Article description: (description ) This attribute controls the content of the description and og:description elements. | DANIEL DERONDA
By George Eliot
Let thy chief terror be of thine own soul:
There, 'mid the throng of hurrying desires
That trample on the dead to seize their spoil,
Lurks vengeance, footless, irresistible
As exhalations laden with slow death,
And o'er the fairest troop of captured joys
Breathes pallid pestilence.
CONTENTS.
BOOK I. THE SPOILED CHILD
" II. MEETING STREAMS
" III. MAIDENS CHOOSING
" IV. GWENDOLEN GETS HER CHOICE
" V. MORDECAI
" VI. REVELATIONS
" VII. THE MOTHER AND THE SON
" VIII. FRUIT AND SEED
DANIEL DERONDA.
BOOK I.--THE SPOILED CHILD.
CHAPTER I.
Men can do nothing without the make-believe of a beginning. Even
science, the strict measurer, is obliged to start with a make-believe
unit, and must fix on a point in the stars' unceasing journey when his
sidereal clock shall pretend that time is at Nought. His less accurate
grandmother Poetry has always been understood to start in the middle;
but on reflection it appears that her proceeding is not very different
from his; since Science, too, reckons backward as well as forward,
divides his unit into billions, and with his clock-finger at Nought
really sets off _in medias res_. No retrospect will take us to
the true beginning; and whether our prologue be in heaven or on earth,
it is but a fraction of that all-presupposing fact with which our
story sets out.
Was she beautiful or not beautiful? and what was the secret of form or
expression which gave the dynamic quality to her glance? Was the good
or the evil genius dominant in those beams? Probably the evil; else why
was the effect that of unrest rather than of undisturbed charm? Why was
the wish to look again felt as coercion and not as a longing in which
the whole being consents?
She who raised these questions in Daniel Deronda's mind was occupied in
gambling: not in the open air under a southern sky, tossing coppers on
a ruined wall, with rags about her limbs; but in one of those splendid
resorts which the enlightenment of ages has prepared for the same
species of pleasure at a heavy cost of guilt mouldings, dark-toned
color and chubby nudities, all correspondingly heavy--forming a
suitable condenser for human breath belonging, in great part, to the
highest fashion, and not easily procurable to be breathed in elsewhere
in the like proportion, at least by persons of little fashion.
It was near four o'clock on a September day, so that the atmosphere was
well-brewed to a visible haze. There was deep stillness, broken only by
a light rattle, a light chink, a small sweeping sound, and an
occasional monotone in French, such as might be expected to issue from
an ingeniously constructed automaton. Round two long tables were
gathered two serried crowds of human beings, all save one having their
faces and attention bent on the tables. The one exception was a
melancholy little boy, with his knees and calves simply in their
natural clothing of epidermis, but for the rest of his person in a
fancy dress. He alone had his face turned toward the doorway, and
fixing on it the blank gaze of a bedizened child stationed as a
masquerading advertisement on the platform of an itinerant show, stood
close behind a lady deeply engaged at the roulette-table.
About this table fifty or sixty persons were assembled, many in the
outer rows, where there was occasionally a deposit of new-comers, being
mere spectators, only that one of them, usually a woman, might now and
then be observed putting down a five-franc with a simpering air, just
to see what the passion of gambling really was. Those who were taking
their pleasure at a higher strength, and were absorbed in play, showed
very distant varieties of European type: Livonian and Spanish,
Graeco-Italian and miscellaneous German, English aristocratic and
English plebeian. Here certainly was a striking admission of human
equality. The white bejewelled fingers of an English countess were very
near touching a bony, yellow, crab-like hand stretching a bared wrist
to clutch a heap of coin--a hand easy to sort with the square, gaunt
face, deep-set eyes, grizzled eyebrows, and ill-combed scanty hair
which seemed a slight metamorphosis of the vulture. And where else
would her ladyship have graciously consented to sit by that dry-lipped
feminine figure prematurely old, withered after short bloom like her
artificial flowers, holding a shabby velvet reticule before her, and
occasionally putting in her mouth the point with which she pricked her
card? There too, very near the fair countess, was a respectable London
tradesman, blonde and soft-handed, his sleek hair scrupulously parted
behind and before, conscious of circulars addressed to the nobility and
gentry, whose distinguished patronage enabled him to take his holidays
fashionably, and to a certain extent in their distinguished company.
