George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged by Emma Laybourn
Chapter Forty-eight
Grandcourt’s importance as a subject of this realm was of the grandly passive kind which consists in the inheritance of land. Political and social movements touched him only through his rents. He glanced over the best newspaper columns, and his views can hardly be said to have wanted breadth, since he embraced all Germans, commercial men, and voters liable to use the wrong kind of soap, under the general epithet of “brutes;” but he took no action on these questions beyond looking from under his eyelids at any man who mentioned them, and retaining an intimidating silence.
But Grandcourt, within his own sphere of interest, showed some of the qualities of an international diplomat.
No movement of Gwendolen in relation to Deronda escaped him. He would have denied that he was jealous; because jealousy implied some doubt of his own power to hinder what he had determined against. That his wife should prefer another man’s society to his own would not pain him: what he required was that she should know that she was helpless to defy him. However much he may have vacillated before marrying, there was no vacillating in his interpretation of the bond. He had not repented of his marriage; it had brought him new objects to exert his will upon; and he had not repented of his choice. His taste was fastidious, and Gwendolen satisfied it: he would not have liked a wife who outranked him; nor one who did not command admiration by her beauty, or who was unable to make spirited answers.
These requirements may not seem too exacting to equally fastidious contemporaries; but fewer perhaps may follow him in his contentment that his wife should be in a temper which would make her fly out if she dared, and that she should have married him because of other feelings than passionate attachment. Still, for those who prefer command to love, one does not see why the habit of mind should change precisely at the point of matrimony.
Grandcourt did not feel that he had chosen the wrong wife; and having taken on the part of husband, he was not going to allow himself to look a fool. This was his state of mind – not jealousy; although the result in his behaviour was very much the same.
He had come up to town earlier than usual to make arrangements about his will, and complete the transaction with his uncle about Diplow, which the bait of ready money had finally won him to agree upon. But he also wished to present himself in town with the beautiful bride whom he had chosen to marry in spite of what other people might have expected.
It is true that Grandcourt believed that he did not care a languid curse for anyone’s admiration: but this state of not-caring, just as much as desire, required a world of admiring or envying spectators: for if you are fond of looking stonily at smiling persons, the persons must be there and they must smile. Grandcourt had his non-caring attitude enlarged by splendid receptions and conspicuous rides and drives with his wife on all distinguished occasions. He wished her to be sought after; he liked that “fellows” should be eager to talk with her within his sight; he would not even have objected to lofty coquetry on her part. But what he did not like were her ways in relation to Deronda.
After the musical party at Lady Mallinger’s, when Grandcourt had observed the dialogue on the settee, he invited Deronda along with the Mallingers, to make it clear that Deronda’s presence or absence was not of the least importance to him; and he said nothing to Gwendolen on her behaviour that evening, lest his expression of disgust should be a little too strong to satisfy his own pride. But a few days afterward he remarked,–
“Nothing makes a woman more of a gawky than looking out for people and showing tempers in public. A woman ought to have fine manners. Else it’s intolerable to appear with her.”
Gwendolen understood him, and felt some alarm at the notion of being a gawky. For she, too, required admirers. But the sense of overhanging rebuke only intensified the anticipation of meeting Deronda. The excitement of her town life was like the hurry and constant change of foreign travel; there was always something to do, and not without pleasure. But the rare occasions on which she could exchange any words with Deronda became magnified in her consciousness, and enlarged the place she imagined herself to have in his mind.
How could Deronda help this? He certainly did not avoid her; rather he wished to let her know that her confidence in him had not lowered his respect. Moreover he liked being near her – how could it be otherwise? She was a lovely woman, and he cared about her fate perhaps all the more because he saw his own future lying far away from this splendid sad-hearted creature, who had turned to him with a beseeching need.
Gwendolen considered taking singing lessons from Mirah as a sort of obedience to Deronda’s advice, but as day followed leisurely day, Grandcourt’s presence seemed to flatten every effort to the level of his own boredom. His negative mind was as diffusive as fog, clinging to all objects, and spoiling all contact.
But one morning at breakfast, Gwendolen, determined to show her old spirit, said–
“I think of making myself accomplished while we are in town, and having singing lessons.”
“Why?” said Grandcourt, languidly.
