He cast one glance, not without compassion, on her, and went out. “There’s a young woman above stairs mighty like ‘in’ for a fever,” said he to the hostess. “Get a doctor to see her as soon as you can, and I’ll be back soon to hear what he says.”
While the woman of the house, with all that kindliness which attaches to her class and nation, busied herself in cares for Kate, O’Rorke hastily made his way back to the inn.
“What is it? What called you away?” asked Ladarelle, as he entered the room.
“She’s out of her mind! that’s what it is,” said O’Rorke, as he sat down, doggedly, and filled out a bumper of sherry to rally his courage. “What with anxiety, and fatigue, and fretting, she couldn’t bear up any more, and there she is, struck down by fever and raving!”
“Poor thing!” said Ladarelle; but there was no pity in the tone, not a shade of feeling in his countenance; he said the words merely that he might say something.
“Yes, indeed! Ye may well say ‘Poor thing!’” chimed in O’Rorke; “it wouldn’t be easy to find a poorer!”
“Do you suspect the thing is serious?” said Ladarelle, with a deep interest in his manner. “Do you think her life’s in danger?”
“I do.”
“Do you really?” And now, through the anxiety in which he spoke, there pierced a trait of a most triumphant satisfaction; so palpable was it, that O’Rorke laid down the glass he had half raised to his lips, and stared at the speaker. “Don’t mistake—don’t misunderstand me!” blurted out Ladarelle, in confusion. “I wish the poor girl no ill. Why should I?”
“At any rate, you think it would be a good thing for you!” said O’Rorke, sternly.