Not his gambler's passion that nullifies appetite, but a well-fed
leisure, which, in the intervals of winning money in business and
spending it showily, sees no better resource than winning money in play
and spending it yet more showily--reflecting always that Providence had
never manifested any disapprobation of his amusement, and dispassionate
enough to leave off if the sweetness of winning much and seeing others
lose had turned to the sourness of losing much and seeing others win.
For the vice of gambling lay in losing money at it. In his bearing
there might be something of the tradesman, but in his pleasures he was
fit to rank with the owners of the oldest titles. Standing close to his
chair was a handsome Italian, calm, statuesque, reaching across him to
place the first pile of napoleons from a new bagful just brought him by
an envoy with a scrolled mustache. The pile was in half a minute pushed
over to an old bewigged woman with eye-glasses pinching her nose. There
was a slight gleam, a faint mumbling smile about the lips of the old
woman; but the statuesque Italian remained impassive, and--probably
secure in an infallible system which placed his foot on the neck of
chance--immediately prepared a new pile. So did a man with the air of
an emaciated beau or worn-out libertine, who looked at life through one
eye-glass, and held out his hand tremulously when he asked for change.
It could surely be no severity of system, but rather some dream of
white crows, or the induction that the eighth of the month was lucky,
which inspired the fierce yet tottering impulsiveness of his play.
But, while every single player differed markedly from every other,
there was a certain uniform negativeness of expression which had the
effect of a mask--as if they had all eaten of some root that for the
time compelled the brains of each to the same narrow monotony of action.
Deronda's first thought when his eyes fell on this scene of dull,
gas-poisoned absorption, was that the gambling of Spanish shepherd-boys
had seemed to him more enviable:--so far Rousseau might be justified in
maintaining that art and science had done a poor service to mankind.
But suddenly he felt the moment become dramatic. His attention was
arrested by a young lady who, standing at an angle not far from him,
was the last to whom his eyes traveled. She was bending and speaking
English to a middle-aged lady seated at play beside her: but the next
instant she returned to her play, and showed the full height of a
graceful figure, with a face which might possibly be looked at without
admiration, but could hardly be passed with indifference.
The inward debate which she raised in Deronda gave to his eyes a
growing expression of scrutiny, tending farther and farther away from
the glow of mingled undefined sensibilities forming admiration. At one
moment they followed the movements of the figure, of the arms and
hands, as this problematic sylph bent forward to deposit her stake with
an air of firm choice; and the next they returned to the face which, at
present unaffected by beholders, was directed steadily toward the game.
The sylph was a winner; and as her taper fingers, delicately gloved in
pale-gray, were adjusting the coins which had been pushed toward her in
order to pass them back again to the winning point, she looked round
her with a survey too markedly cold and neutral not to have in it a
little of that nature which we call art concealing an inward exultation.
