She had not again, for weeks, had Mrs. Assingham so effectually in
presence as on the afternoon of that lady’s return from the Easter party
at Matcham; but the intermission was made up as soon as the date of the
migration to Fawns—that of the more or less simultaneous adjournment of
the two houses—began to be discussed. It had struck her, promptly, that
this renewal, with an old friend, of the old terms she had talked of
with her father, was the one opening, for her spirit, that wouldn’t too
much advertise or betray her. Even her father, who had always, as he
would have said, “believed in” their ancient ally, wouldn’t necessarily
suspect her of invoking Fanny’s aid toward any special inquiry—and
least of all if Fanny would only act as Fanny so easily might. Maggie’s
measure of Fanny’s ease would have been agitating to Mrs. Assingham had
it been all at once revealed to her—as, for that matter, it was soon
destined to become even on a comparatively graduated showing. Our young
woman’s idea, in particular, was that her safety, her escape from being
herself suspected of suspicion, would proceed from this friend’s
power to cover, to protect and, as might be, even showily to represent
her—represent, that is, her relation to the form of the life they were
all actually leading. This would doubtless be, as people said, a large
order; but that Mrs. Assingham existed, substantially, or could somehow
be made prevailingly to exist, for her private benefit, was the finest
flower Maggie had plucked from among the suggestions sown, like abundant
seed, on the occasion of the entertainment offered in Portland Place
to the Matcham company. Mrs. Assingham, that night, rebounding from
dejection, had bristled with bravery and sympathy; she had then
absolutely, she had perhaps recklessly, for herself, betrayed the deeper
and darker consciousness—an impression it would now be late for her
inconsistently to attempt to undo. It was with a wonderful air of giving
out all these truths that the Princess at present approached her again;
making doubtless at first a sufficient scruple of letting her know what
in especial she asked of her, yet not a bit ashamed, as she in fact
quite expressly declared, of Fanny’s discerned foreboding of the strange
uses she might perhaps have for her. Quite from the first, really,
Maggie said extraordinary things to her, such as “You can help me, you
know, my dear, when nobody else can;” such as “I almost wish, upon my
word, that you had something the matter with you, that you had lost your
health, or your money, or your reputation (forgive me, love!) so that
I might be with you as much as I want, or keep you with ME, without
exciting comment, without exciting any other remark than that such
kindnesses are ‘like’ me.” We have each our own way of making up for our
unselfishness, and Maggie, who had no small self at all as against her
husband or her father and only a weak and uncertain one as against her
stepmother, would verily, at this crisis, have seen Mrs. Assingham’s
personal life or liberty sacrificed without a pang.
The attitude that the appetite in question maintained in her was to draw
peculiar support moreover from the current aspects and agitations of
her victim. This personage struck her, in truth, as ready for almost
anything; as not perhaps effusively protesting, yet as wanting with
a restlessness of her own to know what she wanted. And in the long
run—which was none so long either—there was to be no difficulty, as
happened, about that. It was as if, for all the world, Maggie had let
her see that she held her, that she made her, fairly responsible for
something; not, to begin with, dotting all the i’s nor hooking together
all the links, but treating her, without insistence, rather with
caressing confidence, as there to see and to know, to advise and to
assist. The theory, visibly, had patched itself together for her that
the dear woman had somehow, from the early time, had a hand in ALL
their fortunes, so that there was no turn of their common relations
and affairs that couldn’t be traced back in some degree to her original
affectionate interest. On this affectionate interest the good lady’s
young friend now built, before her eyes—very much as a wise, or even
as a mischievous, child, playing on the floor, might pile up blocks,
skilfully and dizzily, with an eye on the face of a covertly-watching
elder.
