Part 26 (1/2)
”I should not if I were you. If anyone kissed your hand or mine it would not only be an epoch in our lives, but also the sign manual of some ponderous attachment which you, my dear, would carefully weigh, and approximately value. But do you suppose for one moment that Fay attaches any importance to such an everyday occurrence!”
”I see what you are driving at, that Fay is not responsible for her actions. But she is. She must know when she does things or lets them be done, that will make others suffer.”
”If you could look into Fay's heart, Bessie, you would find that Fay is suffering herself and attributing her pain to others. As long as we do that, as long as we hold the stick by the wrong end, we must inflict pain in some form or other. Fay is not happy. You cannot look at her without seeing it.”
”I would not mind so much if it were not for Wentworth,” said Bessie with dreadful courage. ”I know it is partly jealousy, but it is not only jealousy. There are a few crumbs of unselfishness in it. I thought at first--I reasoned it out with myself and it appeared a logical conclusion--that father was the ostensible but not the real object of Wentworth's frequent visits. I took a great interest in his conversation; it is so lucid, so well informed, so illuminative. I do not read novels as a rule, but I dipped into a few, studying the love scenes, and the preliminary approaches to love scenes in order to aid my inexperience at this juncture. I am sorry to say I fell into the error that he might possibly reciprocate the growing interest I felt in him, in spite of the great disparity in age. It was a mistake. I have suffered for it.”
The two roses of Bessie's cheeks bloomed on as unflinchingly as ever.
Magdalen's eyes were fixed on her own hands.
”You would not have suited each other if he had cared for you,” she said after a moment, ”for you would not have done him justice when you got to know him better, any more than you do Fay justice now that you _do_ know her better. Wentworth is made of words, just as other men are made of flesh and blood. How would you have kept any respect for him when you had become tired of words? You are too straightforward, too sledge-hammer to understand a character like his.”
”In that case Fay ought to suit him,” said Bessie grimly. ”No one, not even you, can call her straightforward. But I begin to think, Magdalen, that you actually wish for the marriage.”
”I had never thought of it as possible on her side until a few minutes ago, when what you said took me by surprise. Of course I had noticed the attraction on his side, but it appeared to me he was irresolute and timid, and it is better to ignore the faint emotions of half-hearted people. They come to no good. If you repel them they are mortally offended and withdraw, and if you welcome them they are terrified and withdraw.”
”I don't think Wentworth intends withdrawing.”
”No. These meetings look as if he had unconsciously drifted with the current till the rowing back would be somewhat arduous.” There was a moment's silence, in which Magdalen recalled certain lofty sentiments which Wentworth had aired with suspicious frequency of late. She knew that when he talked of his consciousness of guidance by a Higher Power in the important decisions of his life he always meant following the line of least resistance. In this case the line of least resistance _might_ tend towards marriage.
”It never struck me as possible till now,” she said aloud, ”that Fay would think seriously of him.”
”I don't suppose she is. She is only keeping her hand in. Don't you remember how cruel she was to that poor Mr. Bell.”
”I am convinced that she is not keeping her hand in.”
”Then you actually favour the idea of a marriage.” Bessie got up and stalked slowly to the door. ”You will help it on?” she said over her shoulder.
”No.” Magdalen's voice shook a little. ”I will do nothing to help it, or to hinder it.”
CHAPTER XXI
The dawn broke dim on Rose Mary's soul-- No hill-crown's heavenly aureole, But a wild gleam on a shaken shoal.
--D. G. ROSSETTI.
If Fay's progress through life could have been drawn with a pencil it would have resembled the ups and downs, like the teeth of a saw, of a fever chart.
To Magdalen it appeared as if Fay could undergo the same feelings with the same impotent results of remorse or depression a hundred times. They seemed to find her the same and leave her the same. But nevertheless she did move, imperceptibly, unconsciously--no, not quite unconsciously. The sense--common to all weak natures--not of being guided, but of being pushed was upon her.
Once again she tried to extricate herself from the pressure of some mysterious current. There seemed no refuge left in Magdalen. There seemed very few comfortable people left in the world, to whom a miserable woman might turn. Only Wentworth. _He did not know._
Perhaps Fay would never have turned to him if she had not first confided in and then shrunk from Magdalen. For the second time in her life she longed feverishly to get away from home, the home to which only a year ago she had been so glad to hurry back, when she had been so restlessly anxious to get away from Italy. Wentworth was beginning to look like a means of escape. The duke had at one time worn that aspect. Later on Michael had looked extremely like it for a moment. Now Wentworth was a.s.suming that aspect in a more solid manner than either of his predecessors. She was slipping into love with him, half unconsciously, half with _malice prepense_. She told herself continually that she did not want to marry him or anyone, that she hated the very idea of marriage.
But her manner to Wentworth seemed hardly to be the outward reflection of these inward communings. And why did she conceal from Magdalen her now constant meetings with him?