But in the course of that survey her eyes met Deronda's, and instead of
averting them as she would have desired to do, she was unpleasantly
conscious that they were arrested--how long? The darting sense that he
was measuring her and looking down on her as an inferior, that he was
of different quality from the human dross around her, that he felt
himself in a region outside and above her, and was examining her as a
specimen of a lower order, roused a tingling resentment which stretched
the moment with conflict. It did not bring the blood to her cheeks, but
it sent it away from her lips. She controlled herself by the help of an
inward defiance, and without other sign of emotion than this
lip-paleness turned to her play. But Deronda's gaze seemed to have
acted as an evil eye. Her stake was gone. No matter; she had been
winning ever since she took to roulette with a few napoleons at
command, and had a considerable reserve. She had begun to believe in
her luck, others had begun to believe in it: she had visions of being
followed by a _cortège_ who would worship her as a goddess of luck and
watch her play as a directing augury. Such things had been known of
male gamblers; why should not a woman have a like supremacy? Her friend
and chaperon who had not wished her to play at first was beginning to
approve, only administering the prudent advice to stop at the right
moment and carry money back to England--advice to which Gwendolen had
replied that she cared for the excitement of play, not the winnings. On
that supposition the present moment ought to have made the flood-tide
in her eager experience of gambling. Yet, when her next stake was swept
away, she felt the orbits of her eyes getting hot, and the certainty
she had (without looking) of that man still watching her was something
like a pressure which begins to be torturing. The more reason to her
why she should not flinch, but go on playing as if she were indifferent
to loss or gain. Her friend touched her elbow and proposed that they
should quit the table. For reply Gwendolen put ten louis on the same
spot: she was in that mood of defiance in which the mind loses sight of
any end beyond the satisfaction of enraged resistance; and with the
puerile stupidity of a dominant impulse includes luck among its objects
of defiance. Since she was not winning strikingly, the next best thing
was to lose strikingly. She controlled her muscles, and showed no
tremor of mouth or hands. Each time her stake was swept off she doubled
it. Many were now watching her, but the sole observation she was
conscious of was Deronda's, who, though she never looked toward him,
she was sure had not moved away. Such a drama takes no long while to
play out: development and catastrophe can often be measured by nothing
clumsier than the moment-hand. "Faites votre jeu, mesdames et
messieurs," said the automatic voice of destiny from between the
mustache and imperial of the croupier: and Gwendolen's arm was
stretched to deposit her last poor heap of napoleons. "Le jeu ne va
plus," said destiny. And in five seconds Gwendolen turned from the
table, but turned resolutely with her face toward Deronda and looked at
him. There was a smile of irony in his eyes as their glances met; but
it was at least better that he should have disregarded her as one of an
insect swarm who had no individual physiognomy. Besides, in spite of
his superciliousness and irony, it was difficult to believe that he did
not admire her spirit as well as her person: he was young, handsome,
distinguished in appearance--not one of these ridiculous and dowdy
Philistines who thought it incumbent on them to blight the gaming-table
with a sour look of protest as they passed by it. The general
conviction that we are admirable does not easily give way before a
single negative; rather when any of Vanity's large family, male or
female, find their performance received coldly, they are apt to believe
that a little more of it will win over the unaccountable dissident. In
Gwendolen's habits of mind it had been taken for granted that she knew
what was admirable and that she herself was admired. This basis of her
thinking had received a disagreeable concussion, and reeled a little,
but was not easily to be overthrown.
In the evening the same room was more stiflingly heated, was brilliant
with gas and with the costumes of ladies who floated their trains along
it or were seated on the ottomans.
The Nereid in sea-green robes and silver ornaments, with a pale
sea-green feather fastened in silver falling backward over her green
hat and light brown hair, was Gwendolen Harleth. She was under the
wing, or rather soared by the shoulder, of the lady who had sat by her
at the roulette-table; and with them was a gentleman with a white
mustache and clipped hair: solid-browed, stiff and German. They were
walking about or standing to chat with acquaintances, and Gwendolen was
much observed by the seated groups.
"A striking girl--that Miss Harleth--unlike others."
"Yes, she has got herself up as a sort of serpent now--all green and
silver, and winds her neck about a little more than usual."
"Oh, she must always be doing something extraordinary. She is that kind
of girl, I fancy. Do you think her pretty, Mr. Vandernoodt?"
"Very. A man might risk hanging for her--I mean a fool might."
"You like a _nez retroussé_, then, and long narrow eyes?"
"When they go with such an _ensemble_."
"The _ensemble du serpent_?"
"If you will. Woman was tempted by a serpent; why not man?"
"She is certainly very graceful; but she wants a tinge of color in her
cheeks. It is a sort of Lamia beauty she has."
"On the contrary, I think her complexion one of her chief charms. It is
a warm paleness; it looks thoroughly healthy. And that delicate nose
with its gradual little upward curve is distracting. And then her
mouth--there never was a prettier mouth, the lips curled backward so
finely, eh, Mackworth?"
"Think so? I cannot endure that sort of mouth. It looks so
self-complacent, as if it knew its own beauty--the curves are too
immovable. I like a mouth that trembles more."
"For my part, I think her odious," said a dowager. "It is wonderful
what unpleasant girls get into vogue. Who are these Langens? Does
anybody know them?"
