Littell's Living Age/Volume 129/Issue 1665/The Dilemma - Part XXVI

by George Tomkyns Chesney

From Blackwood's Magazine.

THE DILEMMA.

CHAPTER LVI.

Yorke arrived at "The Beeches" only a few minutes before dinner-time. Everybody had retired to dress, and the blaze of lights and array of extra waiters bustling about betokened a party, while the presence of the gentlemanly-looking person in the hall proclaimed that Mr. Hanckes was among the guests; but Mr. Peevor came out to greet him, receiving the apologies which Yorke made for his unceremonious departure in quite an apologetic manner. "Pray do not mention it, colonel; business is business, of course, and must be attended to; I am a business man myself, you know. I have to go to town myself to-morrow; treating you quite unceremoniously, you see. But I am so glad that you have been able to return in time for dinner, as we have a few friends whom I should like to introduce to you. So sorry there was no carriage to meet you at the station: if we could have guessed you were coming by that train, I should have made a point of sending one. Those flies are so cold and drafty."

On descending to the blue drawing-room, Yorke found a large party assembled, including Mr. Hanckes, who had come down by the previous train, and he had barely time to pay his greetings to the ladies of the family when dinner was announced. Although the occasion did not lend itself to love-passages, for Lucy was surrounded by visitors, it would have been easy for a lover during the brief moment while he held her hand in his to exchange signals with the eyes that would have been easily understood; but although she cast a timid inquiring glance at her hero, as if to learn in what mood to find him, it met with no response. Poor Lucy showed only too plainly that she was so much in love as to be ready to accept her lover on his own terms; and in his present mood he was cruel enough to take advantage of his conquest. Perchance the absence of difficulty in winning it had robbed the prize of its value. He did not even notice that she was taken in to dinner by Mr. Hanckes. It fell to him to give his arm to the hostess; and sitting at the same side of the long table as Lucy, and at the other end of it, she could not see him, and he sat moody and preoccupied, not caring to watch her. This eating and drinking, all this pomp and display, and waste of food and wine, and show and glitter, jarred harshly on his senses, as he contrasted the forlorn condition of his two friends so close at hand, and he was in no humour for small-talk and civility. But Mrs. Peevor was at no time a great talker; and after a few necessary commonplaces about the children, and a polite reference to the business which called him away, she was sufficiently occupied in watching the progress of the feast. The lady on his right was one of those numerous members of society who go persistently to dinner-parties without the least intention of amusing or being amused, and on this occasion was allowed full liberty to gratify her tastes. But, long and dreary though the meal was to Yorke, the sitting in silence and inaction through the long courses seemed preferable to moving away; and when the ladies left the room — Lucy casting back as she passed out a timid glance, to which he merely answered with an empty smile — Mr. Peevor moved up to his wife's seat, and accepted his languid attention as sufficient encouragement to launch into the domestic price-current with a degree of havering persistence that rendered a listener superfluous, and was easily led on to protract the sitting to a much greater length than usual, till even some of the ten decanters showed signs of exhaustion. Yorke, as he well knew, had a duty to do in the drawing-room. To meet Lucy again otherwise than on the new footing justified by what had passed the day before, would be cruel and cowardly. Yet because in his present mood it was a duty and no more, what had still to be done seemed now distasteful. Was it because the events of the last few hours had brought back so vividly the day-dreams of his early manhood, and that he shrank from the effort of finally casting off the bonds which he had worn so long that they had grown to be a part of himself? Or was it the reason which he put before himself as the real one, that to be indulging at such a time in schemes for his own happiness was a selfish desecration of old friendship for the two unhappy persons for whose sufferings he professed to feel so deeply? Whatever the real cause, it was at any rate a sort of relief that the gentlemen sat unusually long over their wine, not moving to the yellow drawing-room till it was nearly time for the visitors' carriages to arrive. Even then Mr. Peevor insisted on bringing up the different male guests to be introduced to him — middle-aged gentlemen all apparently connected in some way with the city; and then on taking him round to be introduced to their various partners, matrons of more or less ample figure, as his (Mr. Peevor's) distinguished friend, Colonel Yorke, the Victoria-Cross man, and so forth. And on this occasion he was almost glad to have to go through the ceremony; it gave him an excuse for avoiding Lucy, although he could not help noticing how distraught she looked, as she interrupted the conversation in which Mr. Hanckes was engaging her to steal a troubled glance in his direction. Poor little Lucy! The first real gentleman as it seemed to her that she had ever met, and a hero to boot, this noble creature who had won her simple heart almost from the first moment he had looked at her, this splendid being she had fondly believed to have also fallen in love with herself! but the cup of bliss seemed now to be shattered almost before she had raised it to her lips, and for the first time in her short life, tranquil and tame, she felt all the pangs of real unhappiness.

Even when the guests, except Mr. Hanckes, who was to stop for the night, had taken their departure, and their party was reduced to half-a-dozen persons — for Miss Maria had not come down-stairs this evening — he engaged Miss Cathy in conversation in quite another part of the large room. Miss Cathy had taken advantage of the thaw to go out hunting that morning, and was full of regrets at his absence; there had been two capital runs, and so forth, although mostly over Sunfern Common, which was not like the grass country: and Yorke found it easy to keep the conversation to that subject, Mr. Hanckes coming up to join, and expressing his sympathy with Yorke in having lost his day's 'unting; for although not a hunting-man himself, he could understand how much the colonel would have enjoyed it, especially in such company. Such a pity too for Miss Cathy to have been obliged to go alone. For Mr. Hanckes had made up his mind that Yorke's attentions were paid to the horsewoman of the family, as became a military man, and was therefore quite easy about his presence in the house. Lucy meanwhile sat in a corner looking over an album of photographs which she had seen a hundred times before.

But when the ladies rose to say goodnight, and Yorke, who was standing near the door, opened it for them, Lucy's face as she passed out, the last of the three ladies, looked so pitiful — he had held out his hand, which she took without raising her eyes — that he relented from his selfish preoccupation.