“Why?” echoed Gwendolen, playing at sauciness; “because I can’t smoke, and I can’t go to the club – I want a variety of ennui. What would be the most convenient time, when you are busy with your lawyers, for me to have lessons from that little Jewess whose singing is all the rage?”
“Whenever you like,” said Grandcourt, pushing away his plate, and leaning back while he looked at her with his most lizard-like expression and played with the ears of the tiny spaniel on his lap (Gwendolen had taken a dislike to the dogs because they fawned on him). “Though I don’t see why a lady should sing. Amateurs make fools of themselves. One doesn’t want to hear squalling in private.”
“Frankness seems to me a husband’s great charm,” said Gwendolen, lifting a prawn before her, to look at the boiled ingenuousness of its eyes as preferable to the lizard’s. “But I suppose you don’t object to Miss Lapidoth’s singing at our party on the fourth? I thought of engaging her. Lady Brackenshaw had her, you know. And Mr. Deronda, who is a first-rate judge, says there is no singing in such good taste as hers for a drawing-room. I think his opinion is an authority.”
She meant to sling a small stone at her husband in that way.
“It’s very indecent of Deronda to go about praising that girl,” said Grandcourt in a tone of indifference.
“Indecent!” exclaimed Gwendolen, reddening in startled wonder, unable to reflect on the falsity of the phrase to go about praising.
“He ought to hold his tongue about her. Men can see what is his relation to her.”
“Men who judge of others by themselves,” said Gwendolen, turning white after her redness, and immediately smitten with a dread of her own words.
“Of course. And a woman should accept their judgment,” said Grandcourt deliberately. “I suppose you take Deronda for a saint.”
“Oh dear no!” said Gwendolen, desperately summoning her self-control, and speaking in a high hard tone. “Only a little less of a monster.”
She rose, pushed her chair away without hurry, and walked out of the room with something like the care of a man who is afraid of showing that he has taken more wine than usual. She turned the keys inside her dressing-room doors, and sat down for some time looking pale and quiet, but with cruel sensations.
Deronda unlike what she had believed him to be, was a hideous and painful image. It had grasped her before she could consider whether it were true; and now came the sudden perception, how very little she knew about him – how childish she had been in her confidence. His severity to her began to seem odious; and the grave beauty of his face seemed an unpleasant mask.
All this went rapidly through her mind, until she started into resistance. Suddenly from out the grey morning a stream of sunshine came, wrapping her in warmth and light. She rose, stretching her arms upward and clasping her hands, her habitual attitude in seeking relief from oppressive feeling, and walked about the room in the flood of sunbeams.
“
No; she would go to Mirah. This path was more definitely practicable, and quickly became imperious. She had the pretext of asking Mirah to sing at her party on the fourth. What was she going to say beside? She did not wait to foresee. She rang her bell, and on finding that Mr. Grandcourt had gone out, she ordered the carriage, and dressed for the drive. Then she went down, and walked about the drawing-room like an imprisoned animal, not recognizing herself in the glass panels. Her husband would probably find out where she had been, and punish her somehow – but all that mattered just now was the assurance that she had not been deluded in her trust.
She had Mirah’s address, and soon was on the way with a palpitating heart. She was heedless of everything till she found herself in a room with folding-doors, and heard Deronda’s voice behind it. Frightened at her own agitation, she began to unbutton her gloves that she might button them again, biting her lips, until the door opened, and Mirah appeared with a sweet smile of recognition. There was relief in the sight of her face, and Gwendolen was able to smile in return; and as she seated herself, all the while hearing the voice, she felt some return of energy in the confused sense that the truth could not be anything that she dreaded.
Mirah drew her chair very near, as if she felt that their conversation should be quiet, and looked at her visitor in expectation. Gwendolen began in a low, almost bashful tone–
“Perhaps you wonder to see me – I ought to have written – but I have a particular request.”
“I am glad to see you instead of a letter,” said Mirah, wondering at the agitated manner of the “Vandyke duchess.”
Gwendolen went on– “I thought – I hoped you would not object to sing at our house on the 4th – in the evening – at a party. I should be so much obliged.”
“I shall be very happy to sing for you. At ten?” said Mirah, while Gwendolen seemed to get more instead of less embarrassed.
