"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 assuming 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? Wentworth had by this time tested and found correct all his intimate knowledge of Woman, that knowledge which at first had not seemed to work out quite smoothly.