"Lucy," he said, in a low voice, following her into the hall, "I have to ask your pardon for a hundred sins this evening; but I have been meeting with some very dear friends who are in sore trouble, and I could not shake off the effect it has produced. Can you forgive me if I tell you so much?" and at the look which accompanied these words, and which Lucy's now upraised eyes received, the poor girl's face brightened up at once, and she stood irresolute returning his smile, while the tears of joy came up to relieve the anxious little heart. True, this was not quite what she had expected love-making to be; but then she had not yet quite got over her awe of her lover, and to know that he was her lover seemed sufficient happiness.

She stood still in the hall, waiting for something more to be said, or perhaps trying to say something herself; while Cathy, who had left the room just before her, divining possibly that the conversation was of an interesting nature, had hurried up the staircase and was now out of sight.

"But we must not stand here," continued Yorke with a smile, "or Mr. Hanckes will be jealous;" and Lucy tripped off, her heart dancing with joy.

"Certainly," thought Yorke, as he watched her graceful little figure retreating, the rich brown hair and the handsome toilet seeming to be in keeping with the luxurious surroundings of the scene, "if a man may be satisfied with a pretty face, and a loving heart, and a sweet temper, I must be an ill-conditioned fellow to feel any misgivings."

The die was cast now at any rate, but he felt in no humour for an interview that night with Mr. Peevor; nor was a convenient opportunity afforded for doing so. Mr. Hanckes retired at once, announcing himself to be an early sleeper; and Mr. Peevor apologetically proposed that there should be no billiards that evening, as he had to go to town himself early next day on business. So Yorke sought his room to think over the strange incongruity of his position. So long believing himself to be inconsolable, and now to be establishing new interests, and to have found real happiness in his grasp at last, at the very time when he found himself again in Olivia's presence — to be making love to another woman when his first love, the only woman he used to think whom he ever could love, was in loneliness and suffering hard by. And there came up, too, the sense that a new duty must now fall upon him. He could not minister to Olivia's wants. In her deserted condition anything like familiarity must be guarded against as leading to possible misconception; but could he reconcile it to his duty to be taking his pleasure while Falkland, was hiding his sufferings in some lonely retreat? Was it not his plain duty to devote himself so long as his leave lasted to companionship with Falkland's wrecked fortunes? Life was now very sweet to Yorke; and it was with a full sense of the extent of the sacrifice that he resolved to make it, if Falkland on the morrow should show any disposition for his companionship. But this must not prevent his coming to an understanding with Lucy's father. That was a plain duty too.

But Yorke's was not the age for broken nights, and while arranging his plans for the morrow he soon fell asleep.

CHAPTER LVII.

It seemed to the household of "The Beeches" to be yet early in the night, but in reality it was morning, although still quite dark, when its slumbering inmates were aroused by an alarm of fire. But Yorke, jumping up and huddling on some clothes, could make out soon among the hurried questions and answers exchanged between Mr. Peevor inside his room and the butler without, interrupted exclamations from Mrs. Peevor about the children, and general banging of doors and whisperings in the corridors, that the butler was trying to explain that it was not "The Beeches" which was on fire, but some place in the neighbourhood. Johnson the engineer, who slept outside, getting up to tend the furnaces, had seen the glare, and had awakened the butler to know if the engine should be sent; and the word "fire" having been caught up by somebody who heard the noise of Johnson's knocking at the door, the alarm had been spread over the whole house.

"Is there an engine on the place?" called out Yorke to Mr. Peevor; "of course you will send it, sir; I will go with it; I will be ready in a minute."

"And I too," cried Mr. Hanckes from his room; "I'll just get 'old of a few warm things first;" and in a few seconds the two gentlemen were hurrying downstairs, the shutting of doors as they passed along the corridor indicating that the fair inmates of the different chambers had all been aroused by the alarm, and were peering out in dishabille, to know what all the noise was about.

Issuing from the house, Mr. Peevor calling to them, as the butler opened the hall-door to let them out, to be sure and wrap up well or they would take cold, the gentlemen found that by Johnson's exertions the engine had already been brought out into the stable-yard, while harness was being put on a couple of horses. "It was I got Peevor to have an engine on the place," said Mr. Hanckes to Yorke as they stood waiting in the yard; "I can't abide fires. We had a fire in our warehouse once, with fifty thousand gallon of hoil all round — balsam to the tune of fifty thousand gallon all round, ready to blaze up. A nice little bonfire it would have made, I expect. That was a anxious moment, I do assure you; it was touch and go, and no mistake; and we just got it under in time. But we live and learn. I've took precaution enough since, and now we could flood the 'ole place — the whole place could be flooded in five minutes. And then I gave Peevor no peace till he bought an engine too. 'Peevor,' I says, 'you've got a sight of valuables, and everything a man of taste can want, except an engine to keep 'em safe; do you want to be burnt out of 'ouse and 'ome — do you want to be burnt out of house and home some fine night? You must just get a first-class hengine, that's what you must do, and lose no time about it.' And so he got me to choose a engine for him, and a real beauty it is, made to order with all the latest improvements, and it may be of use to the neighbours as well as to him. Not that we shall do much in the salvage line to-night, I expect; the fire seems too much gone for that;" and indeed from where they stood the glare could be seen in the sky, high above the yard-wall and the garden-trees beyond.

"Here comes the horses at last," continued Mr. Hanckes; "if our lads at the shop weren't a trifle smarter than Peevor's own people, it ain't much balsam we should turn out in the course of a twelve-month, nor yet much clarifying neither. Now then, which of you boys are coming? there's room for six besides Johnson and me. Colonel, you'll drive, I hope; it's a case of pace this is." And Yorke taking the reins jumped on the box; and the others, gardeners and stablemen, clambering up on the side seats, the engine rattled out of the yard, and along the avenue, faster than the horses had ever gone before.

As they entered the highroad at the end of the avenue the glare was so bright it seemed as if the fire must be close at hand; but the men said that there was no house near to "The Beeches" in that direction, and Yorke drove furiously along the road, waiting for the first opening to turn towards the fire.

A very few minutes' driving brought them to the point where the road turned down towards the river, the same down which he had made his eventful walk with Lucy, and there an opening in the line of hedge showed them the fire itself, the glare of which had been seen so high in the sky, blazing at the bottom of the hill, evidently on the bank of the river.

