George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged by Emma Laybourn
Chapter Twenty-nine
“Now my cousins are at Diplow,” said Grandcourt, “will you go there? The carriage shall come for Mrs. Davilow. You can tell me what you would like done in the rooms. Things must be put in decent order while we are away at Ryelands. And tomorrow is the only day.”
He was sitting on a sofa in the drawing-room at Offendene, one elbow resting on the back, in the attitude of a man who is much interested in watching the person next to him. Gwendolen, who had always disliked needlework, had taken to it with apparent zeal since her engagement, and now held a piece of white embroidery which, on examination, would have shown many false stitches. During the last eight or nine days their hours had been chiefly spent on horseback, but some time had been left for this more difficult sort of companionship, which, however, Gwendolen had not found disagreeable. She was very well satisfied with Grandcourt. His answers to her lively questions about what he had seen and done in his life, bore drawling very well. She felt not only that he had nothing of the fool in his composition, but that by some subtle means he gave the impression that all the folly lay with other people.
And then Grandcourt’s behaviour as a lover had hardly passed the limit of an unobtrusive homage. One day, indeed, he had kissed her neck, below her ear; and Gwendolen, taken by surprise, had started up with a marked agitation which made him say, “I beg your pardon – did I annoy you?”
“Oh, it was nothing,” said Gwendolen, rather afraid of herself, “only I cannot bear – to be kissed under my ear.” She sat down again with a little playful laugh, but felt her heart beating with a vague fear: she was no longer at liberty to flout him as she had flouted poor Rex. Her agitation seemed to him to be a compliment, and he was content not to transgress again.
Today rain hindered riding; but to compensate, a package had come from London, and beautiful things (of Grandcourt’s ordering) lay scattered about on the tables for Gwendolen to enjoy. She said with a pretty air of perversity–
“Why is tomorrow the only day?”
“Because the next day is the first with the hounds,” said Grandcourt. “And after that I must go away for a couple of days – it’s a bore – but I shall go one day and come back the next.” He noticed a change in her face, and laying his hand on hers, he said, “You object to my going away?”
“It’s no use objecting,” said Gwendolen, coldly. She was resisting the temptation to tell him that she suspected to whom he was going.
Grandcourt said, enfolding her hand, “I will travel at night, so as only to be away one day.” He thought that he knew the reason of what he inwardly called this bit of temper, and she was particularly fascinating to him at this moment. “You will go to Diplow tomorrow?”
“Oh, yes, if you wish it,” said Gwendolen, in a high tone of careless assent. Her concentration on other feelings had prevented her from noticing that her hand was being held.
“How you treat us poor devils of men!” said Grandcourt. “We are always getting the worst of it.”
“Are you?” said Gwendolen. She longed to believe this commonplace statement was the truth: in that case, Mrs. Glasher would appear more blameable than Grandcourt. “Are you always getting the worst?”
“Yes. Are you as kind to me as I am to you?” said Grandcourt, looking into her eyes with his narrow gaze.
Gwendolen felt herself stricken. She was conscious of having received so much, that her sense of command was checked. She could not turn back: it was as if she had consented to mount a chariot where another held the reins. All she could do was to adjust herself, so that the spikes of that unwilling penance which conscience imposed should not gall her. With a sort of inward shiver, she resolutely changed her mental attitude, and smiling suddenly, she said–
“If I were as kind to you as you are to me, that would spoil your generosity: it would no longer be as great as it is.”
“Then I am not to ask for one kiss,” said Grandcourt, contented to pay a large price for this new kind of love-making, which introduced marriage by the finest contrast.
“Not one!” said Gwendolen, getting saucy.
He lifted her little left hand to his lips, and then released it respectfully. Indeed, he was almost charming; and she felt at this moment that it was not likely she could ever have loved another man better than this one. His reticence gave her some inexplicable, delightful consciousness.
“Is there anyone besides the Torringtons at Diplow?” she said, taking up her work again.
“She has a sister with her,” said Grandcourt, “and there are two men – one of them you know, I believe. You saw him at Leubronn – young Deronda – with the Mallingers.”
Gwendolen felt as if her heart made a sudden jump. “I never spoke to him,” she said, dreading to show any change. “Is he not disagreeable?”
“Not particularly,” said Grandcourt languidly. “He thinks a little too much of himself. I thought he had been introduced to you.”
“No. Some one told me his name before I came away, that’s all. What is he?”
“A ward of Sir Hugo Mallinger’s. Nothing of any consequence.”
“Oh, poor creature! How very unpleasant for him!” said Gwendolen, speaking from the lip, and not meaning any sarcasm. “I wonder if it has left off raining!” she added, rising to look out of the window.
Happily it did not rain the next day, and Gwendolen rode to Diplow on Criterion. She always felt more daring in her riding-dress; besides having the fortifying belief that she looked as well as possible in it. Her anger toward Deronda had changed to superstitious dread lest his first interference in her life might foreshadow some future influence. It is of such stuff that superstitions are made; and they carry consequences which often verify their hope or their foreboding.