"They are quite _comme il faut_. I have dined with them several times
at the _Russie_. The baroness is English. Miss Harleth calls her
cousin. The girl herself is thoroughly well-bred, and as clever as
possible."
"Dear me! and the baron?".
"A very good furniture picture."
"Your baroness is always at the roulette-table," said Mackworth. "I
fancy she has taught the girl to gamble."
"Oh, the old woman plays a very sober game; drops a ten-franc piece
here and there. The girl is more headlong. But it is only a freak."
"I hear she has lost all her winnings to-day. Are they rich? Who knows?"
"Ah, who knows? Who knows that about anybody?" said Mr. Vandernoodt,
moving off to join the Langens.
The remark that Gwendolen wound her neck about more than usual this
evening was true. But it was not that she might carry out the serpent
idea more completely: it was that she watched for any chance of seeing
Deronda, so that she might inquire about this stranger, under whose
measuring gaze she was still wincing. At last her opportunity came.
"Mr. Vandernoodt, you know everybody," said Gwendolen, not too eagerly,
rather with a certain languor of utterance which she sometimes gave to
her clear soprano. "Who is that near the door?"
"There are half a dozen near the door. Do you mean that old Adonis in
the George the Fourth wig?"
"No, no; the dark-haired young man on the right with the dreadful
expression."
"Dreadful, do you call it? I think he is an uncommonly fine fellow."
"But who is he?"
"He is lately come to our hotel with Sir Hugo Mallinger."
"Sir Hugo Mallinger?"
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"No." (Gwendolen colored slightly.) "He has a place near us, but he
never comes to it. What did you say was the name of that gentleman near
the door?"
"Deronda--Mr. Deronda."
"What a delightful name! Is he an Englishman?"
"Yes. He is reported to be rather closely related to the baronet. You
are interested in him?"
"Yes. I think he is not like young men in general."
"And you don't admire young men in general?"
"Not in the least. I always know what they will say. I can't at all
guess what this Mr. Deronda would say. What _does_ he say?"
"Nothing, chiefly. I sat with his party for a good hour last night on
the terrace, and he never spoke--and was not smoking either. He looked
bored."
"Another reason why I should like to know him. I am always bored."
"I should think he would be charmed to have an introduction. Shall I
bring it about? Will you allow it, baroness?"
"Why not?--since he is related to Sir Hugo Mallinger. It is a new
_rôle_ of yours, Gwendolen, to be always bored," continued Madame von
Langen, when Mr. Vandernoodt had moved away. "Until now you have always
seemed eager about something from morning till night."
"That is just because I am bored to death. If I am to leave off play I
must break my arm or my collar-bone. I must make something happen;
unless you will go into Switzerland and take me up the Matterhorn."
"Perhaps this Mr. Deronda's acquaintance will do instead of the
Matterhorn."
"Perhaps."
But Gwendolen did not make Deronda's acquaintance on this occasion. Mr.
Vandernoodt did not succeed in bringing him up to her that evening, and
when she re-entered her own room she found a letter recalling her home.
CHAPTER II.
This man contrives a secret 'twixt us two,
That he may quell me with his meeting eyes
Like one who quells a lioness at bay.