When the blocks tumbled down they but acted after the nature of blocks;
yet the hour would come for their rising so high that the structure
would have to be noticed and admired. Mrs. Assingham’s appearance of
unreservedly giving herself involved meanwhile, on her own side, no
separate recognitions: her face of almost anxious attention was directed
altogether to her young friend’s so vivid felicity; it suggested that
she took for granted, at the most, certain vague recent enhancements of
that state. If the Princess now, more than before, was going and going,
she was prompt to publish that she beheld her go, that she had always
known she WOULD, sooner or later, and that any appeal for participation
must more or less contain and invite the note of triumph. There was a
blankness in her blandness, assuredly, and very nearly an extravagance
in her generalising gaiety; a precipitation of cheer particularly marked
whenever they met again after short separations: meetings during the
first flush of which Maggie sometimes felt reminded of other looks in
other faces; of two strangely unobliterated impressions above all, the
physiognomic light that had played out in her husband at the shock—she
had come at last to talk to herself of the “shock”—of his first vision
of her on his return from Matcham and Gloucester, and the wonder of
Charlotte’s beautiful bold wavering gaze when, the next morning in Eaton
Square, this old friend had turned from the window to begin to deal with
her.
If she had dared to think of it so crudely she would have said that
Fanny was afraid of her, afraid of something she might say or do, even
as, for their few brief seconds, Amerigo and Charlotte had been—which
made, exactly, an expressive element common to the three. The difference
however was that this look had in the dear woman its oddity of a
constant renewal, whereas it had never for the least little instant
again peeped out of the others. Other looks, other lights, radiant and
steady, with the others, had taken its place, reaching a climax so short
a time ago, that morning of the appearance of the pair on the balcony
of her house to overlook what she had been doing with her father; when
their general interested brightness and beauty, attuned to the outbreak
of summer, had seemed to shed down warmth and welcome and the promise of
protection. They were conjoined not to do anything to startle her—and
now at last so completely that, with experience and practice, they had
almost ceased to fear their liability. Mrs. Assingham, on the other
hand, deprecating such an accident not less, had yet less assurance,
as having less control. The high pitch of her cheer, accordingly, the
tentative, adventurous expressions, of the would-be smiling order, that
preceded her approach even like a squad of skirmishers, or whatever they
were called, moving ahead of the baggage train—these things had at
the end of a fortnight brought a dozen times to our young woman’s lips
a challenge that had the cunning to await its right occasion, but of the
relief of which, as a demonstration, she meanwhile felt no little need.
“You’ve such a dread of my possibly complaining to you that you keep
pealing all the bells to drown my voice; but don’t cry out, my dear,
till you’re hurt—and above all ask yourself how I can be so wicked as
to complain. What in the name of all that’s fantastic can you dream
that I have to complain OF?” Such inquiries the Princess temporarily
succeeded in repressing, and she did so, in a measure, by the aid of her
wondering if this ambiguity with which her friend affected her wouldn’t
be at present a good deal like the ambiguity with which she herself must
frequently affect her father. She wondered how she should enjoy, on
HIS part, such a take-up as she but just succeeded, from day to day, in
sparing Mrs. Assingham, and that made for her trying to be as easy
with this associate as Mr. Verver, blessed man, all indulgent but all
inscrutable, was with his daughter. She had extracted from her, none
the less, a vow in respect to the time that, if the Colonel might be
depended on, they would spend at Fawns; and nothing came home to her
more, in this connection, or inspired her with a more intimate interest,
than her sense of absolutely seeing her interlocutress forbear to
observe that Charlotte’s view of a long visit, even from such allies,
was there to be reckoned with.
Fanny stood off from that proposition as visibly to the Princess, and as
consciously to herself, as she might have backed away from the edge of
a chasm into which she feared to slip; a truth that contributed again to
keep before our young woman her own constant danger of advertising her
subtle processes. That Charlotte should have begun to be restrictive
about the Assinghams—which she had never, and for a hundred obviously
good reasons, been before—this in itself was a fact of the highest
value for Maggie, and of a value enhanced by the silence in which
Fanny herself so much too unmistakably dressed it. What gave it quite
thrillingly its price was exactly the circumstance that it thus opposed
her to her stepmother more actively—if she was to back up her friends
for holding out—than she had ever yet been opposed; though of course
with the involved result of the fine chance given Mrs. Verver to ask her
husband for explanations. Ah, from the moment she should be definitely
CAUGHT in opposition there would be naturally no saying how much
Charlotte’s opportunities might multiply! What would become of her
father, she hauntedly asked, if his wife, on the one side, should
begin to press him to call his daughter to order, and the force of old
habit—to put it only at that—should dispose him, not less effectively,
to believe in this young person at any price? There she was, all round,
imprisoned in the circle of the reasons it was impossible she should
give—certainly give HIM. The house in the country was his house, and
thereby was Charlotte’s; it was her own and Amerigo’s only so far as its
proper master and mistress should profusely place it at their disposal.
