Katherine Lauderdale; Vol. 2 of 2Crawford, F. Marion (Francis Marion)
General
Katherine Lauderdale; Vol. 2 of 2
Crawford, F. Marion (Francis Marion)
Families -- Fiction; Interpersonal relations -- Fiction; New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Upper class -- Fiction
John listened at the open door, and heard the latch turned, and
immediately afterwards the sound of a man’s voice, which he recognized
as that of Doctor Routh. The doctor had been one of the Admiral’s
firmest friends, and was, moreover, a man of very great reputation in
New York. It was improbable that, except for some matter of life and
death, any one but Mrs. Ralston could have got him to leave his fireside
at midnight and in such weather.
“It’s an awful night, Mrs. Ralston,” John heard him say, and the words
were accompanied by a stamping of feet, followed by the unmistakable
soft noise of india-rubber overshoes kicked off, one after the other,
upon the marble floor of the entry.
John retired into his room again, leaving the door open, and waited
before the fireplace. Far down below he could hear the voices of his
mother and Doctor Routh. They were evidently talking the matter over
before coming up. Then their soft tread upon the carpeted stairs told
him that they were on their way to his room.
Mrs. Ralston entered first, and stood aside to let the doctor pass her
before she closed the door. Doctor Routh was enormously tall. He wore a
long white beard, and carried his head very much bent forward. His eyes
were of the very dark blue which is sometimes called violet, and when he
was looking directly in front of him, the white was visible below the
iris. He had delicate hands, but was otherwise rough in appearance, and
walked with a heavy tread and a long stride, as a strong man marches
with a load on his back.
He stopped before John, looked keenly at him, and smiled. He had known
him since he had been a boy.
“Well, young man,” he said, “you look pretty badly used up. What’s the
matter with you?”
“Have I been drinking, doctor? That’s the question.” John did not smile
as he shook hands.
“I don’t know,” answered the physician. “Let me look at you.”
He was holding the young man’s hand, and pressing it gently, as though
to judge of its temperature. He made him sit down under the bright
gas-light by the dressing table, and began to examine him carefully.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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