Mirelle did not keep her word to Herring. She was unable to do so. That night she was attacked by a nervous fever, and became delirious. The strain had been too great for her delicate system.
Herring called, and heard how ill she was. He did not leave Launceston; he remained till the crisis was past.
The doctors were uncertain what turn her illness would take, and how to treat one constituted so differently from their run of patients. In this uncertainty they did nothing, and, because they did nothing, Mirelle recovered.
There was a natural elasticity in her youth which triumphed over the disease.
Orange sat up with her, night after night. She would allow no one else to share the burden with her till Mirelle's delirium was over.
During the height of the fever, Mirelle talked. Orange stayed with her, not out of love for her cousin, but out of fear lest others should discover, from the rambling talk of Mirelle, the secret which she alone possessed. The name of Trecarrel was often on the lips of Mirelle; she prayed, and broke off in the midst of a prayer to speak of Trecarrel. At the same time she seemed oppressed by a great terror, and she cried out to be saved from what was coming. Not once did the name of John Herring pass her lips.
When, at length, Mirelle was well enough to be moved downstairs, then Herring was admitted to see her. He had repeatedly sat before, by the hour, with Mrs. Trampleasure or with Orange, talking of the poor girl lying ill upstairs.
'She has been delirious,' said Orange, 'and, if it were not unfair, I could tell you how often your name——'
'It is unfair,' interrupted Herring, 'and I decline to listen.'
'As you like,' said Orange, shrugging her shoulders; and, as she left the room, she sneered.