"And what was it that brought it on?" asked Miss Fauntleroy, untying her bonnet, and throwing back the strings. "Brain fever is not a common disorder; it does not go about in the air!"
There was a slight trace of colour now on the thin cheeks, and she noticed it. Travice faintly shook his head to disclaim any knowledge on his own part.
"It is not very often that we know how these illnesses are brought on. My chief concern now"—and he looked up at her with a smile—"must be to find out how I can best throw it off."
"I have been very anxious for some days to see you," she resumed, after a pause. "Do you know what I have come to say?"
"No," he said, rather languidly.
"But I'll tell you first what I heard. When you were lying in that awful state between life and death—and it is an awful state, Travice, the danger of passing, without warning, to the presence of one's Maker—I heard that it was I who had brought on the fever."
His whole face was flushed now—a consciousness of the past had risen up so vividly within him. "You!" he uttered. "What do you mean?"
"Ah! Travice, I see how it has been. I know all. You have tried to like me, and you cannot. Be still, be calm; I do not reproach you even in thought. You loved Lucy Arkell long before anybody thought of me, in connection with you; and I declare I honour the constancy of your heart in keeping true to her. Now, if you are not tranquil I shall get my ears boxed by your doctors, and I'll not come and see you again."
"But——"
"You just be quiet. I'm going to do the talking, and you the listening. There, I'll hold your hands in mine, as some old, prudent spirit might, to keep you still—a sister, say. That's all I shall ever be to you, Travice."