"'Tis the inn by the river," said one of the men; "'tis the River Belle; how it do blaze, to be sure!" and in another moment they lost sight of the actual flame, as Yorke turned the horses at a gallop down the steep hill.

The party were silent now, busy in holding on to their narrow seats, as the engine swayed to and fro with the furious driving, the glare becoming brighter every moment.

The bottom of the hill was soon reached, and, rattling round the corner, Yorke pulled up the horses short at the river-bank, as the truth of which he had an uneasy foreboding during the drive was now made clear. On the right, where the inn should be, all was dark and still: the burning house was on their left — it was Olivia's.

While the others jumping from their seats began to set about getting the engine ready to work, Yorke ran forward a few paces through the gate into the little garden.

The house was now all on fire, flames rushing out of the roof and windows. Before it on the lawn stood a few onlookers, gazing idly at the spectacle which lighted up their faces.

"You've a-come along with that there engine, I suppose, sir? " said one of the little group to Yorke, a stout elderly man, whom he at once recognized to be the landlord of the River Belle. "'Taint a bit of good pouring water on that there fire; you might pour the whole river on it now, and nothing come of it."

"And the family?" said Yorke, almost breathless with excitement, — "the lady and children?"

"Oh, they was got out all right, and the nuss too; but the gentleman ——"

"What gentleman?"

"Him as was staying at my place, over at the Belle yonder," said the man, pointing in the direction of the inn; "he saved the lady first and then the children; 'twas wonderful to see how he went up the ladder, and him with only one arm too. 'Twas an uncommon close thing, sure, for the house is that frail it didn't want much lighting; it was all in a blaze afore a soul heerd of it."

Yorke stood silent, and the man went on.

"Yes, 'twas a wonderful sight to see: there was the lady a-wringing of her hands at the winder, and the nuss a-screaming like a railway whistle; and we puts the ladder up agen' the winder, and the gentleman he runs up it, and helps the nuss down — hands her to our Joe — that's our pot-boy — who was close behind of him, and then he wants the lady to follow; I seed it all myself, for I was a-helping to keep the ladder steady; but the lady she calls out that the children are inside, and so the gentleman he goes in at the winder, and brings out the two children, fust one and then the other — for you see he couldn't carry but one at a time because of him only having one arm — brings them right out of the fire, as one may say — for it were burning very fierce even then, almost as fierce as you see it a-burning now — and hands them out to our Joe; and the poor little things, though they was in their night-shifts they wasn't even singed, for he covered them in his big cloak — only frightened a bit; and then the gentleman he wants the lady to step over the window-sill and on to the ladder, but she seemed all dazed like with fear; I could see her a-standing before the window looking as it might be at a ghost. Then the gentleman he calls out to Joe; 'Can you pass me up a bit of rope?' says he. So we soon gets a bit of rope and hands it to Joe, and he hands it to the gentleman, and the gentleman he tried for to tie the lady up with it, but couldn't manage it on account of his having only one hand, you see. So then Joe he goes up, and the two together they passes the rope and a sheet round the lady (who seemed all in a faint like), and lifts her out, and then they all come down, — fust the lady, and then Joe holding one end of the line, and the gentleman a-holding of the other, and every one a-shouting like mad — for there was quite a crowd round here — to see him so gallant and dextrous. And our Joe, he behaved uncommon well too — I must say that for our Joe. Well, sir, we all thought they was quite safe out of it, and a good job too, when just as they had got to the bottom, and the lady was on the ground, a great piece of the eaveboard — that there great piece as you see lying there — came down and struck the gentleman on the head, and he fell off the ladder, stunned like, as well he might be, for it must be a matter of half a hundred-weight if it's a pound. Oh, it were a pity! — it were indeed, and him having acted so gallant and noble."

Yorke had stood still, fascinated by the tale, listening to the man's recital. The words came with difficulty as he asked, "Was the gentleman much hurt?"

"Stunned complete, and his poor face was an awful objec'. The lady, she knelt down by him on the wet ground, and took hold of his hand in hers and began a-rubbing of it; but that wouldn't do no good, of course. We carried him in to the Belle, and my missis is a-looking after him, and Joe has run for the doctor; he ought to be back soon. His face is that ghastly — well, 'tis a sad thing, surelie, to save four lives and maybe lose of his own, and him having acted so gallant and noble."

CHAPTER LVIII.

The little inn was crowded with people, for the fire had aroused the whole neighbourhood; and the lookers-on, now that the interest was transferred here from the blazing house, had for the most part adjourned to the tap to discuss the event over something to drink, and perhaps to get a further glimpse of some of the principal actors in it; but the good landlady, standing by the door of the parlour into which Falkland had been carried, kept off the curious from looking inside, while giving her instructions to the maid busily employed in the tap-room on the other side of the passage. She recognized Yorke, however, as Falkland's friend, and at once gave him admission.

The body of the injured man had been placed on the little couch; beside it knelt Olivia, her long hair falling loose over her shoulders, grasping her husband's hand in her own, and gazing with blanched and horror-stricken face at the mutilated, senseless features before her. Remorse, terror, pity, and affection, made up a look of agony in the unhappy wife's face in keeping with the tragic situation.

Yorke could find no words of comfort or consolation, nor could he tell from her rapt look whether she was conscious of his presence.

Some time he stood behind her, gazing, too, at the sad spectacle — the scars made by the accident blending with the old wounds; then he stepped forwards, and gently drew the coverlet over the shattered face.

As he did so, Olivia raised her head and looked at him with the same horror-stricken, stony stare. No sign of recognition escaped her, yet he could see she knew him, and understood the motive for his action. Then she again looked away from him to the muffled figure.

Yorke thought at first that Falkland was dead; but gazing at the body in the stillness he could perceive a slight movement. He placed his hand on the heart; it was still feebly beating.

As he did this, Olivia again looked up, with an expression of dumb inquiry.

"He still breathes," said Yorke, in a low voice.

Then Olivia turned her face again towards the figure on the couch.

Thus the time passed. Yorke stood silent by Olivia's side, while she still knelt, holding Falkland's hand. She seemed too deeply affected to be accessible to any attempt at consolation.

