying, and his hands trembled violently as he softly passed them over Katharine’s arm.
Mrs. Deems was already undoing the buttons of the tight sleeve which chanced to be the fashion at that time. Robert Lauderdale pushed Alexander aside, and bent down over the chair, supporting himself with his hands.
“Katharine — little girl — you’re hurt, dear,” he said, as gently as his hoarseness would let him speak. “How did it happen?”
“It won’t be anything,” she said, in answer, shaking her head and trying to smile.
“How did it happen?” repeated the old man, standing up again, and steadying himself, as he looked anxiously at Ralston.
But Ralston did not answer at once. Across the old gentleman’s shoulder his eyes met Alexander’s for an instant.
“Are you going to tell what you did, or shall I?” he asked, fiercely.
“What? What?” asked old Robert, in surprise. “What’s this?” He looked from one to the other.
“Well—” Alexander began, “it’s rather hard to explain—”
“You’re mistaken,” interrupted Ralston, promptly. “It’s perfectly simple. You threw Katharine down, and she broke her arm.”
“You — threw Katharine — down!” repeated the old man, the first words spoken in wonder, the last in wrath.
“Not at all, uncle Robert,” protested Alexander. “Do you suppose for a moment that I’m such a man as to—”
“I don’t care what sort of man you are!” retorted Robert Lauderdale. “If you’ve laid hands on Katharine, you shall leave the house — for the last time. Tell me what happened, Jack — Katharine — both of you!”
“We quarrelled and didn’t see Katharine,” said John, his brown eyes on fire. “She thought we’d fight, and ran forward and held me round the neck to keep us apart. Her father dragged her away violently and she fell. Then I hit him.”
“I didn’t drag her violently—”
“Katharine — isn’t that what happened?” asked Ralston.
Old Lauderdale bent down towards her again — but there was no need of looking into her eyes to find the truth there. Her only thought was for Ralston, and he was speaking the truth. She loved him as few women love. She had loved him through good and evil report, with all her soul. And she was ruthless of others, as loving women are. For his sake, she would have sent her father to the gallows, if he had done murder, and if the one word which might have saved him could have done Ralston the least hurt.
“It’s exactly as Jack says,” she answered, in clear tones. “He pulled me from Jack and threw me down.”
Then the old man’s wrath broke out like flame. But there was a little pause first. The blood rushed to his pale cheeks, his bony hands were clenched, and the old veins swelled to bursting in his throat and at his temples. The broken, harsh voice thundered and crashed as he cursed his nephew.
“God damn you, sir! Leave my house this instant!”
“It’s useless to argue with a man in your state—” he began.
“Are you going, you damned coward?” roared old Robert. “Ring the bell, Jack — send for the men — turn that brute out—”
He was beside himself with rage, but John glanced at Alexander, and then walked slowly towards the nearest bell. He was not inclined to spare the man who had injured Katharine. Perhaps most men in his position would have carried out the orders of the master of the house. Seeing that he was in the act to press the button, Alexander yielded. It was not at all probable that the millionaire’s half dozen Englishmen would disobey their master, and Robert was capable at the present moment of having him literally kicked into the middle of the street. He had the temper that ran through all the blood of the Lauderdale tribe, and it was up — the fierce, Lowland Scotch temper that is hard to rouse, and long controllable, but dangerous at the last. He had disliked and despised his nephew for years, but had not sought occasion against him. The occasion had come suddenly and by violence, and the wild beast in him was let loose.
Katharine’s eyes followed her father’s tall figure, as he stalked out of the room, with an odd expression. She was avenged for much in that moment.
“Brute!” growled Robert Lauderdale, as he disappeared behind the curtain.
“Infernal scoundrel!” answered Ralston, through his closed teeth.
“I’m so sorry I screamed, uncle Robert,” said Katharine. “I waked you—”
Mrs. Deems interrupted her. She had ripped the seam of the tight sleeve, for she knew that it could not be drawn over the broken arm. On the white flesh there were two sets of marks — the one red, and evidently produced in the late struggle. The others were black and blue. They were side by side, the one set a little higher than the second. The arm was already much swollen. Mrs. Deems had listened in silence to what had been said, and her womanly heart had risen in sympathy for Katharine. She touched Robert Lauderdale’s sleeve, and pointed to the old marks on Katharine’s arm, calling his attention to them.
“Those weren’t made now, Mr. Lauderdale,” she said, in a low, matter-of-fact tone.
“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!”
She tried to laugh to reassure him. Then a sharp twinge from the broken limb drew her face. The expression of her suffering was instantly reflected in the old man’s features, and his bushy white eyebrows bent themselves.
“Routh will be here in a minute,” he said, as though reassuring her. “I’ve sent for him.”
She nodded her thanks, but said nothing. Then with her left hand she found one of his, and pressed it affectionately. He lifted hers, and pressed his bearded lips to it softly.
“It will be the worse for him,” he said, consoling her, as many men console women, with the promise of vengeance.
In his mouth the words might mean much. There are few things which a just man, justly angry, cannot accomplish against an offender, with the aid of eighty millions of working capital, so to say. Moreover, Robert Lauderdale was not dead yet, and could so change his will, if he pleased, as to keep Alexander from ever receiving any share whatsoever of the great fortune.