She did not see Deronda until lunchtime. But from the first moment of their being in the room together, she seemed to herself to be doing nothing but notice him.
When he took his place at lunch, Grandcourt said, “Deronda, Miss Harleth tells me you were not introduced to her at Leubronn?”
“Miss Harleth hardly remembers me, I imagine,” said Deronda, looking at her as they bowed. “She was intensely occupied when I saw her.”
Now, did he suppose that she had not suspected him of being the person who redeemed her necklace?
“On the contrary. I remember you very well,” said Gwendolen, feeling rather nervous, but governing herself. “You did not approve of my playing at roulette.”
“How did you come to that conclusion?” said Deronda, gravely.
“Oh, you cast an evil eye on my play,” said Gwendolen, with a turn of her head and a smile. “I began to lose as soon as you came to look on. I had been winning till then.”
“Roulette in such a kennel as Leubronn is a horrid bore,” said Grandcourt.
“I found it a bore when I began to lose,” said Gwendolen. Her face was turned toward Grandcourt as she smiled and spoke, but she gave a sidelong glance at Deronda, and saw his eyes fixed on her with a gravely penetrating look. She wheeled her neck round as if she wanted to listen to what was being said by the rest, while she was only thinking of Deronda. His face had that disturbing expression which threatens to affect one’s opinion – as if one’s standard was somehow wrong. His voice, heard now for the first time, was to Grandcourt’s toneless drawl as the deep notes of a cello to the broken discourse of poultry. Grandcourt, she decided, was perhaps right in saying that Deronda thought too much of himself: a favourite way of explaining a superiority that humiliates.
The talk turned on the West Indies, and no more was said about roulette. Gwendolen trifled with her jelly, and looked at every speaker in turn that she might feel at ease in looking at Deronda.
“I wonder what he thinks of me, really? He must have felt interested in me, else he would not have sent me my necklace. I wonder what he thinks of my marriage? Why is he so grave? Why has he come to Diplow?”
These questions ran in her mind, and she felt an uneasy longing to be admired
In the drawing-room, when something had called Grandcourt away, she went up to Deronda, and said–
“Shall you hunt tomorrow, Mr. Deronda?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“You don’t object to hunting, then?”
“It is a sin I am inclined to, when I can’t get boating or cricket.”
“Do you object to my hunting?” said Gwendolen, with a saucy movement of the chin.
“I have no right to object to anything you choose to do.”
“You thought you had a right to object to my gambling,” persisted Gwendolen.
“I was sorry for it. I am not aware that I told you of my objection,” said Deronda, with his usual directness of gaze – a large-eyed gravity, innocent of any intention. His eyes had an intensity which seemed to express a special interest in everyone on whom he fixed them, and which might easily encourage them to ask for his help and sympathy.
“You hindered me from gambling again,” she answered. But she had no sooner spoken than she blushed over face and neck; and Deronda blushed, too, conscious that in the little affair of the necklace he had taken a questionable freedom.
It was impossible to speak further; and she turned away to a window, feeling that she had stupidly said what she had not meant to say, and yet being rather happy that she had plunged into this mutual understanding.
Deronda also did not dislike it. Gwendolen seemed more decidedly attractive than before; and certainly she had changed since Leubronn: she showed the consciousness of error rather than her former crude self-confidence.
That evening Mrs. Davilow said, “Did Mr. Deronda really spoil your play, Gwen?”
“Oh, it merely happened that he was looking on when I began to lose,” said Gwendolen, carelessly. “I noticed him.”
“I don’t wonder: he is a striking young man. He puts me in mind of Italian paintings. One would guess, without being told, that there was foreign blood in his veins.”
“Is there?”
“Mrs. Torrington says so. She told me that his mother was some foreigner of high rank.”
“His mother?” said Gwendolen, rather sharply. “Then who was his father?”
“Well – everyone says he is the son of Sir Hugo Mallinger, who brought him up; though he passes for a ward. She says, if Sir Hugo could have done as he liked with his estates, he would have left them to this Mr. Deronda, since he has no legitimate son.”
Gwendolen was silent; but her mother saw so marked an effect in her face that she was angry with herself for having repeated Mrs. Torrington’s gossip. It seemed, on reflection, unsuited to her daughter’s ear.
An image of the sad, dark-eyed, unknown mother had immediately arisen in Gwendolen’s mind. A dark-eyed woman, no longer young, had become “stuff o’ the conscience” to her.
That night when she was in her little bed, and only a dim light was burning, she said–
“Mamma, have men generally children before they are married?”
“No, dear,” said Mrs. Davilow.
“If it were so, I ought to know,” said Gwendolen indignantly.
“You are thinking of what I said about Mr. Deronda and Sir Hugo Mallinger. That is a very unusual case, dear.”
“Does Lady Mallinger know?”
“She knows enough to satisfy her. That is quite clear, because Mr. Deronda has lived with them.”
“And people think no worse of him?”
“Well, of course he does not inherit the property. But people are not obliged to know anything about his birth; he is very well received.”
“I wonder whether he knows about it; and is angry with his father?”
