“She’s worse, Sir,” whispered the woman, as she crossed the threshold of her door, and exchanged a word with her daughter. “Biddy says she’s clean out of her mind now—listen to that! The Lord have mercy on us!”

It was a wild scream rang through the house, followed by a burst of fearful laughter.

“Ask her if she’ll see me,” said O’Rorke, in a low voice.

“That’s O’Rorke’s voice!” Kate cried out from the top of the stairs. “Let him come up. I want to see him. Come up!” She leaned over the railing of the stairs as she spoke, and even O’Rorke was horror-struck at the ashy paleness of her face, and a fearful brilliancy that shone in her eyes. “It’s a very humble place, Mr. O’Rorke, I am obliged to receive you in,” said she, with a strange smile, as he entered; “but I have only just arrived here, you see I have not even changed my dress; pray sit down, if you can find a chair; all is in disorder here—and, would you believe it?”—here her manner became suddenly earnest, and her voice dropped to a whisper—“would you believe it? my maid has never come to me, never asked me if I wanted her since I came. It’s getting dark, too, and must be late.”

“Listen to me, now, Miss Kate,” said he, with a touch almost of pity in his voice, “listen to me. You’re not well, you’re tired and exhausted, so I’ll send the woman of the house to you, and get to bed, and I’ll find out a doctor to order you something.”

“Yes, I should like to see a doctor; that kind person I saw before, Sir Henry something—what was it? You will see it in the Court Guide—he attends the Queen.”

“To be sure, to be sure, we’ll have the man that attends the Queen!” said he, giving his concurrence to what he imagined to be the fancy of an erring brain.

“And if he should ask why I am here,” added she, in a whisper, “make out some sort of excuse, but don’t mention my grandfather; these fashionable physicians are such snobs, they cannot abide visiting any but great folk. Isn’t it true?”

“Yes, dear, it is true,” said he, still humouring her.

“The fact is,” said she, in a low, confiding voice, “I may confess it to you, but the fact is, I don’t well know why I am here myself! I suppose Sir Within knows—perhaps my uncle may.” And in her vague, meaningless look might now be seen how purposeless and unguided were all her speculations. “There, go now, and send my maid to me. Tell Coles, as you pass down, he may put up the horses. I’ll not ride this evening. Do you know, I feel—it is a silly fancy, I suppose—but I feel ill; not actually ill so much as odd.”

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.

“Well, I must own I don’t think it would be a bad one; that is, I mean it would relieve me of a deal of anxiety, and save me no end of trouble.”

“Just so!” said O’Rorke, who, leaning his head on his hand, addressed his thoughts to the very serious question of how all these things would affect himself. Nor did it take him long to see that from the hour Ladarelle ceased to need him, all their ties were broken, and that the fashionable young gentleman who now sat at table with him in all familiarity would not deem him fit company for his valet.”

“This is the fifth time, Master O’Rorke, you have repeated the words, ‘Just so!’ Will you tell me what they refer to? What is it that is ‘just so?’”

“I was thinking of something!” said O’Rorke.

“And what was it? Let us have the benefit of your profound reflections.”

“Well, then, my profound reflections was telling me that if this girl was to die, your honour wouldn’t be very long about cutting my acquaintance, and that, maybe, this is the last time I’d have the pleasure of saying, ‘Will you pass me the wine?’”

“What are you drinking? This is Madeira,” said Ladarelle, as he pushed the decanter towards him, and affecting to mistake his meaning.

“No, Sir; I’m drinking port wine,” was the curt reply, for he saw the evasion, and resented it.

“As to that other matter—I mean as to ‘cutting you,’ O’Rorke—I don’t see it—don’t see it at all!”

“How do you mean, ‘you don’t see it?’”

“I mean it is not necessary.”

“Isn’t it likely?”

“No; certainly not.”

“Isn’t it possible, then?”

“Everything is possible in this world of debts and difficulties, but no gentleman ever thinks of throwing off the man that has stood to him in his hour of need. Is that enough?”

