“Let there be an end of this,” said Ladarelle, haughtily. “If I had kept you in your proper place, you would never have forgotten yourself!” And as he spoke, he flung his cigar into the fire, and arose and walked up and down the room.
O’Rorke hung his head for a moment, and then, in a tone of almost abject contrition, said, “I ask your pardon, Sir. It was just as you say; my head was turned by good treatment.”
If Ladarelle had been a physiognomist, he would not have liked the expression of the other’s face, the hue of utter sickness in the cheek, while the eyes flashed with a fiery energy; but he noted none of these, and merely said, as he resumed his place:
“Don’t let it happen again, that’s all. Tell me now what occurred when you got back to Westport, for the only thing I know is that you met her there the morning you arrived.”
“I’ll tell it in three words: She was on the quay, just come after a severe night at sea, when I was trying to make a bargain with a fisherman to take me over to the island. I didn’t see her till her hand was on my arm and her lips close to my ear, as she whispered:
“‘What news have you for me?”
“‘Bad news,’ says I; ‘the sorrow worse.’
“She staggered back, and sat down on the stock of an anchor that was there, and drew the tail of her cloak oyer her face, and that’s the way she remained for about a quarter of an hour.
“‘Tell it to me now, Mr. O’Rorke,’ said she; ‘and as you hope to see Glory, tell me the truth, and nothing more.’
“‘It’s little I have to tell,’ says I, sitting down beside her. ‘The ould man was out on a terrace when I gave him your letter. He took it this way, turning it all round, and then looking up at me, he says: “I know this handwriting,” says he, “and I think I know what’s inside of it, but you may tell her it’s too late.” He then muttered something about a sea-bathing place abroad that I couldn’t catch, and he went on: “She didn’t know when she was well———-”’