“My dear child, why should you think of that?”
“Why?” said Gwendolen, impetuously, sitting up in her bed. “Haven’t children reason to be angry with their parents? How can they help their parents marrying or not marrying?”
But a consciousness rushed upon her, which made her fall back again on her pillow. It was not only that she might seem to reproach her mother for her second marriage; but she had been led to a condemnation which made her own marriage a forbidden thing.
There was no further talk, and till sleep came Gwendolen lay struggling with the reasons against that marriage – reasons which pressed upon her newly, now that they were unexpectedly mirrored in the story of Deronda, whose relations with her had bitten themselves into the most permanent layers of feeling. But for all her debating, she was never troubled by the question whether it was defensible of her to marry Grandcourt solely for convenience, without seeing him as one to whom she was to bind herself in duty.
In the morning there was a double excitement for her. She was going to hunt; and she was going again to see Deronda, in whom her interest had grown.
What sort of life and career had he before him? With only a little difference in events he might have been as important as Grandcourt, nay, might have held the very estates which Grandcourt was to have. But now, Deronda would probably some day see her bearing the title which would have been his own wife’s.
She had now to see her marriage in a new light, as a hard, unfair exclusion of others. What she had heard about Deronda seemed to throw him into one group with Mrs. Glasher and her children. Perhaps Deronda himself was thinking of these things. Could he know of Mrs. Glasher? If he knew that she knew, he would despise her; but he could have no such knowledge. Would he, without that, despise her for marrying Grandcourt? His possible judgment of her actions was telling on her as strongly as Klesmer’s judgment of her powers; but she felt some strength in saying–
“How can I help what other people have done? Things would not come right if I were to turn round now and declare that I would not marry Mr. Grandcourt.” And such turning round was out of the question. The horses in the chariot she had mounted were going at full speed.
And the immediate delightful fact was the hunt, where she would see Deronda, and where he would see her; for always lurking in her thoughts about him was the impression that he was very much interested in her. But today she was resolved not to repeat her folly of yesterday, as if she were anxious to say anything to him. Indeed, the hunt would be too absorbing.
So it was for a long while. Deronda was there, and within her sight; but this only added to the pleasure of the hunt. No accident happened to throw them together; and once they were within reach of home, and Gwendolen was returning with the company to Offendene, the sense of glorious excitement had gone. She was irritably disappointed that she had had no opportunity of speaking to Deronda, whom she would not see again, since he was to go away in a couple of days.
What was she going to say? That was not quite certain. She wanted to speak to him. Grandcourt was by her side, and Deronda’s horse she could hear behind. The wish to speak to him was becoming imperious; and there was no chance of it unless she simply asserted her will and defied everything. Where the order of things could give way to Miss Gwendolen, it must be made to do so.
The horse-hoofs heard behind her were a growing irritation. She reined in her horse and looked back; Grandcourt also paused; but she, waving her whip with playful imperiousness, said, “Go on! I want to speak to Mr. Deronda.”
Grandcourt hesitated; it was an awkward situation for him. No gentleman, before marriage, could refuse a command delivered in this playful way. He rode on slowly, and she waited till Deronda came up. He looked at her with tacit inquiry, and she said at once, riding alongside him–
“Mr. Deronda, you must enlighten me. Why did you think it wrong for me to gamble? Is it because I am a woman?”
“Not altogether; but I regretted it the more because you were a woman,” said Deronda, with an irrepressible smile. Apparently it must be understood between them now that it was he who sent the neck
“But you do admit that we can’t help things,” said Gwendolen. The answer had not been anything like what she had expected. “We can’t always help it that our gain is another’s loss.”
“Clearly. But we should help it where we can.”
Gwendolen, biting her lip, paused, and then forcing herself to speak playfully again, said–
“But why should you regret it more because I am a woman?”
“Perhaps because we need you to be better than us.”
“But suppose we need men to be better than us,” said Gwendolen with a little air of “check!”
“That is rather a difficulty,” said Deronda, smiling. “I suppose I should have said, we each of us think it would be better for the other to be good.”
“You see, I needed you to be better than I was – and you thought so,” said Gwendolen, laughing, while she put her horse forward and joined Grandcourt, who made no observation.
“Don’t you want to know what I had to say to Mr. Deronda?” said Gwendolen, whose pride required her to account for her conduct.
“Ah – no,” said Grandcourt, coldly.
“Now that is the first impolite word you have spoken – that you don’t wish to hear what I had to say,” said Gwendolen, playing at a pout.
“I wish to hear what you say to me, not to other men,” said Grandcourt.
“I wanted to make him tell me why he objected to my gambling, and he gave me a little sermon.”
“Excuse me the sermon.” If Gwendolen imagined that Grandcourt cared about her speaking to Deronda, he wished her to know that she was mistaken. But he was not fond of being told to ride on. She saw he was piqued, but did not mind. She had accomplished her object of speaking again to Deronda before he turned with the rest toward Diplow, while her lover attended her to Offendene, where he was to bid farewell before his absence on the unspecified journey. Grandcourt was going by train to Gadsmere.