Presently the landlady opened the door, and the doctor entered the room. He was an elderly man, kindly-looking. He felt Falkland's pulse, watching Olivia the while, and then beckoned Yorke aside. "I must examine the patient," he said, "to see what the injuries are: can you remove the lady? Poor thing, she seems greatly affected, and no wonder; they tell me he saved her life and her children's; but I fear he may have lost his own in doing so."

Olivia looked up at them as they whispered in the corner, and then pointing with her eyes at the prostrate form before her, as if inviting them to proceed with their task, bent her head down, burying her face in her hands, which rested on the edge of the couch.

"She will not leave her post," said Yorke, in an undertone. "He was a very dear friend, although they had not met for many years; you had better let her stay. The shock has been great; I fear to attempt to rouse her from it. The family doctor — a very old friend — is coming down this morning and should be here soon; if anything immediate is required, pray do it; but otherwise it would be better to wait till he arrives."

A few minutes passed, and the doctor, again covering the shattered features, drew Yorke aside. There was concussion of the brain, he said, and great depression of the heart's action. Whether relief by an operation might be possible he could not say at present; perhaps it would be better to wait till Dr. Maxwell arrived; at any rate there was nothing to be done just at present; he would call again shortly to meet him. Could he and his wife be of any use? the lady must be in a very destitute condition; they would gladly receive her and the children for a time; they lived about a mile off. But Yorke said he would telegraph to a lady in town, who was an old friend, to come down at once. It seemed, indeed, the best thing he could do; for the idea occurred to him that by enlisting Mrs. Polwheedle's services as a principal in this difficulty, she might be the more readily induced to keep the secret of which she was already possessed. And the doctor, as he left the room, promised to drive straight to the nearest post-office with the telegram which Yorke had scribbled on a leaf of his pocket-book.

Time passed on, and the grey winter daylight came into the little room, where Olivia still knelt by the couch, her face buried in her hands. Was her poor stricken heart sending up some broken prayers to heaven, or was she too crushed to think? All was now quiet about the place. The people who had hung about the tap-room having come to the end of their cash or their capacity for beer, had gone their several ways; the children apparently had been gotten to sleep, for there was no movement up-stairs; and Yorke seemed to be the only person awake, as standing by the window he looked out on the dull winter landscape — the swollen river flowing by, the view bounded by the leafless branches of the trees which bordered its banks, the smouldering ruins of the burnt house in the foreground, while the past history of the two unfortunate beings who shared the little chamber with him passed swiftly through his mind. Ruin indeed! What picture could depict the ruin which had fallen on these two — the best, the noblest, as he used to think, of all he knew?

Presently the sound of wheels could be heard, and a carriage stopped before the inn, on the road which ran by the back of the house.

Yorke went out to see who had come, and turning round as he left the room, he saw that Olivia, still on her knees, did not appear to notice his departure.

As he came up to the carriage, Mr. Hanckes, who had just got down, was helping Lucy to alight, followed by her maid.

Lucy had come to fetch the lady and children, the news of whose escape and homeless condition had been conveyed to "The Beeches" by the engine-party returning from their fruitless errand. The carriage was full of cloaks and shawls. Mrs. Peevor would have come, but was not ready. "I was dressed first," Lucy explained, "and papa thought I had better start at once, so that no time might be lost, and Mr. Hanckes was kind enough to come too, and says he will walk back to make room." There was more to the same effect, messages "of condolence, and inquiries after the poor gentleman who was so dreadfully hurt. Mr. Peevor would come down presently with Johnson to see if he could be moved to "The Beeches;" but there were pressing entreaties that the lady and children would return at once in the carriage.

Mr. Hanckes moved off to have a look at the fire, while Yorke thought for a moment what would be best to do. A woman might perhaps supply the consolation and help for Olivia, of which she must be sorely in need, but which he felt unable to give; but he shrank from letting Lucy witness the scene within; nor, he felt sure, would Olivia be persuaded to leave her post at present. Above all, the secret must be kept if possible. He replied, therefore, that the lady would not wish to leave at present, till the doctor came from town, who was expected very soon. He was an old friend, and would advise what to do. The injured man lay between life and death, and there was the deepest anxiety till Dr. Maxwell should arrive and propose some treatment. But he would tell Mrs. Wood of the kind plans suggested, and would urge her to accept the offer later in the day, unless indeed a lady, an old friend, who had been telegraphed for, or Dr. Maxwell, should propose to take her away. At any rate she would feel deeply the kindness of Lucy and the family.

Lucy asked if she could not take back the children — they at any rate would be better out of the way; and Yorke explained that they had been put to bed, and were asleep. But later in the day it might be a great kindness to send for them.

"And you yourself?" asked Lucy, whose earnestness in the matter had so far kept her free from embarrassment, and who was talking to her lover with more self-possession than she could have commanded a few hours before.

"I will stay, at any rate till Dr. Maxwell arrives. I will then send word what is proposed, or come to tell Mr. Peevor myself. Pray ask him not to be at the trouble of coming himself, or sending again till he hears from me; perfect quiet is the best thing for the injured man." Yorke wanted to keep the family away till he could arrange a plan with Maxwell.

"The poor gentleman was an old friend of Mrs. Wood, we hear," said Lucy.

"Yes, they knew each other in India some years ago; we were all intimate together; that accounts for the interest I take in them: it is a strange story." As Yorke said this with as much indifference of manner as he could command, he could see that Lucy was conscious that more was meant than was implied. There was a moment's embarrassment, and then Lucy, stepping back to the carriage, produced his dressing-bag. "Rundall, the man who waits on you," she said with a little blush, "has put up your things for you. I thought perhaps you might be wanting to stay for a time, and that it might be useful to bring this." And as Yorke took the bag from her he could not forbear from pressing the little hand, accompanying the action with a kindly glance which sent Lucy's eyes dancing with pleasure. The next moment he felt ashamed of doing so; was this a time for love-making, when those he professed to hold so dear to him were close by, the victims of a dreadful fate?

And yet something was due to his gentle little sweetheart. "Lucy," he said, with some hesitation — "Lucy, dear, you must be thinking me a sulky, ill-conditioned fellow. But don't judge me, please, by late appearances. I believe you will find me a simple, straightforward fellow enough, who will try at any rate to deserve his good fortune," — and again he pressed the little hand which he still held; "but can you understand that — that I have been living another life all these years before we met, and that there have been other interests and other feelings at work? Lucy, dear, some day perhaps I may be able to tell you a part of my history, and if you knew it, you are so single-minded I think you would not wish me to play the lover just now."

