He had never seen her so vehement or excited. He was astonished at the storm he had aroused.
“Indeed, Lady Monica, you may trust me,” he said. “I have not the least wish to distress you, or to urge anything in opposition to your wishes. The idea merely occurred to me, because I happen to have heard of many wonderful cures. But I will never allude to the subject again if it distresses you. It is certainly not for me to dictate to you as to the welfare of your brother.”
The flush of excitement had faded from Monica’s face. She turned it towards him with something of apology and appeal.
“Forgive me if I spoke too hastily,” she said, with a little quiver in her voice which he thought infinitely pathetic, “but I have so few to love, and the thought of losing them is so very sad. And then Tom has so often frightened me about Arthur and taking him away; and I know that I understand him better than anybody else, though I am not a doctor, nor a man of science.”
He looked at her with grave sympathy.
“I think that is highly possible, Lady Monica. You may trust me to say or do nothing that could give you anxiety or pain.”
“Thank you,” answered Monica with unusual gentleness. “I do trust you.”
His heart thrilled with gladness at those simple words. They had almost reached the church now, and Monica paused at the edge of the cliff, turning her gaze seawards, a strange, sad wistfulness upon her face.
Her companion watched her in silence.
“There will be a storm before long,” she said at last.