“At ten, please,” she answered; then paused. She had nothing more to say, yet she could not go. Deronda’s voice was in her ears. She must say it–
“Mr. Deronda is in the next room.”
“Yes,” said Mirah. “He is reading Hebrew with my brother.”
“You have a brother?”
“Yes, a dear brother who is consumptive, and Mr. Deronda is the best of friends to him, as he has been to me,” said Mirah.
“Tell me,” said Gwendolen, putting her hand on Mirah’s, and speaking hardly above a whisper– “tell me the truth. You are sure he is quite good. You know no evil of him. Any evil that people say of him is false.”
Could the proud-spirited woman have behaved more like a child? But the strange words penetrated Mirah with nothing but solemnity and indignation. With a sudden light in her eyes and a trembling voice, she said–
“Who says evil of him? I would not believe any evil of him, if an angel came to tell it me. He found me when I was going to drown myself; I looked so poor and miserable, you would have thought I was a beggar. And he treated me as if I had been a king’s daughter. He took me to the best of women. He found my brother for me. And he honours my brother, though he too was poor. And my brother honours him, which is no light thing, for my brother is very learned and great-minded. Mr. Deronda says there are few men equal to him.” Some Jewish defiance flamed into her indignant gratitude.
But Gwendolen was like one parched with thirst and drinking fresh water. She did not notice Mirah’s anger; she was not conscious of anything but of the sense that Deronda was no more like her husband’s conception than the dawn was like gas-light. Her whole state of feeling was changed.
She pressed Mirah’s hand, and said, “Thank you, thank you,” in a hurried whisper, then rose, adding, “I must go, I shall see you on the 4th – I am so much obliged” – bowing herself out, while Mirah, opening the door for her, wondered at her sudden chilly retreat.
Gwendolen, indeed, had no feeling to spare for Mirah. The passionate need for confirmation of Deronda’s goodness, which had over-ridden everything else, was no sooner satisfied than she wanted to be gone. She began to dread Deronda’s seeing her.
And once in the carriage, she had the vision of what awaited her at home. When she drew up in Grosvenor Square, her husband was arriving with a cigar between his fingers. He threw it away and handed her out, accompanying her upstairs. She turned into the drawing-room and sat down wearily, taking off her gloves, rubbing her forehead, and ignoring his presence as much as possible. But he sat in front of her, where she could not avoid looking at him.
“May I ask where you have been at this extraordinary hour?” said Grandcourt.
“I have been to Miss Lapidoth’s, to ask her to come and sing for us,” said Gwendolen, laying her gloves on the table.
“And to ask her about her relations with Deronda?” said Grandcourt, with the coldest possible sneer in his low voice.
For the first time since their marriage she flashed out upon him without check. Turning her eyes full on his she said, in a biting tone–
“Yes; and what you said is a low, wicked falsehood.”
“She told you so – did she?” returned Grandcourt, with a more pronounced sneer.
Gwendolen was mute. The daring anger within her was turned dumb. What reasons for her belief could she give? All her reasons would be shrivelled up under her husband’s breath. There was no proof to offer but her own impression, which would seem to him her own folly. She turned and looked away from him angrily: she would have risen, but he was in her way.
Grandcourt saw his advantage. “It’s of no consequence so far as her singing goes,” he drawled. “Have her to sing, if you like.” After a pause, he added in his lowest imperious tone, “But you will please to observe that you are not to go near that house again. As my wife, you must take my word about what is proper. When you undertook to be Mrs. Grandcourt, you undertook not to make a fool of yourself. You have been making a fool of yourself this morning; and if you were to go on this way, you might get yourself talked of at the clubs in a way you would not like. What do you know about the world? You have married me, and must be guided by my opinion.”
Every slow sentence of that speech had a terrific mastery in it for Gwendolen. If it had come from a physician telling her that she had a fatal disease, she could not have been more helpless against it. But she was permitted to move now, and her husband never again spoke of what had occurred. He knew the force of his own words, and did not flinch from ruthlessness.