Maggie felt of course that she saw no limit to her father’s profusion,
but this couldn’t be even at the best the case with Charlotte’s, whom it
would never be decent, when all was said, to reduce to fighting for her
preferences. There were hours, truly, when the Princess saw herself
as not unarmed for battle if battle might only take place without
spectators.
This last advantage for her, was, however, too sadly out of the
question; her sole strength lay in her being able to see that if
Charlotte wouldn’t “want” the Assinghams it would be because that
sentiment too would have motives and grounds. She had all the while
command of one way of meeting any objection, any complaint, on his
wife’s part, reported to her by her father; it would be open to her
to retort to his possible “What are your reasons, my dear?” by a
lucidly-produced “What are hers, love, please?—isn’t that what we had
better know? Mayn’t her reasons be a dislike, beautifully founded, of
the presence, and thereby of the observation, of persons who perhaps
know about her things it’s inconvenient to her they should know?” That
hideous card she might in mere logic play—being by this time, at her
still swifter private pace, intimately familiar with all the fingered
pasteboard in her pack. But she could play it only on the forbidden
issue of sacrificing him; the issue so forbidden that it involved even
a horror of finding out if he would really have consented to be
sacrificed. What she must do she must do by keeping her hands off him;
and nothing meanwhile, as we see, had less in common with that scruple
than such a merciless manipulation of their yielding beneficiaries as
her spirit so boldly revelled in. She saw herself, in this connexion,
without detachment—saw others alone with intensity; otherwise she might
have been struck, fairly have been amused, by her free assignment of
the pachydermatous quality. If SHE could face the awkwardness of the
persistence of her friends at Fawns in spite of Charlotte, she somehow
looked to them for an inspiration of courage that would improve upon her
own. They were in short not only themselves to find a plausibility and
an audacity, but were somehow by the way to pick up these forms for her,
Maggie, as well. And she felt indeed that she was giving them scant
time longer when, one afternoon in Portland Place, she broke out with an
irrelevance that was merely superficial.
“What awfulness, in heaven’s name, is there between them? What do you
believe, what do you KNOW?”
Oh, if she went by faces her visitor’s sudden whiteness, at this, might
have carried her far! Fanny Assingham turned pale for it, but there was
something in such an appearance, in the look it put into the eyes, that
renewed Maggie’s conviction of what this companion had been expecting.
She had been watching it come, come from afar, and now that it was
there, after all, and the first convulsion over, they would doubtless
soon find themselves in a more real relation. It was there because of
the Sunday luncheon they had partaken of alone together; it was there,
as strangely as one would, because of the bad weather, the cold perverse
June rain, that was making the day wrong; it was there because it stood
for the whole sum of the perplexities and duplicities among which our
young woman felt herself lately to have picked her steps; it was there
because Amerigo and Charlotte were again paying together alone a “week
end” visit which it had been Maggie’s plan infernally to promote—just
to see if, this time, they really would; it was there because she had
kept Fanny, on her side, from paying one she would manifestly have
been glad to pay, and had made her come instead, stupidly, vacantly,
boringly, to luncheon: all in the spirit of celebrating the fact
that the Prince and Mrs. Verver had thus put it into her own power to
describe them exactly as they were. It had abruptly occurred, in truth,
that Maggie required the preliminary help of determining HOW they were;
though, on the other hand, before her guest had answered her question
everything in the hour and the place, everything in all the conditions,
affected her as crying it out. Her guest’s stare of ignorance, above
all—that of itself at first cried it out. “‘Between them?’ What do you
mean?”
