She was knitting a vague little mat with her small, limp, white hands, seated in Dulcibel’s bedroom, near the sofa on which Dulcibel lay. At the farthest of the three windows sat Marian, busily working, and still more busily thinking. Dulcibel never seemed content now unless Marian were within call.
“He had no business to go anywhere else. Leo knows how terribly anxious I am—how I cannot rest till I hear about the night. I do think he might come back, and tell me about your father, before attending to other business. It is not as if he were obliged. He is quite a man of leisure. And he has never been as late as this before. I am quite sure something must be detaining him—something seriously wrong. Nessie, do go and watch at the side window in the dining-room, and let me know directly you see him coming.”
Dulcibel spoke in a high, flurried tone, her cheeks flushing. Nessie obeyed, and Marian came nearer.
“I wouldn’t worry, if I were you,” she said soothingly. “It’ll be all right.”
“Not worry! How do you know it will be all right?” asked Dulcibel. “Oh, dear—if only Leo would make haste! I don’t know how to stand this suspense. My pillows are so uncomfortable, Marian; please shake them up. No; that is worse. I am aching all over to-day, and I feel so restless. I shall ask Mr. Forest if I can’t have a drive to-morrow, and see my husband perhaps. It seems so absurd to go on being ill like this, without any particular illness. If only Leo would come! I am quite sure something must be wrong—my husband is worse—or—”
Dulcibel was beginning to sob.
“But he may be better,” said Marian. “Perhaps he’s able to take more notice to-day, and likes to have Mr. Ackroyd with him.”
“I know it is not that—I am quite sure!” said Dulcibel. “Things always turn out wrongly with me.”
“If I was the one to say that to Mrs. Rutherford, I suppose I should be told that I showed a want of trust in God,” Marian said quietly.
Dulcibel almost smiled, then sighed.