When he sent her a message the following spring that he was happy, it was because it was the truth. Desire had rent him and let him go—at last. Vague, inconsequent and restful thoughts were Michael's.
His body remained feeble and emaciated. But he was not conscious of its exhaustion. His mind was at peace with itself.
CHAPTER XVIII
What she craved, and really felt herself entitled to, was a situation in which the noblest attitude should also be the easiest.
—Edith Wharton.
On a stormy night, towards the end of March, Magdalen was lying awake listening to the wind. Her tranquil mind travelled to a great distance away from that active, monotonous, daily life which seemed to absorb her, which had monopolised her energies but never her thoughts for so many years past.
Suddenly she started slightly and sat up. A storm was coming. A tearing wind drowned all other sounds, but nevertheless she seemed to listen intently.
Then she slowly got out of bed, lit her candle, stole down the passage to Fay's door, and listened again. No sound within. At least none that could be distinguished through the trampling of the wind over the groaning old house.
She opened the door and went in. A little figure was crouching over the dim fire, swaying itself to and fro. It was Fay.