Lucy's glance upwards was a sufficient reply, nor was there time for more, Mr. Hanckes at this moment coming up again, with the maid, who also had gone to look at the fire; and after seeing the party drive away, Yorke returned inside, and opening the parlour-door quietly, looked into the room. Olivia had not changed her place, but was no longer kneeling; she had sunk on the ground, her head still resting on the couch and buried in her hands. Asking the landlady, who was now up and about again, not to disturb her, Yorke sought a room and made his toilet; and then coming down-stairs found that some breakfast had been got ready for him in the bar-room, of which he could not help feeling ready to partake, thinking, as he did so, what an unconscious satire on the miseries of life was the need for supplying its daily wants. Here was a scene enacting in the next room of a sort to harrow the coldest nature, even if there were no special ties involved; yet in the midst of these miseries he could still be hungry. The landlady wanted to take in some tea to Olivia, but Yorke stopped her: that grief at least was too sacred to be disturbed. Nor would Yorke himself return to the room on the other side of the passage till Maxwell should arrive; he was due by this time.

Presently the sound of wheels was heard, and his cab drove up. Outside under the trees Yorke made him acquainted in a few words with what had passed, and then led the way to the little parlour.

Olivia was still as Yorke had last seen her, crouching on the floor, her head buried in her hands, which rested on the edge of the couch. She did not move as they approached.

Maxwell felt the pulse of the prostrate form for a long time, and in silence. Then he stooped over it and laid his hand on the heart.

"It is all over," he said at last in a low voice to Yorke, who stood by anxiously watching him; "he must have been dead some time," and drew the covering over the part of the face which was still exposed.

"Olivia," he then said in louder tones, taking one of her hands, "will you not come to your children?"

At this appeal Olivia, raising her head, turned her pale face up towards him, the large eyes staring fixedly at him, as if not understanding what was said.

Maxwell made a sign to Yorke to help, and the latter taking her other hand, the two lifted her from the ground and led her from the room.

CHAPTER LIX.

Long and anxious was the consultation between the two friends, when an hour or more afterwards Maxwell rejoined Yorke down-stairs, and they paced together the little garden before the inn. Both felt that there was no cause for sorrow in the fate of their friend, bereft of hope, and whose heroic death was in harmony with his noble self-sacrificing life; and after a short time their thoughts turned to the cares of the living. The shock undergone by Olivia had been greater to the brain than the nerves, said the doctor; there was great mental excitement, and no relief from tears or faintness, and it was difficult to decide what was best to be done. Stay here she could not, yet she was not fit to travel to the south, as was intended, still less to be left alone. "I almost think," he continued, "it would be best to accept the offer of your friends, and take her to them for a while, if you think they are really prepared to exercise so much hospitality."

Yorke knew enough of the Peevors to feel sure of this, and that, under present circumstances, they would not in the least resent her being taken to them under an assumed name, should they come to know it afterwards. They were just the people not to feel prudish at such a thing, and they would certainly be kind and hospitable; but then the difficulty of keeping the secret would be much increased by going to "The Beeches."

"It is no good trying to keep the secret," replied Maxwell; "she has told it to the landlady half-a-dozen times already, although the latter evidently regards it as a delusion brought on by the shock. And then there will have to be an inquest, so that secrecy seems impossible. Mrs. Polwheedle will be a comfort if she comes, bringing an old face at any rate; but she at the most could take her into London lodgings, and that would not be a fit place for her. Perfect quiet is what is wanted, and that, I understand, she might get at your friends' house. I really think that is the best thing we can do for her just at present. But we must wait and see whether Mrs. Polwheedle comes."

That lady arrived about mid-day. Yorke had done no more than justice to her good-nature in sending her this summons. She had come down by the first train after receiving it, taking a fly from the Shoalbrook station. It was not perhaps very easy to convey to her a clear idea of what had happened, she had so much to say herself; but she was unaffectedly glad to be of use; and as she mounted the narrow staircase after exchanging a few words with the landlady, a strong feeling of sympathy with Olivia was mingled with a sense of self-importance at having been called on to help.

When Maxwell rejoined Yorke, after showing Mrs. Polwheedle up-stairs, he had thought of a temporary home for Olivia. A cousin of his, a maiden lady, was head of a small sisterhood in the neighbourhood of London, where perhaps Olivia and her children might be received for a time. There she would be free from intrusion, and be sure of quiet and good nursing if needed. And, indeed, she was likely to want it, continued the doctor; this brain-excitement was very distressing and serious. He would go to Shoalbrook at once and telegraph to his cousin from there, and also procure a sedative, and if possible see the coroner, and arrange also for the unfortunate husband's funeral, returning to the inn as quickly as possible. But it might not be practicable to secure her reception at the sisterhood that day; Yorke had better see his friends and prepare for Olivia's moving to "The Beeches" if necessary. It was all-important that she should have a change of scene of some sort. So while the one returned in Mrs. Polwheedle's fly to Shoalbrook, the other walked up to "The Beeches."

Yorke's wish that Olivia should be left in quiet for a time had been respected; but he found a strong feeling of sympathy among all the members of the family for the unfortunate sufferers by the fire, and a keen desire to be of use. Mr. Peevor especially seemed delighted at the prospect of receiving the whole party, still more when he heard that it was to include Mrs. Polwheedle. Any friends of Colonel Yorke's, he said, were friends of his; he should have been very pleased to see them, and would have done his best to make them comfortable at any time, still more, of course, would he wish to do so under present circumstances. Mr. Peevor, indeed, who had deferred his journey to town till Yorke's return, and had already telegraphed to put off various guests invited to a dinner-party that evening, was in a state of mild excitement; a fire had happened in the neighbourhood, and there was no knowing how soon such a thing might happen again; then, in addition to the bad accident which had occurred, the sufferers by the fire had lost everything without being insured. "I never buy a picture, or a bit of china, or anything else," said Mr. Peevor, "without increasing my assurances; I should not be able to sleep a wink if I did not do this; it is anxious work enough as it is, living in such a household as this, and with so much to think about." Mr. Peevor was for sending down a couple of carriages at once to bring up the party, but Yorke explained that plans could not be finally arranged till he heard again from his friend Dr. Maxwell; and he returned alone in the dogcart laden with a parcel of clothing belonging to Mrs. Peevor, who was of about the same height as Olivia, and another of the children's things for the little ones. Lucy took this parcel from the hands of the maids who made it up, and brought it down-stairs to him. There was a change in her manner since he had seen her last, brought about by the partial revelation of the morning. She was still somewhat shy and timid; but the sense of security about her lover, which had succeeded the previous uncertainty, gave her a confidence in his presence which she had not felt till now. They had never been so much like lovers before; and Yorke driving down the hill to the river, thought with a sense almost of shame on certain little passages which passed between them as he took the parcel from her hands, a few broken words, a mere exchange of glances, but surely unfitting such a time.

