journed 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
