Wentworth, who had never seen Fay before, as she had married just before
he came to live at his uncle's place in Hampshire near Fay's home, saw
the marks of grief in her lovely face, and was unconsciously drawn
towards her. He was shy as only men can be; but he almost forgot it in
her sympathetic presence. She came into his isolated, secluded life at
the moment when the barriers of his instinctive timidity and apathy were
broken down by his first real trouble. And he was grateful to her for
having done her best to save Michael.

"I shall never forget that," he said, when he came to bid her good-bye.
"There are very few women who would have had the courage and
unselfishness to act as you did."

Fay winced and paled, and he took his leave, bearing away with him a
grave admiration for this delicate, sensitive creature, so full of
tender compassion for him and Michael.

He made no attempt to see her again when he returned to Italy some
months later to visit Michael in prison. To visit Fay on that occasion
would have taken him somewhat out of his way, and Wentworth never went
out of his way, not out of principle, but because such a course never
occurred to him. He would have liked to see her, in order to tell her
about Michael's condition, and also to deliver in person a message which
Michael had sent to Fay by him. But when he realised that a detour would
be necessary in order to accomplish this, he wrote to Fay to tell her
with deep regret that it was impossible for him to see her, gave her
Michael's message, and returned to England by the way he came.
Nevertheless, he often thought of her, for she was inextricably
associated with the unspeakable trouble of his life, his brother's
living death.

When all was over, and the last sod had--so to speak--been cast upon
that living grave, Fay tried to take up her life again. But she could
not. She had lost heart. She dared not be alone. She shunned society. At
her earnest request her sister Magdalen came out to her for a time, from
the home in England, into which she was wedged so tightly. But even
Magdalen's calm presence brought no calm with it, and the deepening
friendship between her sister and her husband only irritated Fay.
Everything irritated Fay. She was ill at ease, restless, feebly
sarcastic, impatient.

There is a peace which passes understanding, and there is an unpeace
which passes understanding also. Fay did not know, would not know, why
she was so troubled,