O’Rorke made no answer, and in the attitude of deep thought he assumed, and in his intense look of reflection, it was pretty plain that he did not deem the explanation all-sufficient. “Here’s how it is, Sir!” burst he out, suddenly. “If this girl dies, you won’t want me; and if you won’t want me, it’s very unlikely the pleasure of my society will make you come after me; so that I’d like to understand how it’s to be between us.”

“I must say, my worthy friend, everything I have seen of you goes very far to refute the popular notion abroad about Irish improvidence; for, a man so careful of himself under every contingency—one who looked to his own interests in all aspects and with all casualties—I never met before.”

“Well, Sir, you meet him now. He is here before you; and what do you say to him?” said O’Rorke, with a cool audacity that was actually startling.

It was very probably fortunate for both of them, so far as their present good relations were concerned, that an interruption took place to their colloquy in the shape of a sharp knock at the door. It was a person wanted to see Mr. O’Rorke.

“Mr. O’Rorke’s in request to-night,” said Ladarelle, mockingly, as the other left the room.

“Are you the friend of that young lady, Sir, that’s down at M’Cafferty’s?”

“Yes, I’m her friend,” was the dry answer.

“Then I’ve come to tell you she’s going fast into a fever—a brain fever, too.”

“That’s bad” muttered O’Rorke below his breath.

“One ought to know something about her—whence she came, and how she came. There are symptoms that ought to be traced to their causes, for she raves away about people and things the most opposite and unlike——”

“Are you able to cure her? that’s the question,” said O’Rorke.

“No doctor could ever promise that much yet.”

“I thought as much,” said O’Rorke, with an insolent toss of his head.

“I am willing to do my best,” said the doctor, not noticing the offensive gesture; “and if you want other advice, there’s Doctor Rogan of Westport can be had easy enough.”

“Send for him, then, and hold a consultation; her life is of consequence, mind that!”

“I may as well tell you that Doctor Rogan will require to know what may lead him to a history of her case, and he won’t treat her if there’s to be any mystery about it.”

O’Rorke’s eyes flashed, as if an insolent answer was on his lips, and then, as quickly controlling himself, said, “Go and have your consultation, and then come back here to me; but mind you ask for me—Mr. O’Rorke—and don’t speak to any one else than myself.”

The doctor took his leave, and O’Rorke, instead of returning to the room, slowly descended the stairs and strolled out into the street.

It was night; there were few about; and he had ample opportunity for a quiet commune with himself, and that species of “audit” in which a man strikes the balance of all that may be pro or contra in any line of action. He knew well he was on dangerous ground with Ladarelle. It needed not an intelligence sharp as his own to show that a deep mistrust existed between them, and that each only waited for an opportunity to shake himself free of the other. “If I was to go over to the old man and tell him the whole plot, I wonder how it would be?” muttered he to himself. “I wonder would he trust me? and, if he was to trust me, how would he pay me? that’s the question—how would he pay me?” The quiet tread of feet behind him made him turn at this moment. It was the waiter of the inn coming to tell him that the post had just brought two letters to the gentleman he had dined with, and he wished to see him at once.

“Shut "he door—turn the key in it,” said Ladarelle, as O’Rorke entered. “Here’s something has just come by the mail. I knew you’d blunder about those letters,” added he, angrily; “one has reached Luttrell already, and, for aught I know, another may have come to hand since this was written. There, there, what’s the use of your excuses. You promised me the thing should be done, and it was not done. It does not signify a brass farthing to me to know why. You’re very vain of your Irish craft and readiness, and yet I tell you, if I had entrusted this to my fellow Fisk, Cockney as he is, I’d not have been disappointed.”

“Very like,” said O’Rorke, sullenly; “he’s more used to dirty work than I am.”

Ladarelle had just begun to run his eyes over one of the letters when he heard these words, and the paper shook in his hand with passion, and the colour came and went in his face, but he still affected to read on, and never took his gaze from the letter. At last he said, in a shaken voice, which all his efforts could not render calm, “This is a few lines from Fisk, enclosing a letter from Luttrell for Sir Within. Fisk secured it before it reached its destination.”