As he drove up to the inn, Mrs. Polwheedle came down-stairs to meet him. Olivia had taken the sedative draught which Maxwell had sent from Shoalbrook, and was lying down: "But it does not seem to do her any good. She has begun talking now, mixing up all sorts of things in such a wild way, rolling her eyes about in a dreadful manner. I am trying to keep her quiet, but she is dreadfully excited. Perhaps after the draught takes effect she will wake up quieter."

Maxwell himself had not returned, but had sent a note to Yorke from Shoalbrook, which the latter found awaiting him at the Belle, "I must go on to town to see the lady superior," he wrote, "for her reply to my telegram is not clearly expressed. And I will arrange for the funeral being held there; it will thus attract much less attention than if held in the country. I shall be back by the evening at latest, but at any rate it will be desirable to accept your friends' offer to receive Olivia and the children for the night."

Accordingly Yorke arranged with Mrs. Polwheedle that he would come again with the carriage in the afternoon to convey the whole party to "The Beeches." Inquiring for the children, he was told that they had been sent out for a walk, and he met them returning as he drove away — which he did presently, as Mrs. Polwheedle was anxious to return to Olivia. They had been looking at the scene of the fire, and were prattling about it to their nurse as they came along, as if it were an interesting incident with which they had no personal concern. And when Yorke told the elder one that he had brought some pretty clothes for them to wear, the child became more animated and happy-looking than he had ever seen it look before.

On returning to "The Beeches," he found the ladies sitting down to luncheon. Mr. Peevor had gone off to town at last, to keep his business appointment with Mr. Hanckes, leaving many apologies for his enforced absence. And while sitting there in the well-ordered room, the table covered as usual with delicacies of which no one partook, and the ladies talking in the suppressed tones congenial to the eldest Miss Peevor, and in which the example was set by her stepmother, it seemed to Yorke for the moment as if the tragedy that had been enacted so close to them was merely a horrid dream, so difficult was it to associate the tragic with this scene of the comfortable and commonplace. Nor did the conversation turn much on the subject about which all the party were thinking; for the ladies, understanding that there was some mystery about the matter into which it did not become them to pry, with natural good-breeding abstained from more than a general expression of sympathy, and Yorke felt too deeply to find the words come freely.

But when luncheon was ended, and he rose to return, Mrs. Peevor mentioned that the rooms for Mrs. Wood and her party were quite ready, and asked what he would wish done about sending for them; and indeed the preparations had occupied all the morning. Ordinarily the getting ready of guest-chambers at "The Beeches" was a matter to be dealt with by the house-keeper; but on this occasion the sentiment of romance which had inspired Lucy extended itself to Mrs. Peevor and Cathy, and they had all been engaged in arranging the suite of rooms destined for the party, placing books and flowers in the sitting-room set apart for Olivia — and where she need see no one but Mrs. Polwheedle and the servants — to give it an air of use and comfort. A large bedroom was also in course of transformation into a day-nursery; but Yorke suggested that the children, at any rate, would like to be with the children of the house. Altogether, it was evident that, whether from the interest caused by her lonely condition and misfortunes, or from the fact of her being now known to be a friend of Yorke, Olivia and her party would be made warmly welcome, and treated also with the utmost delicacy. Mr. Peevor had left repeated injunctions about various things to be done, and especially that some of the ladies should go down to bring her away; who, Mrs. Peevor asked, did he think had better go? And Yorke, who had intended to return alone, after looking at the ladies all standing round him to receive his commands, proposed that Lucy should go. Lucy's winning face and gentle manner, he thought, might help to win the poor sufferer from the abyss of despair and self-reproach into which she had fallen. He would walk down at once, he said, if she would follow in the carriage. And Lucy, proud of being selected, and yearning to show her sympathy for her lover's friend, ran upstairs with a light step to get ready, while Yorke set off again for the riverside.

CHAPTER LX.

The short winter afternoon was drawing to a close, when Yorke again arrived at the little inn. Mrs. Polwheedle from the window had seen him enter, and waiting at the top of the little staircase, beckoned to him come up, and led the way into an empty bedroom. "She is quieter now than she has been," said the lady, closing the door, after a caution to him to speak low, as the walls were so thin; "but she has not had a wink of sleep, and it looks as if the opium had got into her head, she confuses things so. I get quite frightened sometimes with her talking: she is quiet now, but she will go on sometimes when I am outside just as if I were in the room. I do wish Maxwell would come back quickly; it would be such a comfort to know what he thinks, and have his advice. I don't half like the responsibility of keeping her here in this way. The place is not fit for a person in health to live in, leave alone one who is sick; I begin to feel quite upset myself." And indeed the good lady looked both tired and flushed.

Yorke explained what was proposed — that the carriage from "The Beeches" would arrive in a few minutes to take them away, and that Mr. and Mrs. Peevor had sent a very particular invitation to herself, which only a sense of consideration had prevented their delivering in person.

"That is very kind, I am sure," said Mrs. Polwheedle, looking pleased and mollified. "The landlady tells me 'The Beeches' is a perfect palace of a place, with everything done in the most elegant style; not that I mind at all about such things for myself, but I am sure it will do the poor thing good to go there. But I am not so sure about our getting her to go. She does talk so very strangely about things. But perhaps you had better go in and see if you can persuade her. I will stop outside for a bit and get the things ready."