Gwendolen did not, for all this, part with her recovered faith:– rather, she kept it with a more anxious tenacity, as a Protestant of old kept his Bible hidden or a Catholic his crucifix, according to the side in favour at the time; and it was characteristic of her that apart from the information gained about Deronda, Mirah and her brother did not enter her thoughts. The phrase “reading Hebrew” had fleeted across her sense of hearing without leaving any impression.
But the result of that visit, as it regarded her husband, was the cause of a change in her perhaps not observed by anyone except Deronda. As the weeks went on bringing occasional transient interviews with her, he thought that he perceived an intensifying of her superficial hardness and resolute display, which made her abrupt betrayals of agitation the more marked and disturbing.
In fact, she was undergoing a sort of unwilling discipline for the refractory which bent her with a terrible strain. Grandcourt had divined this refractoriness in her, and suspected that it increased whenever she happened to see Deronda: there was some “confounded nonsense” between them. He did not imagine it exactly as flirtation, and his imagination in other branches was rather restricted
Among the means he chose, one was peculiar, and was less ably calculated than usual.
He determined that she should know the contents of the will he was making, but he could not tell her himself, because it involved the fact of his relation to Mrs. Glasher; and any open recognition of this between Gwendolen and himself was supremely repugnant to him. Like all proud, closely-wrapped natures, he shrank from explicitness on personal matters. And clashing was intolerable to him; he preferred to use the quiet massive pressure of his rule. But he wished Gwendolen to know that before he made her an offer, he knew that she was aware of his relations with Lydia.
Some men in his place might have thought of writing this to her, in the form of a letter. But Grandcourt hated writing: even writing a note was a bore to him, and he had long been accustomed to have all his writing done by Lush: who, to his mind, was as much of an implement as pen and paper.
But here too Grandcourt was reserved, and would not utter a word likely to encourage Lush in an impudent sympathy about his marriage. Grandcourt had always allowed Lush to know his affairs and debts indiscriminately; he had only used discrimination about what he would allow his confidant to say to him; and he had been so accustomed to this human tool, that having him at call in London was a recovery of lost ease. It followed that Lush knew the provisions of the will more exactly than Grandcourt himself.
Grandcourt did not doubt that Gwendolen, since she was a woman who could put two and two together, knew or suspected Lush to be the contriver of her interview with Lydia, and that this why she had requested his banishment. But here Grandcourt lacked the knowledge that could have saved him from mistake – namely, some experience of the passions concerned. He had correctly divined the half of Gwendolen’s dread that related to her personal pride; but the remorseful half was as much out of his imagination as the other side of the moon. What he believed her to feel about Lydia was solely jealousy, and what he believed Lydia to have written with the jewels was the fact that she had once been used to wearing them. He aimed to aggravate the jealousy and yet smite it dumb: and Lush was the only possible envoy.
Grandcourt’s view of things was considerably fenced in by his lack of sympathy. This lack would make even Mephistopheles stupid: thrown upon real life, and obliged to manage his own plots, he would inevitably make blunders.
One morning Grandcourt went to Gwendolen in her boudoir, hat and gloves in hand, and said with his most persuasive drawl, looking down on her as she sat with a book on her lap–
“A – Gwendolen, there’s some business about property to be explained. I have told Lush to explain it to you. I am going out. He can come up now. I suppose you’ll not mind.”
“You know that I do mind,” said Gwendolen, angrily. “I shall not see him.” She started up toward the door, but Grandcourt was prepared for her anger and was there before her, saying;–
“It’s no use making a fuss. There are plenty of brutes in the world that one has to talk to. One shouldn’t make a fuss about such things. If I employ Lush, the proper thing for you is to take it as a matter of course. Not to make a fuss about it. Not to toss your head about people of that sort.”
The drawling and the pauses in this speech gave time for crowding reflections in Gwendolen. What was there to be told her about property? It might concern her mother, or Mrs. Glasher. What would be the use if she refused to see Lush? She knew Grandcourt would not tell her himself. The humiliation of standing a prisoner, with her husband barring the door, was not to be borne any longer, and she turned away.
“Shall I tell Lush he may come up now?” he said.
Yet another pause before she could say “Yes” – her eyes cast down.
“I shall come back in time to ride, if you like to get ready,” said Grandcourt. No answer. “She is in a desperate rage,” thought he. But the rage was silent, and therefore not disagreeable to him. He turned her chin and kissed her, while she still kept her eyelids down, and she did not move them until he was gone.