“Anything there shouldn’t be, there shouldn’t have BEEN—all this time.
Do you believe there is—or what’s your idea?”
Fanny’s idea was clearly, to begin with, that her young friend had taken
her breath away; but she looked at her very straight and very hard. “Do
you speak from a suspicion of your own?”
“I speak, at last, from a torment. Forgive me if it comes out. I’ve been
thinking for months and months, and I’ve no one to turn to, no one to
help me to make things out; no impression but my own, don’t you see? to
go by.”
“You’ve been thinking for months and months?” Mrs. Assingham took it in.
“But WHAT then, dear Maggie, have you been thinking?”
“Well, horrible things—like a little beast that I perhaps am. That
there may be something—something wrong and dreadful, something they
cover up.”
The elder woman’s colour had begun to come back; she was able, though
with a visible effort, to face the question less amazedly. “You imagine,
poor child, that the wretches are in love? Is that it?”
But Maggie for a minute only stared back at her. “Help me to find out
WHAT I imagine. I don’t know—I’ve nothing but my perpetual anxiety.
Have you any?—do you see what I mean? If you’ll tell me truly, that at
least, one way or the other, will do something for me.”
Fanny’s look had taken a peculiar gravity—a fulness with which it
seemed to shine. “Is what it comes to that you’re jealous of Charlotte?”
“Do you mean whether I hate her?”—and Maggie thought. “No; not on
account of father.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Assingham returned, “that isn’t what one would suppose. What
I ask is if you’re jealous on account of your husband.”
“Well,” said Maggie presently, “perhaps that may be all. If I’m unhappy
I’m jealous; it must come to the same thing; and with you, at least, I’m
not afraid of the word. If I’m jealous, don’t you see? I’m tormented,”
she went on—“and all the more if I’m helpless. And if I’m both helpless
AND tormented I stuff my pocket-handkerchief into my mouth, I keep
it there, for the most part, night and day, so as not to be heard too
indecently moaning. Only now, with you, at last, I can’t keep it longer;
I’ve pulled it out, and here I am fairly screaming at you. They’re
away,” she wound up, “so they can’t hear; and I’m, by a miracle of
arrangement, not at luncheon with father at home. I live in the midst of
miracles of arrangement, half of which I admit, are my own; I go about
on tiptoe, I watch for every sound, I feel every breath, and yet I try
all the while to seem as smooth as old satin dyed rose-colour. Have you
ever thought of me,” she asked, “as really feeling as I do?”
Her companion, conspicuously, required to be clear. “Jealous, unhappy,
tormented—? No,” said Mrs. Assingham; “but at the same time—and though
you may laugh at me for it!—I’m bound to confess that I’ve never been
so awfully sure of what I may call knowing you. Here you are indeed, as
you say—such a deep little person! I’ve never imagined your existence
poisoned, and, since you wish to know if I consider that it need
be, I’ve not the least difficulty in speaking on the spot. Nothing,
decidedly, strikes me as more unnecessary.”
For a minute after this they remained face to face; Maggie had sprung
up while her friend sat enthroned, and, after moving to and fro in
her intensity, now paused to receive the light she had invoked. It had
accumulated, considerably, by this time, round Mrs. Assingham’s ample
presence, and it made, even to our young woman’s own sense, a medium in
which she could at last take a deeper breath. “I’ve affected you, these
months—and these last weeks in especial—as quiet and natural and
easy?”
But it was a question that took, not imperceptibly, some answering.
“You’ve never affected me, from the first hour I beheld you, as anything
but—in a way all your own—absolutely good and sweet and beautiful. In
a way, as I say,” Mrs. Assingham almost caressingly repeated, “just all
your very own—nobody else’s at all. I’ve never thought of you but
as OUTSIDE of ugly things, so ignorant of any falsity or cruelty or
vulgarity as never to have to be touched by them or to touch them. I’ve
never mixed you up with them; there would have been time enough for that
if they had seemed to be near you. But they haven’t—if that’s what you
want to know.”