To this insinuated rebuke O’Rorke made no rejoinder, and, after a pause, the other continued: “Fisk says little, but it is all to the purpose. He has reduced every day to a few lines in journal fashion, so that I know what goes on at Dalradern as if I were there myself.”

O’Rorke kept an unbroken silence, and Ladarelle went on: “The day you left the Castle, Sir Within wrote to Calvert and Mills, his solicitors, and despatched by post a mass of documents and parchments. The next day he wrote to Mr. Luttrell of Arran, posting the letter himself as he drove through Wrexham.”

“That letter was the one I stopped at Westport,” broke in O’Rorke.

“I suppose it was. Fisk writes: ‘The servants all remarked a wonderful change had come over Sir W.; he gave orders through the house as if he expected company, and seemed in such spirits as he had not been for months. Next morning very anxious for the post to come in, and greatly disappointed at not seeing some letter he expected. The late post brought a letter from Mills to say he would be down by the morning’s mail—that the matter presented no difficulty whatever, and was exactly as Sir Within represented it.’ Fisk managed to read this and re-seal it before it got to hand; that’s what I call a smart scoundrel!”

“So he is—every inch of one!” was O’Rorke’s rejoinder.

“Here he continues,” said Ladarelle: “‘Thursday—No letter, nor any tidings of Mills. Sir Within greatly agitated. Post-horses ordered for Chester, and countermanded. All sorts of contradictory commands given during the day. The upholsterers have arrived from town, but told not to take down the hangings, nor do anything till to-morrow. Mr. Grenfell called, but not admitted; a message sent after him to ask him to dinner to-morrow; he comes. Friday—Arrived at Wrexham. As the mail came in, saw Mr. Mills order horses for Dalradern; waited for the post delivery, and secured the enclosed. No time for more, as the Irish mail leaves in an hour.’

“Now for Luttrell. Let’s see his side in the correspondence,” said Ladarelle, breaking the seal; “though perhaps I know it as well as if I read it.”

“You do not,” said the other, sturdily.

“What do you mean by ‘I do not?’”

“I suspect I know what you’re thinking of; and it’s just this—that John Luttrell is out of himself with joy because that old fool’s in love with his niece.”

“He might well be what you call out of himself with joy if he thought she was to be mistress of Dalradern.”

“It’s much you know him,” said O’Rorke, with an insolent mockery in his voice and look. “A Luttrell of Arran wouldn’t think a Prince of the Blood too good for one belonging to him. Laugh away, laugh away; it’s safe to do it here, for John Luttrell’s on the island beyand.”

“You are about the most——”

“The most what? Say it out. Surely you ain’t afraid to finish your sentence, Sir?”

“I find it very hard, Mr. O’Rorke, to conduct an affair to its end in conjunction with one who never omits an occasion to say, or at least insinuate, a rudeness.”

“Devil a bit of insinuation about me. Whatever I have to say, I say it out, in the first words that come to me; and I’m generally pretty intelligible too. And now, if it’s the same thing to you, what was it you were going to call me? I was the most—something or other—what was it?”

“I’ll tell you what I am,” said Ladarelle, with a bitter grin—“about the most patient man that ever breathed.”

Neither spoke for some time, and then Ladarelle opened the letter he still held in his hand, and began to read it.

“Well,” cried he, “of all the writing I ever encountered, this is the most illegible; and not merely that, but there are words erased and words omitted, and sentences left unfinished, or finished with a dash of the pen.”

“Are you going to read it out?” asked O’Rorke; and in his voice there rang something almost like a command, for the man’s native insolence grew stronger at every new conflict, and with the impression—well or ill-founded—that the other was afraid of him.

“I’ll try what I can do,” said Ladarelle, repressing his irritation. “It is dated St. Finbar’s, 16th:

“‘Sir,—I know nothing of your letter of the 12th instant. If I ever received, I have forgotten and mislaid it. I answered yours of the 9th, and hoped I had done with this correspondence. I have seen your name in the newspapers, and have been’—have been, I suppose it is—‘accustomed’—yes, accustomed—‘to look on you as a person in high employ, and worthy of the’—here the word is left out—‘who employed him. If, however, you be, as you state, in your’—this may be a nine or seven, I suppose it is seven—‘in your seventy-fourth year, your proposal to a girl of twenty is little short of———’ Another lapse; I wish we had his word, it was evidently no compliment. ‘That is, however, more your question than mine. Such follies as these ask for no comment; they usually——— And well it is it should be so.