So saying, Mrs. Polwheedle opened the door, and then, pushing open the one on the opposite side of the little landing, motioned to Yorke to enter the room to which it belonged. It was a small bedroom, used as a sitting-room for the occasion, there being no parlour up-stairs. As Yorke entered, Olivia, who seemed to be walking restlessly up and down, and was looking the other way, turned sharply round. She still wore the dress in which she had made her escape that morning, but the long hair was now arranged in coils round the head, although not with her usual neatness, and she wore a scarf round her shoulders; but although Yorke instinctively noted these details, what caught his eye was the pallid face, which made the hectic flush seem brighter, the parched lips, and the wild aspect of the restless eyes. She seemed almost another person from the Olivia of the previous evening, gentle, languid, and depressed.

Turning quickly round when Yorke entered the room, Olivia seemed startled and even frightened for an instant, while she stopped and looked at him with a puzzled face, as if not knowing him. Then the expression cleared, and stepping towards him, she held out her hand. "You startled me at first," she said, with a smile, which to the other seemed inexpressibly sad; "do you know I thought you had come down from heaven!" Then drawing a little nearer, and looking at him earnestly, she added, "Robert has come down from heaven, my husband that was, Robert Falkland — he came down to save me and Livie and the baby from the fire; he saved us all, and now he has gone away again. He was always brave and noble."

Yorke stood tongue-tied with emotion. He had not been prepared for this, and in the shock of this revelation of her state he could not find at once words to reply.

Then the restless eyes turned away, and she moved to the window, and then began pacing again the little room, as if not aware of his presence. Still there remained something of the old grace of movement; but how far removed seemed this poor wild creature from the gentle yet stately Olivia of former days! Better surely that she had perished in the flames than be reserved for such a fate as this!

Suddenly she stopped opposite to him, and again smiling, said, "Won't you be seated, Mr. Yorke?" and sitting down herself on a little cane chair, motioned him to take another.

Yorke obeyed her: and while for a brief space she sat quietly as if waiting for him to speak, with her graceful arms crossed over the scarf, something of the old Olivia seemed for the instant to have returned. But almost immediately the eyes began to roll wildly about the room, and Yorke hastened to speak before the phrenzy should again possess her.

"I have come on behalf of some very kind friends — the friends with whom I am living — to ask you to make their house your home for a while."

"Friends?" she said, speaking in an absent manner, and looking down — "it must be very nice to have kind friends."

"And you will find them friends indeed," he continued, gaining hope from her manner. "Their carriage will be here directly; will you not make ready to start? it is getting late."

"Friends?" she said again, in a mournful voice — "I have no friends; Robert is dead, and my husband has left me and gone away. Yet no!" she added, with sudden energy, and looking fixedly at Yorke; "he is not my husband — I have no husband. I have been living with two men — and one is dead, and one is gone away; but I have no husband." And Olivia repeated this, "I have no husband," looking down on the floor, as if to herself.

"This little inn is wanting in comforts," said Yorke, trying to give a turn to the conversation; "there is hardly room for all of you. It will be a good thing to move into another house. This room is small and close," he added, by way of diversion, while Olivia looked at him earnestly, as if weighing the proposition.

She replied abruptly, "The room is good enough for a bad woman like me; I am not a fit woman to live with decent people. Mrs. Polwheedle came to see me to-day, but she has gone away again; she did not care to stay with a bad woman like me."

Just then the door was pushed open, and the youngest child came into the room, toddling with uncertain step, just able to walk. It stood looking at its mother for a while, with one little hand in its mouth, as if afraid to come near; and then as Yorke, who was sitting near the door, held out his arms, it came up to him.

Olivia meanwhile had been gazing on the ground as if busied with her thoughts. Looking up, and seeing the child on Yorke's knee, she cried, "Why don't you send it away, wretched little bastard brat?"

As she called this out in a harsh voice, the very tones of which seemed to be changed, the frightened child began to cry.

Then Olivia jumping forward caught it in her arms. "My darling, my darling," she said, "don't you cry. Your mother's no better than a street-walker; but it's not my darling's fault, is it?" And she rocked the child to and fro, holding it to her breast, and crooning over it till the crying ceased.

Yorke, unwilling to disturb her while in this mood, sat silent. While they were in this situation, Mrs. Polwheedle entered the room.

She seemed relieved to find Olivia so quiet, and announced the arrival of the carriage.

Olivia at this rose, the child still in her arms, as if intending to obey the summons.

"If you will go down and take your place, my dear," said Mrs. Polwheedle, "I will get the children ready, and follow you with the things;" and she made a sign to Yorke which he understood to mean that they should take advantage of Olivia's present humour to make a start.

There came up to Yorke the doubt whether this plan for giving her shelter ought now to be pursued; but it seemed too late to alter it now. And what else could be done?

Olivia without saying a word handed the child to Mrs. Polwheedle, and moved to the door. On the landing outside the elder child was standing, holding the banister with one hand, a doll which had come from "The Beeches" in the other. Her mother stooped down and kissed her without saying a word, and then descended the stairs, and made for the entrance-door.

As she passed along the little passage, she stopped at the parlour-door as if in doubt, and then turning to Yorke, who was following, she put her finger on her lips, and said, "Hush, that is where they have laid him," and then passed out into the open air. This was the first reference to her knowledge that Falkland's corpse was in the house; nor did she know that it had been moved into another room; but how much of the facts was understood by the poor clouded brain could not be told.

The carriage-road was at the back of the inn; the front door opened on to the little terrace, set out with benches, which reached down to the river. The evening was dull and gloomy, with slight rain falling; the wind moaned sadly through the bare trees, and night was fast closing in.

Olivia wore no hat, or other wrapper than the scarf, but Yorke forbore to check her action by noticing this.

She stood for a few seconds looking in front of her, not seeming to notice the rain falling on her bare head; and at last Yorke said that the carriage was at the back of the house — they had better go that way.

At the sound of his voice she turned round and looked at him in a vacant way, and then started off at a quick pace towards the ruins of her own house, the outline of which could still be made out in the dim evening light, about a couple of hundred yards higher up the river.