“You’ve only believed me contented then because you’ve believed me
stupid?”
Mrs. Assingham had a free smile, now, for the length of this stride,
dissimulated though it might be in a graceful little frisk. “If I had
believed you stupid I shouldn’t have thought you interesting, and if I
hadn’t thought you interesting I shouldn’t have noted whether I ‘knew’
you, as I’ve called it, or not. What I’ve always been conscious of is
your having concealed about you somewhere no small amount of character;
quite as much in fact,” Fanny smiled, “as one could suppose a person
of your size able to carry. The only thing was,” she explained, “that
thanks to your never calling one’s attention to it, I hadn’t made out
much more about it, and should have been vague, above all, as to
WHERE you carried it or kept it. Somewhere UNDER, I should simply have
said—like that little silver cross you once showed me, blest by the
Holy Father, that you always wear, out of sight, next your skin. That
relic I’ve had a glimpse of”—with which she continued to invoke the
privilege of humour. “But the precious little innermost, say this time
little golden, personal nature of you—blest by a greater power, I
think, even than the Pope—that you’ve never consentingly shown me. I’m
not sure you’ve ever consentingly shown it to anyone. You’ve been in
general too modest.”
Maggie, trying to follow, almost achieved a little fold of her forehead.
“I strike you as modest to-day—modest when I stand here and scream at
you?”
“Oh, your screaming, I’ve granted you, is something new. I must fit
it on somewhere. The question is, however,” Mrs. Assingham further
proceeded, “of what the deuce I can fit it on TO. Do you mean,” she
asked, “to the fact of our friends’ being, from yesterday to to-morrow,
at a place where they may more or less irresponsibly meet?” She spoke
with the air of putting it as badly for them as possible. “Are you
thinking of their being there alone—of their having consented to be?”
And then as she had waited without result for her companion to say: “But
isn’t it true that—after you had this time again, at the eleventh hour,
said YOU wouldn’t—they would really much rather not have gone?”
“Yes—they would certainly much rather not have gone. But I wanted them
to go.”
“Then, my dear child, what in the world is the matter?”
“I wanted to see if they WOULD. And they’ve had to,” Maggie added. “It
was the only thing.”
Her friend appeared to wonder. “From the moment you and your father
backed out?”
“Oh, I don’t mean go for those people; I mean go for us. For father and
me,” Maggie went on. “Because now they know.”
“They ‘know’?” Fanny Assingham quavered.
“That I’ve been for some time past taking more notice. Notice of the
queer things in our life.”
Maggie saw her companion for an instant on the point of asking her what
these queer things might be; but Mrs. Assingham had the next minute
brushed by that ambiguous opening and taken, as she evidently felt, a
better one. “And is it for that you did it? I mean gave up the visit.”
“It’s for that I did it. To leave them to themselves—as they less and
less want, or at any rate less and less venture to appear to want, to
be left. As they had for so long arranged things,” the Princess went
on, “you see they sometimes have to be.” And then, as if baffled by the
lucidity of this, Mrs. Assingham for a little said nothing: “Now do you
think I’m modest?”
With time, however; Fanny could brilliantly think anything that would
serve. “I think you’re wrong. That, my dear, is my answer to your
question. It demands assuredly the straightest I can make. I see no
‘awfulness’—I suspect none. I’m deeply distressed,” she added, “that
you should do anything else.” It drew again from Maggie a long look.
“You’ve never even imagined anything?”
“Ah, God forbid!—for it’s exactly as a woman of imagination that
I speak. There’s no moment of my life at which I’m not imagining
something; and it’s thanks to that, darling,” Mrs. Assingham pursued,
“that I figure the sincerity with which your husband, whom you see as
viciously occupied with your stepmother, is interested, is tenderly
interested, in his admirable, adorable wife.” She paused a minute as
to give her friend the full benefit of this—as to Maggie’s measure
of which, however, no sign came; and then, poor woman, haplessly, she
crowned her effort.—“He wouldn’t hurt a hair of your head.”
