She had never loved him, as the duke well knew, and now the shivering remembrance of him, constantly renewed by Wentworth, had become like a poignard in a wound that would not heal. Wentworth had to-day yet again unconsciously turned the dagger in the wound, and her whole being sickened and shuddered. Oh! if she could only tear out that sharp-bladed remembrance and cast it from her, then in time the aching wound in her life might heal, and she might become happy and well and at peace once more;—at peace like Magdalen. An envious anger flared up in her mind against Magdalen's calm and happy face.
Oh, if poor Michael could only die! He wanted to die. If only he could die and release her. Release her from what?
From her duty to speak and set him free? Those were the words which she never permitted the rebel voice within to say. Still, they were there, silenced for the time, but always waiting to be said. Their gagged whisper reached her in spite of herself.
Oh! if only Michael were dead and out of his suffering, then she would never be tortured by them any more. Then, too, her husband's words would lose their poisoned point, and she could thrust them forth from her mind for ever.
"Francesca, how much longer will you keep your cousin Michael in prison?"
Oh! Cruel, cruel Andrea, vindictive to the very gates of death.
Down the empty, whispering gallery of ghostly fears in which her life crouched, Michael's voice spoke to her also. She could hear his grave, low tones. "Think of me as in fairy-land."
That tender, compassionate message had a barbed point which pierced deeper even than the duke's words.
Her lover and her husband seemed to have conspired together to revenge themselves upon her.
Fay leaned her pretty head against the window-sill and sobbed convulsively.