“Surely not,” said Charles. “Surely you have gone through the worst!”
“I know not,” said Monteath. “The colour of my whole future life has perhaps been changed by this accident; and I must expect this conviction to come upon me painfully from time to time.”
“What do you mean?” said Charles. “The whole colour of your future life! You surely do not mean that you will not marry?”
“That is what I was thinking of, certainly,” said Henry, in a very low voice.
“My dear friend,” said Charles, “this is the scruple of a sick man’s brain. Put it out of your head for the present, I advise you, and I will answer for it that, six months hence, you will feel very differently. The woman would but little deserve you who could raise such an objection; and you have just as much power now as ever to make a wife happy.”
Charles wished to turn the conversation, for he saw that his friend was agitated; but he could think of nothing to say at the moment, except about Miss Auchinvole, and that was the only subject which would not do. At length he said, “You must not let me weary you with talking. You know I cannot tell what you are equal to, and Mrs Monteath will never forgive me if I set you back in the least. Had I not better leave you?”
“O no! do not go!” said Monteath; “you do not know how strong I am. I shall sleep in the afternoon, but I hope to have you with me all day besides. I do not scruple saying so, for I cannot conceive that you will find amusement elsewhere in a place like this.”
“If I could,” said Charles, “I am not much inclined for it to-day. Conversation with a friend is a great cordial in times of anxiety, and I own that I am anxious now.”
He said this for the purpose of drawing his friend’s attention from a subject which appeared to agitate him too much. Charles was not wrong in expecting his ready sympathy. Isabella’s illness was mentioned, and Monteath forgot himself in his anxiety for Charles. He asked many questions about the girls and Alfred.
“How old is Alfred?”