It had produced in Maggie, at once, and apparently in the intended form
of a smile, the most extraordinary expression. “Ah, there it is!”
But her guest had already gone on. “And I’m absolutely certain that
Charlotte wouldn’t either.”
It kept the Princess, with her strange grimace, standing there.
“No—Charlotte wouldn’t either. That’s how they’ve had again to go
off together. They’ve been afraid not to—lest it should disturb me,
aggravate me, somehow work upon me. As I insisted that they must,
that we couldn’t all fail—though father and Charlotte hadn’t really
accepted; as I did this they had to yield to the fear that their showing
as afraid to move together would count for them as the greater danger:
which would be the danger, you see, of my feeling myself wronged. Their
least danger, they know, is in going on with all the things that I’ve
seemed to accept and that I’ve given no indication, at any moment, of
not accepting. Everything that has come up for them has come up, in
an extraordinary manner, without my having by a sound or a sign given
myself away—so that it’s all as wonderful as you may conceive. They
move at any rate among the dangers I speak of—between that of their
doing too much and that of their not having any longer the confidence,
or the nerve, or whatever you may call it, to do enough.” Her tone, by
this time, might have shown a strangeness to match her smile; which was
still more marked as she wound up. “And that’s how I make them do what I
like!”
It had an effect on Mrs. Assingham, who rose with the deliberation that,
from point to point, marked the widening of her grasp. “My dear child,
you’re amazing.”
“Amazing—?”
“You’re terrible.”
Maggie thoughtfully shook her head. “No; I’m not terrible, and you don’t
think me so. I do strike you as surprising, no doubt—but surprisingly
mild. Because—don’t you see?—I AM mild. I can bear anything.”
“Oh, ‘bear’!” Mrs. Assingham fluted.
“For love,” said the Princess.
Fanny hesitated. “Of your father?”
“For love,” Maggie repeated.
It kept her friend watching. “Of your husband?”
“For love,” Maggie said again.
It was, for the moment, as if the distinctness of this might have
determined in her companion a choice between two or three highly
different alternatives. Mrs. Assingham’s rejoinder, at all
events—however much or however little it was a choice—was presently a
triumph. “Speaking with this love of your own then, have you undertaken
to convey to me that you believe your husband and your father’s wife to
be in act and in fact lovers of each other?” And then as the Princess
didn’t at first answer: “Do you call such an allegation as that ‘mild’?”
“Oh, I’m not pretending to be mild to you. But I’ve told you, and
moreover you must have seen for yourself, how much so I’ve been to
them.”
Mrs. Assingham, more brightly again, bridled. “Is that what you call it
when you make them, for terror as you say, do as you like?”
“Ah, there wouldn’t be any terror for them if they had nothing to hide.”
Mrs. Assingham faced her—quite steady now. “Are you really conscious,
love, of what you’re saying?”
“I’m saying that I’m bewildered and tormented, and that I’ve no one but
you to speak to. I’ve thought, I’ve in fact been sure, that you’ve seen
for yourself how much this is the case. It’s why I’ve believed you would
meet me half way.”
“Half way to what? To denouncing,” Fanny asked, “two persons, friends of
years, whom I’ve always immensely admired and liked, and against whom I
haven’t the shadow of a charge to make?”
Maggie looked at her with wide eyes. “I had much rather you should
denounce me than denounce them. Denounce me, denounce me,” she said, “if
you can see your way.” It was exactly what she appeared to have argued
out with herself. “If, conscientiously, you can denounce me; if,
conscientiously, you can revile me; if, conscientiously, you can put me
in my place for a low-minded little pig—!”
“Well?” said Mrs. Assingham, consideringly, as she paused for emphasis.
“I think I shall be saved.”
Her friend took it, for a minute, however, by carrying thoughtful eyes,
eyes verily portentous, over her head. “You say you’ve no one to speak
to, and you make a point of your having so disguised your feelings—not
having, as you call it, given yourself away. Have you then never seen
it not only as your right, but as your bounden duty, worked up to such a
pitch, to speak to your husband?”