“‘Fortune, however, befriends you more than your own foresight. It is your good luck rescues you from this———- She has left this—gone away—deserted me, as she once deserted you, and would in all likelihood when sorry— insolent airs of your connexions — to resent unpardonable. Without you are as bereft as myself, you must surely have— relations, of whom— choice — and certainly more suitable than one whose age and decrepitude might in pity and compassion sentiment.

“‘But she is gone! Warning is, therefore, needless. You cannot if you would this folly. She is gone—and on a bed of sickness, to which the only hope—and that speedily.

“‘If — by such— hurt you.’”

“Line after line had been here erased and re-written, but all illegibly; nor was it, till after long puzzling and exploring, the last words could be made out to be: “‘All further interchange of letters is a task beyond my strength. It is all said when I write, She is gone, no more to nor would I now—— A few hours more—I pray not days.

“‘Faithful servant,

“‘H. LUTTRELL.’

“It’s clear he’ll have no more correspondence,” said Ladarelle, with a half triumphant manner, as he closed the letter.

“And the other? What will the other do?”

“Do you mean Sir Within?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not easy to say. It seems plain we’re not to expect anything very sensible from him. He is determined to make a fool of himself, and it only remains to see how he is to do it.”

“And how do you think it will be?” In spite of himself, O’Rorke threw into his question that amount of eagerness that showed how much interest he felt in the-matter. Ladarelle was quick enough to see this, and turned his eyes full upon him, and thus they stood for nigh half a minute, each steadfastly staring at the other. “Well! do you see anything very wonderful in my face that you look so hard at me?” asked O’Rorke.

“I do.”

“‘And what is it, if I might make so bowld?”

“I see a man who doubts how far he’ll go on the road he was paid to travel—that’s what I see!”

“And do you know why?” rejoined O’Rorke, defiantly. “Do you know why?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll tell you! It’s because the man that was to show me the way hasn’t the courage to do it! There’s the whole of it. You brought me over here, telling me one thing, and now you’re bent on another! and to-morrow, if anything cheaper turns up, you’ll be for that. Is it likely that I’d risk myself far with a man that doesn’t know his own mind, or trust his own courage?”

“I suppose I understand my own affairs best!”

“Well! that’s what I think about mine, too.”

Ladarelle took an impatient turn or two up and down the room before he spoke, and it was easy to see that he was exerting himself to the very utmost to be calm. “If this girl’s flight from Arran has served us in one way, her illness has just done us as much harm in another—I mean, of course, if she should not die—-because my venerable relation is just as much determined to marry her as ever he was. Are you attending to me?”

“To every word, Sir,” said O’Rorke, obsequiously; and, indeed, it was strangely like magnetism the effect produced upon him, when Ladarelle assumed the tone and manner of a superior.

“I want to have done with the business, then, at once,” continued Ladarelle. “Find out from the doctor—and find it out accurately—what are her chances of life. If she is likely to live, learn how soon she could be removed from this, and whither to, as Sir Within is sure to trace her to this place. As soon as possible, we must manage some sort of mock marriage, for I believe it is the only sure way of stopping this old man in his folly. Now, I leave it to you to contrive the plan for this. There’s another demand for you. See who is at the door.”

“Mr. O’Rorke is wanted at M’Cafferty’s,” said a voice outside.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, Sir.”

“Well, I shall go to bed, and don’t disturb me if there be nothing important to tell me. Order breakfast for ten to-morrow, and let me see you there.”

O’Rorke bowed respectfully, and went out.

“I’d give fifty pounds to hear that you had broken your neck on the staircase!” muttered Ladarelle, as he saw the door close; “and I’d give a hundred had I never seen you!”