So Sibyl walked in her waking dream, and her husband watched her.
'Is it the body that is ill, or is it the mind?' he asked himself.
Later in the day the doctor's letter to himself—Mr. Loftus had written to him asking for a frank statement of Sibyl's condition—confirmed his worst fears for her.
'Mrs. Loftus's health is endangered, not by her recent illness, of which no trace appears, but by some anxiety. She does not deny that she is suffering from great depression. Unless that anxiety, whatever it may be, can be removed, her morbid condition, if prolonged, will give rise to grave apprehension as to her future.'
Mr. Loftus had heard something very like this before—about nine months ago. He had removed a mountain in order to remove with it the first cause of her unhappiness, and now unhappiness had reappeared. No one had guessed—no one had been allowed to guess—what an effort his marriage had been to him. And it had availed nothing. He dropped the letter into the fire, and, as he did so, exhaustion and an intense weariness of life laid hold upon him. He knew well the touch of those stern hands, but this evening, as he sat alone in the library, it seemed to him as if he had never endured their full pressure until now.
[CHAPTER XIII.]
'O World, O Life, O Time.
O these last steps on which I climb.'
Shelley.