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 is n'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." (118) "Oh!" dropped from Fanny as if she could n'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. "Yet I don't understand 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."
(119) 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 move to the window and the view of the dull 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'd 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. (120) 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 enquired.
"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.