What was she to do? Her romantic illusions in marrying this man had turned on her power of using him as she liked. He was using her as he liked.
She sat awaiting the announcement of Lush as a sort of searing operation that she had to go through. The thought of what her husband knew burned through her. It was all a part of that new gambling, in which the losing was not simply a minus, but a terrible plus that had never entered into her reckoning.
Grandcourt had told Lush, “Don’t make yourself more disagreeable than nature makes you.”
“That depends,” thought Lush. But the idea of an interview did not wholly displease him, and he said, “I will write a brief abstract of the will for Mrs. Grandcourt to read.”
Some provision was made for himself in the will, and he had no reason to be in a bad humour. He was sure that he knew all the secrets of the situation; but he had no diabolical delight in it, only a gratified resentment in discerning that this marriage, as he had foreseen, was not as satisfactory as the supercilious young lady had expected it to be, and as Grandcourt wished to pretend that it was. While he had no active good-will, he had little active malevolence, being chiefly occupied in his own particular pleasures. Nevertheless, he was not indifferent to the prospect of being treated uncivilly by a beautiful woman, or to having the official power of humiliating her.
By the time that Mr. Lush was announced, Gwendolen had resolved that he should not witness the slightest betrayal of her feeling. She invited him to sit down with stately quietude. After all, what was this man to her? He was not in the least like her husband. Her power of hating a coarse, familiar, clumsy man, was now relaxed by the intensity with which she hated his contrast.
Lush held a small paper in his hand while he spoke. “I need hardly say that I should not have presented myself to you if Mr. Grandcourt had not expressed a strong wish to that effect.”
From some voices that speech might have sounded apologetic, but to Gwendolen’s ear his words held as much insolence as his prominent eyes, and the pronoun “you” was too familiar. He ought to have addressed the folding-screen, and have spoken of her as Mrs. Grandcourt. She gave the smallest bow, and Lush went on.
“My having been in Mr. Grandcourt’s confidence for fifteen years gives me a peculiar position. He can speak to me of matters that he could not mention to anyone else; and he could not have employed anyone else in this affair. I have accepted the task out of friendship for him. Which is my apology for accepting the task – if you would have preferred some one else.”
He paused, but she made no sign. Lush opened the folded paper, and looked at it vaguely before he began to speak again.
“This paper contains some information about Mr. Grandcourt’s will, if you’ll be good enough to cast your eyes over it. But there is something I had to say by way of introduction – which I hope you’ll pardon me for, if it’s not quite agreeable.” Lush found that he was behaving better than he had expected, and had no idea how insulting he made himself with his “not quite agreeable.”
“Say what you have to say without apologizing, please,” said Gwendolen, with the air she might have bestowed on a dog-stealer come to claim a reward for finding the dog he had stolen.
“I have to remind you of something that occurred before your engagement to Mr. Grandcourt,” said Lush, some willing insolence rising in exchange for her scorn. “You met a lady in Cardell Chase, if you remember, who spoke to you of her position with regard to Mr. Grandcourt. She had children with her – one a very fine boy.”
Gwendolen was pale. This man’s speech was like a knife-edge drawn across her skin: and other feelings crowded in, dim and alarming as ghosts.
“Mr. Grandcourt was aware that you were acquainted with this unfortunate affair, and he thinks it only right that his
When Gwendolen resolved that she would betray no feeling, she had not prepared herself to hear that her husband knew the silently accepted terms on which she had married him. She dared not raise her hand to the paper that he held out, lest it should tremble. She said haughtily–
“Lay it on the table. And go into the next room, please.”
Lush obeyed, thinking, “My lady winces considerably. She didn’t know what would be the charge for that superfine article, Henleigh Grandcourt.” But it seemed to him that as a penniless girl, she had done better than she had any right to expect, and that she had been uncommonly knowing. Her words to Lydia had meant nothing, and her running away had probably been planned: it had turned out a master-stroke.
Meanwhile Gwendolen was rallying her nerves. She must read the paper. Her pride, her rebellion, her remorseful conscience all made her need to know what the paper contained.
