# The Dilemma/Chapter LVIII

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.