He had lain there in the haw-haw, unconscious all that day,
while his poor little lady-love waited for him at the oak gate, and was
now in a sorry plight indeed, as Arabella Clinker bent over him,
awaiting anxiously the verdict of the doctors who had been fetched by
motor from Upminster. Would he live or die?
Her employer had had a bad attack of nerves upon hearing of the
accident, and was now reclining upon her boudoir sofa, quite prostrated
and in a high state of agitation until she should know the worst--or
best.
Arabella listened intently. Surely the patient was whispering something?
Yes, she caught the words.
"Halcyone!" he murmured, and again, "Halcyone--my love!" and then he
closed his eyes once more.
He would live, the physicians said after some hours of doubt--with very
careful nursing. But the long exposure in the wet, twenty-four hours at
least, with that wound in the head and the broken ankle, was a very
serious matter, and absolute quiet and the most highly skilled attention
would be necessary.
It was Arabella who made all the sensible, kind arrangements that night,
and herself sat up with the poor suffering patient until the nurses
could come.
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