“Jump, Lenchen, jump!” cried Cyril, but Helene was too much frightened to obey. She was conscious of a violent jolt, a crackling of branches, the sensation of falling. There were shouts and cries, then a great silence.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE PRICE TO BE PAID.
It was late at night, but the windows of the little inn at Drinitza were still ablaze with lights. In the sitting-room which was held sacred to Lord and Lady Usk, Cyril was lying upon a sofa, while Mr Hicks bandaged systematically and scientifically the various injuries he had received in being thrown out of the buggy. Usk was wandering in and out of the room, restless and savagely miserable, for Helene had not recovered consciousness since she was extricated from the wrecked carriage, and Hannele and the doctor from Novigrad were with her upstairs, and would not allow him even near her door.
“There, Count!” said Mr Hicks, tying a final knot; “I guess you’re about fixed up now, and I incline to think a meal of some sort would be a judicious investment after all this mussing around. Lord Usk, if we might requisition the services of that excellent William of yours to forage for us——”
“Oh, tell him to do anything you like,” said Usk wearily, stepping out on the terrace for the twentieth time. “I don’t want him.”
The others heard him tramping up and down outside while William removed the traces of Mr Hicks’s surgical labours, and brought in a hastily prepared meal. Seeing that Cyril was helpless with a sprained wrist, the servant asked if he should cut up his meat for him, but the offer was declined. Presently Usk, finding the companionship of his own thoughts intolerable, came back into the room.
“Now, Lord Usk,” said Mr Hicks cheerfully, “just sit down and eat something.”
“No, no, I don’t want anything,” was the hasty answer.
“Do you really feel that you can’t break bread with me, Usk?” asked Cyril, pausing in his efforts to feed himself with his left hand.
“It’s not that, of course. Here, let me cut that up for you, uncle. It’s simply that I can’t eat.”