“Hush—I am his wife—I have a right to be here. You know me, do you not, my darling Hugh?”
Poor Fay! she had her punishment then; for Hugh did not know her in the least, and seemed to shrink from her with horror; he begged her to send Margaret to him—his dear Margaret, and not stand there like some white horrible statue dressed up in grave-clothes.
“You had better go, my lady, you are only exciting him,” observed the nurse, quietly; and Fay wrung her hands and hurried from the room. Saville found her crouching against the dressing-room door, with her face hidden in her hands, and fetched Mrs. Heron at once to coax her away; but Fay hardly seemed to understand their meaning; her face had a white, strained look upon it as Mrs. Heron put her arm round her and led her tenderly to her room.
CHAPTER XX.
“LITTLE JOYCE.”
In the cruel fire of sorrow
Cast thy heart, do not faint or wail,
Let thy heart be firm and steady,
Do not let thy spirit quail;
But wait till the trial be over
And take thy heart again;