The weather was beautiful, and Percy stood for some time watching the receding shore, and scanning, with his wonted keen gaze, the various countenances of the passengers. He took a book from his pocket, but did not read long; he looked out on the sea, and muttered to himself, ‘What folly now? Why won’t that name let one rest? Besides, he looked desperately ill; I must go and see if they have made him comfortable in that dog-hole below.’
Percy shook himself as if he was out of humour; and, with his hands in his pockets, and a sauntering step, entered the cabin. He found Arthur there alone, his head resting on his arms, and his frame shaken by the suppressed cough.
‘You seem to have a terrible cold. This is a bad time to be crossing. How long have you been abroad?’
‘Ten days.—How came you here?’
‘I am going to Worthbourne. How are all your folks!’
‘All well;’ and coughing again, he filled up a tumbler with spirits and water, and drank it off, while Percy exclaimed:
‘Are you running crazy, to be feeding such a cough in this way?’
‘The only thing to warm one,’ said he, shuddering from head to foot.
‘Yes, warm you properly into a nice little fever and inflammation. Why, what a hand you have! And your pulse! Here, lie down at once,’ as he formed a couch with the help of a wrapper and bag. Arthur passively accepted his care; but as the chill again crept through his veins, he stretched out his hand for the cordial.
‘I won’t have it done!’ thundered Percy. ‘I will not look on and see you killing yourself!’