At first it was not easy to take in the meaning of the words. When she succeeded, she found that in the case of her having no son, Grandcourt had made the small Henleigh his heir; that was all she cared to extract from the paper with any distinctness. The other statement as to what provision would be made for her in the same case, she hurried over, getting only a confused perception of thousands and Gadsmere. It was enough. This inheritance was meant as a final humiliation, but she could dismiss the man in the next room with the defiant energy which it inspired.
Thrusting the paper between the leaves of her book, she walked with her stateliest air into the next room, where Lush immediately arose. She said in a high tone, while she swept him with her eyelashes–
“Tell Mr. Grandcourt that his arrangements are just what I desired” – passing on without haste, and leaving Lush to mingle some admiration of her graceful back with a half-amused sense of her impertinence. He really did not want her to be worse punished, and he was glad that it was time to go and lunch on lobster salad at his club.
When her husband returned he found Gwendolen in her riding-dress, ready to ride out with him. She was not again going to be hysterical. She was going to act in the spirit of her message, and not to give herself time to reflect. Doubtless her husband had meant to produce a great effect on her: by-and-by perhaps she would let him see an effect the very opposite of what he intended; but at present all that she could show was a defiant satisfaction. To show anything that could be interpreted as jealousy would be the worst self-humiliation. She was not clear about her future action, except that she would match her husband in indifference.
So she not only rode, but went out with him to dine, contributing nothing to alter their usual manner; and curiously enough she rejected a handkerchief on which her maid had put the wrong scent – a scent that Grandcourt had once objected to. Gwendolen would not have liked to be an object of disgust to this hated husband: she liked all disgust to be on her side.
But to defer thought in this way proved impossible. After nine or ten hours she seemed to have gone through a labyrinth of reflection, in which every path was a dead end. Already she was undergoing some hardening effect from feeling that she was viewed solely in the light of her lowest motives. She recalled the scenes of her courtship, with the new bitter consciousness of what had been in Grandcourt’s mind – certain that he had a triumph in conquering her repugnance, and a cold exultation in knowing her fancied secret. Her imagination exaggerated every tyrannical impulse he was capable of.
“I will insist on being separated from him” – was her first darting determination; then, “I will leave him whether he consents or not. If this boy becomes his heir, I have made an atonement.”
But those scenes would be unendurable. How could she run away to her own family, causing them distress and scandal? What future lay before a Mrs. Grandcourt gone back to her mother, and made destitute by the rupture of the marriage whose chief excuse had been that it had brought that mother a maintenance? What could she say to justify her flight? Her uncle would tell her to go back. Her mother would cry. Her aunt and Anna would look at her with wondering alarm. Her husband would have power to compel her. She had absolutely nothing that she could allege against him.
And to “insist on separation!” With Grandcourt, that was easier to say than do. How was she to begin? What was she to say that would not condemn herself? “If I am to have misery,” was her bitter refrain, “I had better keep it secret.” Moreover, her capability of rectitude told her again and again that she had no right to complain of her contract, or to withdraw from it.
And always among the images that drove her back to submission was Deronda. The idea of herself separated from her husband gave Deronda a changed, disturbing place in her mind: instinctively she felt that the separation would be from him too. In the prospect of herself as a solitary, dubiously-regarded woman, she felt some tingling bashfulness when she remembered her behaviour towards him.
What would he say if he knew everything? Probably that she ought to bear what she had brought on herself, unless she were sure that she could make herself a better woman by taking any other course. And what sort of woman would she be, solitary, sick of life, looked at with suspicious pity? Mrs. Grandcourt “run away” would be a more pitiable creature than Gwendolen Harleth condemned to teach the bishop’s daughters, and to be inspected by Mrs. Mompert.
One characteristic trait in her conduct is worth mentioning. She would not look a second time at the paper Lush had given her, but locked it away, proudly resolved against curiosity about what was allotted to herself – feeling herself branded in her husband’s mind with the meanness that would accept marriage and wealth on any conditions, however dishonourable.
Day after day she thought along the same lines, and nothing changed. May turned into June, and still Mrs. Grandcourt was presenting herself with the accustomed grace, beauty, and costume, whether at church or the opera. Church was not distinguished in her mind from the other forms of self-presentation, for the brilliant Mrs. Grandcourt was, so far as pastoral care and religious fellowship were concerned, in as complete a solitude as a man in a lighthouse.