This was the letter Gwendolen found on her table:--
DEAREST CHILD.--I have been expecting to hear from you for a week. In
your last you said the Langens thought of leaving Leubronn and going
to Baden. How could you be so thoughtless as to leave me in
uncertainty about your address? I am in the greatest anxiety lest this
should not reach you. In any case, you were to come home at the end of
September, and I must now entreat you to return as quickly as
possible, for if you spent all your money it would be out of my power
to send you any more, and you must not borrow of the Langens, for I
could not repay them. This is the sad truth, my child--I wish I could
prepare you for it better--but a dreadful calamity has befallen us
all. You know nothing about business and will not understand it; but
Grapnell & Co. have failed for a million, and we are totally
ruined--your aunt Gascoigne as well as I, only that your uncle has his
benefice, so that by putting down their carriage and getting interest
for the boys, the family can go on. All the property our poor father
saved for us goes to pay the liabilities. There is nothing I can call
my own. It is better you should know this at once, though it rends my
heart to have to tell it you. Of course we cannot help thinking what a
pity it was that you went away just when you did. But I shall never
reproach you, my dear child; I would save you from all trouble if I
could. On your way home you will have time to prepare yourself for the
change you will find. We shall perhaps leave Offendene at once, for we
hope that Mr. Haynes, who wanted it before, may be ready to take it
off my hands. Of course we cannot go to the rectory--there is not a
corner there to spare. We must get some hut or other to shelter us,
and we must live on your uncle Gascoigne's charity, until I see what
else can be done. I shall not be able to pay the debts to the
tradesmen besides the servants' wages. Summon up your fortitude, my
dear child; we must resign ourselves to God's will. But it is hard to
resign one's self to Mr. Lassman's wicked recklessness, which they say
was the cause of the failure. Your poor sisters can only cry with me
and give me no help. If you were once here, there might be a break in
the cloud--I always feel it impossible that you can have been meant
for poverty. If the Langens wish to remain abroad, perhaps you can put
yourself under some one else's care for the journey. But come as soon
as you can to your afflicted and loving mamma,
FANNY DAVILOW.
The first effect of this letter on Gwendolen was half-stupefying. The
implicit confidence that her destiny must be one of luxurious ease,
where any trouble that occurred would be well clad and provided for,
had been stronger in her own mind than in her mamma's, being fed there
by her youthful blood and that sense of superior claims which made a
large part of her consciousness. It was almost as difficult for her to
believe suddenly that her position had become one of poverty and of
humiliating dependence, as it would have been to get into the strong
current of her blooming life the chill sense that her death would
really come. She stood motionless for a few minutes, then tossed off
her hat and automatically looked in the glass. The coils of her smooth
light-brown hair were still in order perfect enough for a ball-room;
and as on other nights, Gwendolen might have looked lingeringly at
herself for pleasure (surely an allowable indulgence); but now she took
no conscious note of her reflected beauty, and simply stared right
before her as if she had been jarred by a hateful sound and was waiting
for any sign of its cause. By-and-by she threw herself in the corner of
the red velvet sofa, took up the letter again and read it twice
deliberately, letting it at last fall on the ground, while she rested
her clasped hands on her lap and sat perfectly still, shedding no
tears. Her impulse was to survey and resist the situation rather than
to wail over it. There was no inward exclamation of "Poor mamma!" Her
mamma had never seemed to get much enjoyment out of life, and if
Gwendolen had been at this moment disposed to feel pity she would have
bestowed it on herself--for was she not naturally and rightfully the
chief object of her mamma's anxiety too? But it was anger, it was
resistance that possessed her; it was bitter vexation that she had lost
her gains at roulette, whereas if her luck had continued through this
one day she would have had a handsome sum to carry home, or she might
have gone on playing and won enough to support them all. Even now was
it not possible? She had only four napoleons left in her purse, but she
possessed some ornaments which she could sell: a practice so common in
stylish society at German baths that there was no need to be ashamed of
it; and even if she had not received her mamma's letter, she would
probably have decided to get money for an Etruscan necklace which she
happened not to have been wearing since her arrival; nay, she might
have done so with an agreeable sense that she was living with some
intensity and escaping humdrum. With ten louis at her disposal and a
return of her former luck, which seemed probable, what could she do
better than go on playing for a few days? If her friends at home
disapproved of the way in which she got the money, as they certainly
would, still the money would be there. Gwendolen's imagination dwelt on
this course and created agreeable consequences, but not with unbroken
confidence and rising certainty as it would have done if she had been
touched with the gambler's mania. She had gone to the roulette-table
not because of passion, but in search of it: her mind was still sanely
capable of picturing balanced probabilities, and while the chance of
winning allured her, the chance of losing thrust itself on her with
alternate strength and made a vision from which her pride sank
sensitively. For she was resolved not to tell the Langens that any
misfortune had befallen her family, or to make herself in any way
indebted to their compassion; and if she were to part with her jewelry
to any observable extent, they would interfere by inquiries and
remonstrances. The course that held the least risk of intolerable
annoyance was to raise money on her necklace early in the morning, tell
the Langens that her mother desired her immediate return without giving
a reason, and take the train for Brussels that evening. She had no maid
with her, and the Langens might make difficulties about her returning
home, but her will was peremptory.
