“Hysterics. Yes, I remember.” Recollection seemed to flash back in a moment, and Dulcibel started to a sitting posture. “Oh, I know; I am forgetting! That fearful train—I know it all now. And they would not bring George to me, or let me go to him. But I must go now, and see if he is hurt. Quick—my slippers and dressing-gown!”
She threw herself impulsively out of bed, shaking off Marian’s hand.
“Let me alone. What have you to do with it? I must go to my husband directly. And the girls too! Is Nessie hurt?”
“No, ma’am.”
No particular inquiry as to Joan followed, and the mother’s heart gave a vexed throb at the omission.
“The slippers—make haste! I can’t wait a moment, or I shall not be able to go. I feel so giddy and strange. Make haste. Is my husband in the next room?”
“No, ma’am; I believe he is downstairs somewhere. I do not know where, but Mr. Ackroyd knows. Indeed you are not fit to go,” urged Marian. “I am sure the doctor would not allow it, or Mr. Ackroyd.”
“Mr. Ackroyd? Oh, I remember! I saw him yesterday evening. But he has nothing to do with the matter.” Dulcibel paused, and sank down on the bed. “I don’t think I can go after all,” she murmured. “I do feel so ill. Tell my husband to come to me, if you please.”