Can we wonder at the submission which hid her rebellion? The combination is common enough. Poor Gwendolen had both too much and too little mental power and dignity to make herself exceptional. No wonder that Deronda now saw some hardening in a look and manner which were schooled daily to the suppression of feeling.
For example. One morning, riding in Rotten Row with Grandcourt, she saw standing against the railing, facing them, a dark-eyed lady with a little girl and a blonde boy, whom she at once recognized as Mrs. Glasher. Gwendolen had not presence of mind to do anything but glance away from the piercing dark eyes toward Grandcourt, who wheeled past the group with an unmoved face, giving no sign of recognition.
Immediately she felt a rising rage against him mingling with her shame, and the words, “You might at least have raised your hat to her,” flew to her lips – but did not pass them. She was filling Mrs. Glasher’s place: how could she be the person to reproach him? She was dumb.
It was not chance, but design, that had brought Mrs. Glasher there with her boy. Her interviews with Lush had made her think her ultimate triumph was probable. Let her keep quiet, and she might live to see the marriage dissolve itself, Lush hinted, leaving the succession assured to her boy. She had had an interview with Grandcourt, too, who had as usual told her to behave like a reasonable woman, and threatened punishment if she were troublesome; but had, also as usual, been lavish with his money. Lydia, feeding on the probabilities in her favour, devoured her wrath; but she could not resist making a Medusa-apparition before Gwendolen, in a vindictive outlet of venom. Hence, after finding out from Lush the likely time for Gwendolen to be riding, she had watched at that place.
Her appearance was made effective beyond her
No! she foresaw him always living, and her own life dominated by him; the “always” of her young experience not stretching beyond the next few years that seemed immeasurably long with her passionate weariness. The thought of his dying would not subside: it turned as with a dream-change into the terror that she should die with his throttling fingers on her neck avenging that thought. Fantasies moved within her like ghosts, dark rays doing their work invisibly in daylight.
An evening or two after that encounter in the Park, there was a grand concert at Klesmer’s, who was living rather magnificently now in one of the large houses in Grosvenor Place. Gwendolen had looked forward to this occasion as one on which she was sure to meet Deronda, and she had been meditating how to put a question to him which, without shaming herself, would yet be explicit enough for him to understand it. She struggled with opposite feelings: the very idea of Deronda’s relation to her discouraged her from taking any desperate step towards freedom, but she longed for some word of his to enforce a resolve. Because any conversations with him had always to be snatched in the doubtful privacy of large parties, she lived through them many times beforehand, imagining what she would say.
Her irritation was great when no opportunity came; and this evening at Klesmer’s she included Deronda in her anger, because he looked as calm as possible at a distance from her, while she was in danger of betraying her impatience. She found her only safety in a chill haughtiness which made Mr. Vandernoodt remark that Mrs. Grandcourt was becoming a perfect match for her husband. When at last Deronda was near her, Sir Hugo and Mrs. Raymond were close by and could hear every word she said. No matter: her husband was not near, and her irritation passed without check into a fit of daring which restored her self-possession. Deronda was there at last, and she would compel him to do what she pleased.
Standing rather queenly in her white lace and green leaves she threw a royal permissiveness into her request, “I wish you would come and see me tomorrow between five and six, Mr. Deronda.”
There could be but one answer: “Certainly.”
Afterward it occurred to Deronda that he would write a note to excuse himself. He had always avoided making a call at Grandcourt’s. But his excuse might be taken as an indifference that would hurt her, so he kept his promise.
Gwendolen had declined to ride out on the last-minute plea of not feeling well – not without alarm lest her husband should say that he too would stay at home. But Grandcourt accepted her excuse without remark, and rode off.
When Gwendolen found herself alone, and had sent down the order that only Mr. Deronda was to be admitted, she began to feel a growing agitation in the thought that he would soon appear, and she should be obliged to speak: yet what she had been for hours determining to say seemed impossible. For the first time, she felt timid, and was shaken by the possibility that he might think her invitation unbecoming. If so, she would have sunk in his esteem. But immediately she resisted this fear as an infection from her husband’s way of thinking.