“I’ve spoken to him,” said Maggie.
Mrs. Assingham stared. “Ah, then it isn’t true that you’ve made no
sign.”
Maggie had a silence. “I’ve made no trouble. I’ve made no scene. I’ve
taken no stand. I’ve neither reproached nor accused him. You’ll say
there’s a way in all that of being nasty enough.”
“Oh!” dropped from Fanny as if she couldn’t help it.
“But I don’t think—strangely enough—that he regards me as nasty.
I think that at bottom—for that IS,” said the Princess, “the
strangeness—he’s sorry for me. Yes, I think that, deep within, he
pities me.”
Her companion wondered. “For the state you’ve let yourself get into?”
“For not being happy when I’ve so much to make me so.”
“You’ve everything,” said Mrs. Assingham with alacrity. Yet she remained
for an instant embarrassed as to a further advance. “I don’t understand,
however, how, if you’ve done nothing—”
An impatience from Maggie had checked her. “I’ve not done absolutely
‘nothing.’”
“But what then—?”
“Well,” she went on after a minute, “he knows what I’ve done.”
It produced on Mrs. Assingham’s part, her whole tone and manner
exquisitely aiding, a hush not less prolonged, and the very duration
of which inevitably gave it something of the character of an equal
recognition. “And what then has HE done?”
Maggie took again a minute. “He has been splendid.”
“‘Splendid’? Then what more do you want?”
“Ah, what you see!” said Maggie. “Not to be afraid.”
It made her guest again hang fire. “Not to be afraid really to speak?”
“Not to be afraid NOT to speak.”
Mrs. Assingham considered further. “You can’t even to Charlotte?” But
as, at this, after a look at her, Maggie turned off with a movement of
suppressed despair, she checked herself and might have been watching
her, for all the difficulty and the pity of it, vaguely moving to the
window and the view of the hill street. It was almost as if she had
had to give up, from failure of responsive wit in her friend—the last
failure she had feared—the hope of the particular relief she had been
working for. Mrs. Assingham resumed the next instant, however, in the
very tone that seemed most to promise her she should have to give up
nothing. “I see, I see; you would have in that case too many things to
consider.” It brought the Princess round again, proving itself thus the
note of comprehension she wished most to clutch at. “Don’t be afraid.”
Maggie took it where she stood—which she was soon able to signify.
“Thank-you.”
It very properly encouraged her counsellor. “What your idea imputes is
a criminal intrigue carried on, from day to day, amid perfect trust and
sympathy, not only under your eyes, but under your father’s. That’s an
idea it’s impossible for me for a. moment to entertain.”
“Ah, there you are then! It’s exactly what I wanted from you.”
“You’re welcome to it!” Mrs. Assingham breathed.
“You never HAVE entertained it?” Maggie pursued.
“Never for an instant,” said Fanny with her head very high.
Maggie took it again, yet again as wanting more. “Pardon my being so
horrid. But by all you hold sacred?”
Mrs. Assingham faced her. “Ah, my dear, upon my positive word as an
honest woman.”
“Thank-you then,” said the Princess.
So they remained a little; after which, “But do you believe it, love?”
Fanny inquired.
“I believe YOU.”
“Well, as I’ve faith in THEM, it comes to the same thing.”
Maggie, at this last, appeared for a moment to think again; but she
embraced the proposition. “The same thing.”
“Then you’re no longer unhappy?” her guest urged, coming more gaily
toward her.
“I doubtless shan’t be a great while.”
But it was now Mrs. Assingham’s turn to want more. “I’ve convinced you
it’s impossible?”
She had held out her arms, and Maggie, after a moment, meeting her,
threw herself into them with a sound that had its oddity as a sign
of relief. “Impossible, impossible,” she emphatically, more than
emphatically, replied; yet the next minute she had burst into tears over
the impossibility, and a few seconds later, pressing, clinging, sobbing,
had even caused them to flow, audibly, sympathetically and perversely,
from her friend.