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