Yorke followed and overtook her, and they stepped side by side in silence, passing the spot where only two days before, in his walk with Lucy, he had first met her children. It seemed as if weeks had passed since that walk.

Olivia stopped at the garden-fence and looked up at the ruins. "See," she said, "the fire has gone from there now; but it is still here," she continued, clasping her head with both hands; "it is still here, and burning; it never stops burning." And she stood holding up her hands to her forehead, and looking bewildered at the ground. "Olivia," said Yorke, although he could hardly speak for the fulness of his heart, "you want rest and quiet, my poor friend, and by-and-by, please God, all will come right. Let us turn back."

"Come right!" she cried, "how can it come right? See here," she continued, laying a hand on his arm, and pointing with the other towards the ruined house. "I was at the window there, praying for my children, when he came up the ladder, and I thought God had answered my prayers and sent his spirit to save us. But it was not his spirit, it was himself. Yes, Major Yorke, it was my husband; he was a hunted prisoner, wounded and sick, wandering in the desert, and I was bearing children to another man. And now he is dead; he died to save me, and a polluted wretch like me still walks the earth."

Then with a cry she turned away from the house, and began walking hurriedly along the bank up the river.

The evening was growing dark, the swollen river ran level with the footway, and Yorke striding along by her side could hardly distinguish between land and water.

A short distance they walked thus in silence along the narrow path, which gave barely room for the two between the hedge and the river, Yorke striving to think how best to calm her agitated mind. At last he said, "Olivia, you will tire yourself out if you hurry in this way; the children are waiting for you; will you not go back to them, poor little things? "

"Poor little things indeed," she said, "to have so vile a mother!" She stopped short and turned half round as if about to go back, and then saying, "There is no help!" and throwing up her arms, made a step forward, whether seeing the water or not her companion could not tell, and sank into the stream.

Yorke plunged in and caught her as she rose to the surface.

The poor creature struggled violently, holding out her arms, whether to get free or clinging to him to be saved he could not tell, but he caught her in his grasp and held her firmly, and after a few moments her efforts ceased, although she still clutched him tightly round the neck with one arm. And at first as they floated down the stream the danger of the situation did not strike him. Often when in his younger days he had played with his brother subalterns at saving a drowning man in an Indian swimming-bath, it had seemed as if impossible to sink. But the weight of his heavy clothes and the icy coldness of the water began at once to tell; and cramped as was the movement of his arms by her grasp, it was as much as he could do to keep her head above water, as he pushed out with his feet towards the shore. The plunge had not been far, but it was made at a point where the bank projected into the river, into the middle of which they had been swept by the strong current. Good swimmer as he deemed himself, he found himself powerless to struggle with the stream, and soon the thought came over him that the fate which had so long bound up their lives together would now follow them to the end. Were they to die locked in each other's arms? And in an instant the picture of past days came up before him, the days when he worshipped the gentle, the gracious, the noble Olivia; the days when he lived on in the bitterness of his heart at losing her, the poor wreck he now held in his arms for the first time, and who, seemingly unconscious of her state, looked up at the sky with a dull, stony stare. He could make out in the dim light that her eyes were open, but more he could not tell, and as he pushed convulsively along in the darkness to where he thought the bank must be, it came over him to wonder if people when they found their bodies would guess the truth, or would they think that the unhappy woman in her madness had dragged him to destruction? — when he saw the dim bank looming just above him, and with his free hand caught hold of some weeds growing against its side.

They were saved; but exhausted and benumbed as he was, and encumbered with his charge, and unable to find any footing, it was only by a desperate effort that he still clutched the weeds. So short a time, and yet all his strength was gone. How easy to be drowned after all! and, too tired to call for help, he must soon let go, when he sees a figure kneeling on the bank above, and an arm stretched out has seized his in its grasp. It is Lucy, who, learning in a few short words from Mrs. Polwheedle enough to guess at Olivia's state, had followed them up the bank, reaching the spot in time to save him. With the help of Lucy, throwing herself down on the wet grass to lend her weight to his efforts, he at last drags himself out, still grasping his burden; and while he stands exhausted looking at the figure lying inanimate at their feet, Lucy raises the shrill cry which soon brings succour — the landlord, the gallant Joe, the Peevors' footman, Mrs. Polwheedle, and others, who raise Olivia's body from the ground and bear it quickly to the inn.

Maxwell, who has just arrived, meets the little procession at the door, and in a few brief words Yorke explains what has happened. No harm was done, he thought; he had kept her head above water all the time; it must be merely a faint from cold and fright.

"Not up-stairs," said Maxwell, opening the parlour-door, as the bearers entered the passage with their burden; "this way — in here:" and the hapless Olivia was laid on the same couch which had borne that morning the dead body of her husband.

And now, while the doctor and the landlady and Mrs. Polwheedle and Lucy are busy over the prostrate form, Yorke, wrapped up in a big overcoat of the landlord and covered with shawls, stands by the tap-room fire. He cannot bear to leave the spot, and this rough sort of vapour-bath will keep him from catching cold. But the children are sent off in the carriage, and the servants will explain why the others are detained. Comedy and the commonplace tread close upon the tragic in the actual business of life; and as Yorke stands before the blazing fire drinking hot spirits-and-water, while the landlord takes a glass also to keep him company, and begins a maundering story of how he got upset in a punt seven years ago, and some half-dozen tap-room loungers stand hard by discussing the events of the day, in undertones out of consideration for Yorke, nothing could well be more prosaic or matter-of-fact than the aspect of the scene. But he can drink the cordial and hold his feet to be scorched by the fire, while yet thinking over the tragic fate of the woman once so passionately loved, now pitied with a feeling that for a time left no room in his heart for other emotions — thinking, too, of the death of the noble soldier who seemed when first he knew him to deserve the envy of all younger men. And now what would be the end of this calamity and woe? He, the noble, the gallant, the unfortunate husband had found peace at last; but what further sufferings awaited the unhappy wife?

A long time must have passed, for his clothes are almost dry, when the good doctor appears at the door and beckons him to come into the passage.

"It is all over," said the old man, in a low voice. "It was the shock that killed her; life must have passed away before you brought her to land. Who could wish it were otherwise? Still in your wet clothes? You must look to yourself now, my dear friend, or you too will be a sufferer.