Three weeks, four weeks passed, and only then did Monica slowly creep back to convalescence. This was the most trying part of her illness, for she began to fret and worry over her farm. Sidney tried to keep things from her, for matters had not improved during her illness. Her head man was more unsatisfactory than ever; he absented himself for days together from the farm without any ostensible reason, except that he was doing business in the neighbouring town, and the labourers were becoming slack. They could not work without a head. The hay was left uncut too long, and a wet month ensued, ruining some most promising crops of rich meadow-grass.
One morning Sidney stood looking out of the sitting-room window in deep dejection of mind.
The doctor had paid his usual daily visit, and had shaken his head when he had come out of the sickroom. He had followed Sidney downstairs, and had blurted out:
"Cheer her up, Miss Urquhart! She is a strong woman. She ought not to lie worrying there over inevitable circumstances. She must use her strength of will now to some purpose, to help her to endure what is before her, for her farming days are over. I fear she will not walk round her fields for many months to come—perhaps never!"
Sidney stared at him with pallid cheeks.
"Oh, don't say that! Give her hope, or she will die. She has been so strong, she has had such no outdoor life! Surely her iron constitution will save her from chronic rheumatism!"
"I have seen too many like her. She will be crippled for the rest of her life, I fear. This rheumatism has seized hold of her like a vice, and attacked every joint. When she gets stronger she might try some baths, or the electrical treatment, but her age is against her."
"She is in the prime of life."
"If she were ten years younger she would have a better chance," said the doctor grimly.
Sidney could not speak. Her heart ached for her friend. She shook hands with the doctor in silence as he went away, and now stood at the window and watched a grey mist roll in like smoke from the sea.