Instead of going to bed she made as brilliant a light as she could and
began to pack, working diligently, though all the while visited by the
scenes that might take place on the coming day--now by the tiresome
explanations and farewells, and the whirling journey toward a changed
home, now by the alternative of staying just another day and standing
again at the roulette-table. But always in this latter scene there was
the presence of that Deronda, watching her with exasperating irony,
and--the two keen experiences were inevitably revived
together--beholding her again forsaken by luck. This importunate image
certainly helped to sway her resolve on the side of immediate
departure, and to urge her packing to the point which would make a
change of mind inconvenient. It had struck twelve when she came into
her room, and by the time she was assuring herself that she had left
out only what was necessary, the faint dawn was stealing through the
white blinds and dulling her candles. What was the use of going to bed?
Her cold bath was refreshment enough, and she saw that a slight trace
of fatigue about the eyes only made her look the more interesting.
Before six o'clock she was completely equipped in her gray traveling
dress even to her felt hat, for she meant to walk out as soon as she
could count on seeing other ladies on their way to the springs. And
happening to be seated sideways before the long strip of mirror between
her two windows she turned to look at herself, leaning her elbow on the
back of the chair in an attitude that might have been chosen for her
portrait. It is possible to have a strong self-love without any
self-satisfaction, rather with a self-discontent which is the more
intense because one's own little core of egoistic sensibility is a
supreme care; but Gwendolen knew nothing of such inward strife. She had
a _naïve_ delight in her fortunate self, which any but the harshest
saintliness will have some indulgence for in a girl who had every day
seen a pleasant reflection of that self in her friends' flattery as
well as in the looking-glass. And even in this beginning of troubles,
while for lack of anything else to do she sat gazing at her image in
the growing light, her face gathered a complacency gradual as the
cheerfulness of the morning. Her beautiful lips curled into a more and
more decided smile, till at last she took off her hat, leaned forward
and kissed the cold glass which had looked so warm. How could she
believe in sorrow? If it attacked her, she felt the force to crush it,
to defy it, or run away from it, as she had done already. Anything
seemed more possible than that she could go on bearing miseries, great
or small.
Madame von Langen never went out before breakfast, so that Gwendolen
could safely end her early walk by taking her way homeward through the
Obere Strasse in which was the needed shop, sure to be open after
seven. At that hour any observers whom she minded would be either on
their walks in the region of the springs, or would be still in their
bedrooms; but certainly there was one grand hotel, the _Czarina_ from
which eyes might follow her up to Mr. Wiener's door. This was a chance
to be risked: might she not be going in to buy something which had
struck her fancy? This implicit falsehood passed through her mind as
she remembered that the _Czarina_ was Deronda's hotel; but she was then
already far up the Obere Strasse, and she walked on with her usual
floating movement, every line in her figure and drapery falling in
gentle curves attractive to all eyes except those which discerned in
them too close a resemblance to the serpent, and objected to the
revival of serpent-worship. She looked neither to the right hand nor to
the left, and transacted her business in the shop with a coolness which
gave little Mr. Weiner nothing to remark except her proud grace of
manner, and the superior size and quality of the three central
turquoises in the necklace she offered him. They had belonged to a
chain once her father's: but she had never known her father; and the
necklace was in all respects the ornament she could most conveniently
part with. Who supposes that it is an impossible contradiction to be
superstitious and rationalizing at the same time? Roulette encourages a
romantic superstition as to the chances of the game, and the most
prosaic rationalism as to human sentiments which stand in the way of
raising needful money. Gwendolen's dominant regret was that after all
she had only nine louis to add to the four in her purse: these Jew
dealers were so unscrupulous in taking advantage of Christians
unfortunate at play! But she was the Langens' guest in their hired
apartment, and had nothing to pay there: thirteen louis would do more
than take her home; even if she determined on risking three, the
remaining ten would more than suffice, since she meant to travel right
on, day and night. As she turned homeward, nay, entered and seated
