Olivia lay still unconscious. The Wainford doctor was in close attendance, and had issued a strict command for profound quiet. A hush deep as that which waits on death prevailed throughout the great house, which a few hours ago had been brimming over with talk and laughter.
Beside the bed, his white head buried in his hands, sat the squire, and, kneeling with her beloved mistress’ hand in hers, was Bessie. She was almost as white as the face that lay so calm and still on the pillow, but every now and then her lips twitched, and a spasm of agony passed across her face.
Downstairs in the library Bartley Bradstone paced to and fro. He had got a decanter of brandy from the dining-room cellaret, and every now and then he filled a glass with unsteady hand.
Now and again he stole to the door and, opening it cautiously, listened intently. Then, as no sound reached him from the room upstairs, he went back to his brandy and his restless, fearful pacing.
For hours, far into the night, Olivia lay wrapped in the deep unconsciousness which is so nearly akin to the great sleep; then suddenly the doctor held up his hand and bent over her.
“Do not speak to her!” he whispered to the squire, who rose tremblingly.
She opened her eyes, and looked round dully and vacantly, then she murmured, faintly:
“Where am I?”
Bessie drew herself up and put her arm across her.
“Here, Miss Olivia, here in your own room, at home, at the Grange. I am with you—Bessie—and the squire.”