George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged by Emma Laybourn
Chapter Fifty-seven
In the evening she sent for him again. It was near the hour at which she had been brought in from the sea the evening before. She was seated by the open window gazing fixedly on the sea, looking less shattered than before, though with a deep melancholy in her expression. She did not put out her hand, but said, “How long ago it is! Will you sit near me again a little while?”
He placed himself by her side and waited for her to speak. But she looked toward the window in silence, before crying out imploringly–
“You will not say that anyone else should know?”
“Decidedly not,” said Deronda. “There is no action that ought to be taken in consequence. There is no injury that could be righted in that way.”
She was so still that she seemed to be holding her breath before she said–
“But if I had not had that murderous will – if I had thrown the rope at once – perhaps it would have hindered death?”
“No – I think not,” said Deronda, slowly. “If it were true that he could swim, he must have been seized with cramp. With your quickest effort, it seems impossible that you could have saved him. That momentary hesitation cannot, I think, have altered the course of events. Its effect is confined to you. Our evil wish may breed evil acts, but it may also bring the self-abhorrence that stings us into better striving.”
“I am saved from robbing others – they will have everything – they will have what they ought to have.” Gwendolen spoke as if overcoming reluctance. “There was some one else he ought to have married. And I knew it, and I told her I would not hinder it. And I went away – that was when you first saw me. But then we became poor, and I was tempted. I thought, ‘I shall do as I like and make everything right.’ I persuaded myself. And it was all different and dreadful. Then came hatred and wicked thoughts. I told you I was afraid of myself. I did what you told me – I tried to make my fear a safeguard. I thought of what would be if I – I felt how I should dread the morning – and yet in the darkness always seeing death. If you did not know how miserable I was, you might – but now it has all been no use. I can care for nothing but saving the rest from knowing – poor mamma, who has never been happy.”
There was silence again before she said with a repressed sob– “You think I am wicked. You do not believe that I can become any better – I shall always be wicked–” She broke off, helpless.
Deronda’s heart was pierced. He said, “I believe that you may become worthy to lead a life that may be a blessing. No evil dooms us hopelessly except the evil we love, and make no effort to escape from. You have made efforts – you will go on making them.”
“But you must not forsake me,” said Gwendolen, looking at him piteously. “I will bear any penance. I will lead any life you tell me. But you must not forsake me. You must be near. If I could have said everything to you, I should have been different. You will not forsake me?”
“It could never be my impulse to forsake you,” said Deronda promptly, with that voice which, like his eyes, had the unintentional effect of making his ready sympathy seem more personal and special than it really was. And he was not free from a foreboding of some such self-committing effect, and of future difficulty. He continued to meet her appealing gaze as he spoke, but it was with the painful consciousness that his words might seem to carry a promise which would be unfulfilled: he was making an indefinite promise to an indefinite hope. His anxiety made him say–
“I expect Sir Hugo Mallinger to arrive tomorrow night; and I hope that Mrs. Davilow may shortly follow him. Her presence will be a comfort – you will try to save her from unnecessary pain?”
“Yes, I will try. You will not go away?”
“Not till after Sir Hugo has come.”
“But we shall all go to England?”
“As soon as possible,” said Deronda, not wishing to enter into particulars. Gwendolen looked toward the window again with an expression which seemed like a gradual awakening to new thoughts.
“You will always be with Sir Hugo now?” she said presently, looking at him. “You will always live at the Abbey – or at Diplow?”
“I am uncertain where I shall live,” said Deronda, colouring.
She was made aware that she had spoken too rashly, and fell silent. After a little while she began–
“It is impossible to think how my life will go on. I think it would be better for me to be poor and obliged to work.”
“New promptings will come as the days pass. When you are among your friends again, you will discern new duties,” said Deronda. “Make it a task now to get as well and calm as you can, before your mother comes.”
“Ah! I must be changed. I have not looked at myself. If you had met me now, should you have known me for the one you saw at Leubronn?”
“Yes,” said Deronda, mournfully. “I should have seen at once that it was you, and that you had gone through some great sorrow.”
“Don’t wish that you had never seen me; don’t wish that,” said Gwendolen, imploringly, while the tears gathered.
“I should despise myself for wishing it,” said Deronda. “If I took to foolish wishing of that sort, I should wish – not that I had never seen you, but that I had been able to save you from this.”
“You have saved me from worse,” she said. “I should have been worse if it had not been for you.”
“I had better go now,” said Deronda, worn out by the strain of this scene. “Remember to get well and calm before your friends come.”
He rose, and she gave him her hand submissively. But when he had left, she sank on her knees in hysterical crying. The distance between them was too great. She was a banished soul – beholding a possible life which she had sinned herself away from.
She was found in this way, crushed on the floor. Such grief seemed natural in a poor lady whose husband had been drowned in her presence.
BOOK VIII: FRUIT AND SEED