herself in the _salon_ to await her friends and breakfast, she still
wavered as to her immediate departure, or rather she had concluded to
tell the Langens simply that she had had a letter from her mamma
desiring her return, and to leave it still undecided when she should
start. It was already the usual breakfast-time, and hearing some one
enter as she was leaning back rather tired and hungry with her eyes
shut, she rose expecting to see one or other of the Langens--the words
which might determine her lingering at least another day, ready-formed
to pass her lips. But it was the servant bringing in a small packet for
Miss Harleth, which had at that moment been left at the door. Gwendolen
took it in her hand and immediately hurried into her own room. She
looked paler and more agitated than when she had first read her mamma's
letter. Something--she never quite knew what--revealed to her before
she opened the packet that it contained the necklace she had just
parted with. Underneath the paper it was wrapped in a cambric
handkerchief, and within this was a scrap of torn-off note-paper, on
which was written with a pencil, in clear but rapid handwriting--"_A
stranger who has found Miss Harleth's necklace returns it to her with
the hope that she will not again risk the loss of it._"
Gwendolen reddened with the vexation of wounded pride. A large corner
of the handkerchief seemed to have been recklessly torn off to get rid
of a mark; but she at once believed in the first image of "the
stranger" that presented itself to her mind. It was Deronda; he must
have seen her go into the shop; he must have gone in immediately after
and repurchased the necklace. He had taken an unpardonable liberty, and
had dared to place her in a thoroughly hateful position. What could she
do?--Not, assuredly, act on her conviction that it was he who had sent
her the necklace and straightway send it back to him: that would be to
face the possibility that she had been mistaken; nay, even if the
"stranger" were he and no other, it would be something too gross for
her to let him know that she had divined this, and to meet him again
with that recognition in their minds. He knew very well that he was
entangling her in helpless humiliation: it was another way of smiling
at her ironically, and taking the air of a supercilious mentor.
Gwendolen felt the bitter tears of mortification rising and rolling
down her cheeks. No one had ever before dared to treat her with irony
and contempt. One thing was clear: she must carry out her resolution to
quit this place at once; it was impossible for her to reappear in the
public _salon_, still less stand at the gaming-table with the risk of
seeing Deronda. Now came an importunate knock at the door: breakfast
was ready. Gwendolen with a passionate movement thrust necklace,
cambric, scrap of paper, and all into her _nécessaire_, pressed her
handkerchief against her face, and after pausing a minute or two to
summon back her proud self-control, went to join her friends. Such
signs of tears and fatigue as were left seemed accordant enough with
the account she at once gave of her having sat up to do her packing,
instead of waiting for help from her friend's maid. There was much
protestation, as she had expected, against her traveling alone, but she
persisted in refusing any arrangements for companionship. She would be
put into the ladies' compartment and go right on. She could rest
exceedingly well in the train, and was afraid of nothing.
In this way it happened that Gwendolen never reappeared at the
roulette-table, but that Thursday evening left Leubronn for Brussels,
and on Saturday morning arrived at Offendene, the home to which she and
her family were soon to say a last good-bye.
CHAPTER III.
"Let no flower of the spring pass by us; let us crown ourselves with
rosebuds before they be withered."--BOOK OF WISDOM.
Pity that Offendene was not the home of Miss Harleth's childhood, or
endeared to her by family memories! A human life, I think, should be
well rooted in some spot of a native land, where it may get the love of
tender kinship for the face of earth, for the labors men go forth to,
for the sounds and accents that haunt it, for whatever will give that
early home a familiar unmistakable difference amid the future widening
of knowledge: a spot where the definiteness of early memories may be
inwrought with affection, and--kindly acquaintance with all neighbors,
even to the dogs and donkeys, may spread not by sentimental effort and
reflection, but as a sweet habit of the blood. At five years old,
mortals are not prepared to be citizens of the world, to be stimulated
by abstract nouns, to soar above preference into impartiality; and that
prejudice in favor of milk with which we blindly begin, is a type of
the way body and soul must get nourished at least for a time. The best
introduction to astronomy is to think of the nightly heavens as a
little lot of stars belonging to one's own homestead.