But Katharine was avenged already, and wished no further evil to her father. She had seen him humiliated and driven from the house, and she had felt that he was not her father, but the man who had insulted and cruelly wronged John Ralston, her lawful husband. She had not seen the blow Ralston had struck, for at that moment she had just fallen to the floor. But all the rest had happened before her eyes, and she had neither spoken word nor made sign to spare him. So far, she had been utterly merciless.
Afterwards, she wondered how she could have been so utterly hard and unforgiving, and tried to remember what she had felt, but she found it impossible. It is hard to recall an old scald when one is floating in cool water. Not that she ever forgave her father for what he did and said during those twenty-four hours — that is, in the sense of forgiving entirely and thinking of him as though nothing had happened. That would have been impossible — perhaps it would have been scarcely human. The virtue that turns the other cheek to be smitten is in danger of having its head broken by the second buffet, for cowardice takes arms of charity. But they did not quarrel to the end of their natural lives, and it seemed strange to Katharine, at a later period, that she should have looked on with a calm satisfaction that soothed her bodily pain while Robert Lauderdale ordered her father to be forcibly turned out of the house. But that is not strange, for humanity’s hardest present problem is almost always the problem of yesterday, which is in black and white, rather than the expectation of to-morrow, confusedly shadowed upon the mist of what is not yet, by the light of the hope of what may be.
There was a sort of justice, too, in the fact that Robert Lauderdale, who had once quarrelled with John during the winter, should now be taking his side, and be forced to take it by every conviction of fairness. The only thing which Katharine could not understand was her father’s own behaviour towards his uncle. It was in accordance with his temper that he should behave to her as he had behaved, and to John Ralston also. But it would have seemed more natural that he should have controlled himself, even by a great effort, rather than have risked offending the possessor of the fortune. On that afternoon he had seemed from the first to be braving the old man’s anger. This was a mystery to Katharine. It seemed almost like premeditation. Yet she knew her father’s limitations, and was sure that he was not able to form a deep scheme and carry it out, while mystifying every one who looked on. He was dull, he was methodical, he was exact. He was also miserly, as she had lately discovered. But he was a man to keep a secret, rather than to produce one which should need keeping, and she almost suspected that he had lost his senses out of sheer anger, though she knew that he was able to control his temper longer than most men, when he pleased.
So far as the present was concerned, she felt, as she might well feel, that she was amply avenged, and when Robert Lauderdale seemed to be threatening further vengeance, she protested.
“Don’t make it any worse, uncle Robert,” she said, with an effort, for she was growing very faint. “But you must keep me here till I’m well, if you will. I can’t go home to him now.”
“Of course, child — of course! Should you like your mother to come and take care of you?”
“Oh, no — thank you — let me be with you. We’ll be inv
alids together, you know.” She smiled again, opening and closing her eyes. “Don’t forget yourself, now,” she continued. “You’ve had too much exertion — too much excitement — sit down and rest — here they come with the tea and things.”
John and Mrs. Deems entered in close succession. John had insisted upon bringing the tea-tray himself, after overcoming Leek’s objection with the greatest difficulty. But Leek appeared, nevertheless, playing footman to Ralston as butler, so to say, and bearing a folding stand, which he set down beside Katharine. Mrs. Deems had a bowl of ice and a pile of napkins, with which she intended to cool Katharine’s arm until Dr. Routh arrived.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said Leek to the old gentleman. “The old brougham was just in with the bays, from exercise, William said, sir, so I sent him as he was for Doctor Routh, sir. I hope I did right, sir?”
“Quite right, Leek — very sensible of you,” answered the old gentleman. “Just help me to a chair, will you? I’m a little stiff from standing so long. And get us some light. It’s growing dark.”
Leek and Ralston installed him in a comfortable chair on the other side of the tea-table. Mrs. Deems was packing Katharine’s arm in ice. The young girl’s face twitched nervously at first, but grew calmer as the cold began to overcome the inflammation.
Old Lauderdale watched the operation with interest and sympathy. No one but Mrs. Deems knew what Katharine must have suffered before she began to feel the effects of the ice. Ralston stood by in silence, looking at Katharine’s face and ready to help if he were needed, which was far from probable. He was still pale, and the passions so furiously roused were still at work within him. He could not help dreaming of his next meeting with Alexander Junior, wondering when it would take place and what would happen; but he had the deep and incomparable satisfaction of an angry man who has dealt his enemy one successful blow. There had been nothing wrong about that blow — it had gone straight from the shoulder, it had not been parried, and it had crushed the mouth he hated. And even afterwards, in the struggle that had followed, Alexander had not thrown him, in spite of size and weight in his favour — these had been matched by youth and quickness. The moment the two men had seen that Katharine was hurt, they had loosed their hold on one another and gone to her, just as the servants had rushed into the room. But John was not satisfied, as Katharine was. He had tasted blood, and he thirsted for more — to have his fight out, and win or be beaten without interference. He meant to win, and he knew he could make even defeat dangerous, for he was quick of his hands and feet, and tough.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 728