In her struggle between agitation and the effort to suppress it, she was walking up and down the length of two drawing-rooms, where at one end a long mirror reflected her in her black dress, with her white pillar of a neck shown to advantage. Some consciousness of this made her turn hastily and hurry to the boudoir, where she tied a large piece of black lace so as completely to conceal her neck, and leave only her face looking out from the black frame. However, the lace did not take away the uneasiness from her eyes and lips.
She was standing in the middle of the room when Deronda was announced, and as he approached her she perceived that he too for some reason was not his usual self. He looked less happy than usual, and appeared to be under some effort in speaking to her. They both said, “How do you do?” quite curtly; and Gwendolen moved to a little distance, while Deronda stood where he was,– both feeling it difficult to say any more, though the preoccupation in his mind could hardly have been more remote from Gwendolen’s idea. She naturally saw in his embarrassment some reflection of her own. Forced to speak, she began with unusually timid awkwardness–
“You will wonder why I begged you to come. I wanted to ask you something. You said I was ignorant. That is true. And what can I do but ask you?”
At this moment she was feeling it utterly impossible to put the questions she had intended. Something new in her nervous manner roused Deronda’s anxiety lest there might be a new crisis. He said with sad affection in his voice–
“My only regret is, that I can be of so little use to you.”
The words touched a new spring in her, and she went on with more sense of freedom, yet still not saying anything she had designed to say.
“I wanted to tell you that I have always been thinking of your advice, but is it any use? I can’t make myself different, because things give me bad feelings – and I must go on – I can alter nothing – it is no use.”
She paused, conscious that she was not finding the right words, but began again hurriedly, “But if I go on I shall get worse. I want not to get worse. I should like to be what you wish. There are people who are good and enjoy great things – I know there are. I am a contemptible creature. I feel as if I should get wicked with hating people. I have tried to think that I would go away from everybody. But I can’t. You think, perhaps, that I don’t mind. But I do mind. I am afraid of everything. I am afraid of getting wicked. Tell me what I can do.”
She had forgotten everything but that helpless misery which she was trying to convey to Deronda. Her brilliant, tearless eyes had a look of smarting; there was a subdued sob in her voice, which sank to hardly above a whisper. Her tightly-clasped fingers pressed against her heart.
The feeling Deronda endured in these moments was horrible. Words seemed to have no more rescue in them than if he had been beholding a vessel in peril of wreck, beaten by an inescapable storm. How could he grasp her wretchedness? – how change it with a sentence? He was afraid of his own voice. The words that rushed into his mind seemed feeble and trite. The thought that urged itself foremost was– “Confess everything to your husband; conceal nothing:” – but before he had begun to speak, the door opened and the husband entered.
Grandcourt had deliberately gone out and turned back to satisfy a suspicion. What he saw was Gwendolen’s face of anguish, framed black like a nun’s, and Deronda standing three yards from her with a look of deep sorrow. Without any show of surprise Grandcourt nodded to Deronda, gave a second look at Gwendolen, passed on, and seated himself easily at a little distance, crossing his legs, and trifling elegantly with his handkerchief.
Gwendolen had shrunk on seeing him, but she did not move from her place. She could not feign anything: the passion of her last speech was still too strong within her. She felt a dull despairing sense that her interview with Deronda was at an end.
But he, naturally, was urged into self-possession and effort by thinking of what might follow for her from being seen by her husband in this agitation; and as any pretence of ease would only exaggerate Grandcourt’s possible conjectures, he merely said–
“I will not stay longer now. Good bye.”
He put out his hand, and she let him press her poor little chill fingers; but she said no good-bye.
When he had left, Gwendolen threw herself into a seat, with a dull expectation that she was going to be punished. But Grandcourt took no notice: he was satisfied to have let her know that she had not deceived him, and to keep an omniscient silence. He went out that evening, and her plea of feeling ill was accepted without even a sneer.
The next morning at
“When?” said Gwendolen, with a leap of hope.
“The day after tomorrow. The yacht is at Marseilles. Lush is gone to get everything ready.”
“Shall I have mamma to stay with me, then?” said Gwendolen, the new sudden possibility of peace and affection filling her mind like a burst of morning light.
“No; you will go with me.”