But this blessed persistence in which affection can take root had been
wanting in Gwendolen's life. It was only a year before her recall from
Leubronn that Offendene had been chosen as her mamma's home, simply for
its nearness to Pennicote Rectory, and that Mrs. Davilow, Gwendolen,
and her four half-sisters (the governess and the maid following in
another vehicle) had been driven along the avenue for the first time,
on a late October afternoon when the rooks were crawing loudly above
them, and the yellow elm-leaves were whirling.
The season suited the aspect of the old oblong red-brick house, rather
too anxiously ornamented with stone at every line, not excepting the
double row of narrow windows and the large square portico. The stone
encouraged a greenish lichen, the brick a powdery gray, so that though
the building was rigidly rectangular there was no harshness in the
physiognomy which it turned to the three avenues cut east, west and
south in the hundred yards' breadth of old plantation encircling the
immediate grounds. One would have liked the house to have been lifted
on a knoll, so as to look beyond its own little domain to the long
thatched roofs of the distant villages, the church towers, the
scattered homesteads, the gradual rise of surging woods, and the green
breadths of undulating park which made the beautiful face of the earth
in that part of Wessex. But though standing thus behind, a screen amid
flat pastures, it had on one side a glimpse of the wider world in the
lofty curves of the chalk downs, grand steadfast forms played over by
the changing days.
The house was but just large enough to be called a mansion, and was
moderately rented, having no manor attached to it, and being rather
difficult to let with its sombre furniture and faded upholstery. But
inside and outside it was what no beholder could suppose to be
inhabited by retired trades-people: a certainty which was worth many
conveniences to tenants who not only had the taste that shrinks from
new finery, but also were in that border-territory of rank where
annexation is a burning topic: and to take up her abode in a house
which had once sufficed for dowager countesses gave a perceptible tinge
to Mrs. Davilow's satisfaction in having an establishment of her own.
This, rather mysteriously to Gwendolen, appeared suddenly possible on
the death of her step-father, Captain Davilow, who had for the last
nine years joined his family only in a brief and fitful manner, enough
to reconcile them to his long absences; but she cared much more for the
fact than for the explanation. All her prospects had become more
agreeable in consequence. She had disliked their former way of life,
roving from one foreign watering-place or Parisian apartment to
another, always feeling new antipathies to new suites of hired
furniture, and meeting new people under conditions which made her
appear of little importance; and the variation of having passed two
years at a showy school, where, on all occasions of display, she had
been put foremost, had only deepened her sense that so exceptional a
person as herself could hardly remain in ordinary circumstances or in a
social position less than advantageous. Any fear of this latter evil
was banished now that her mamma was to have an establishment; for on
the point of birth Gwendolen was quite easy. She had no notion how her
maternal grandfather got the fortune inherited by his two daughters;
but he had been a West Indian--which seemed to exclude further
question; and she knew that her father's family was so high as to take
no notice of her mamma, who nevertheless preserved with much pride the
miniature of a Lady Molly in that connection. She would probably have
known much more about her father but for a little incident which
happened when she was twelve years old. Mrs. Davilow had brought out,
as she did only at wide intervals, various memorials of her first
husband, and while showing his miniature to Gwendolen recalled with a
fervor which seemed to count on a peculiar filial sympathy, the fact
that dear papa had died when his little daughter was in long clothes.
Gwendolen, immediately thinking of the unlovable step-father whom she
had been acquainted with the greater part of her life while her frocks
were short, said--
"Why did you marry again, mamma? It would have been nicer if you had
not."
Mrs. Davilow colored deeply, a slight convulsive movement passed over
her face, and straightway shutting up the memorials she said, with a
violence quite unusual in her--
"You have no feeling, child!"
Gwendolen, who was fond of her mamma, felt hurt and ashamed, and had
never since dared to ask a question about her father.
This was not the only instance in which she had brought on herself the
pain of some filial compunction. It was always arranged, when possible,
that she should have a small bed in her mamma's room; for Mrs.
Davilow's motherly tenderness clung chiefly to her eldest girl, who had
been born in her happier time. One night under an attack of pain she
found that the specific regularly placed by her bedside had been
forgotten, and begged Gwendolen to get out of bed and reach it for her.
That healthy young lady, snug and warm as a rosy infant in her little
couch, objected to step out into the cold, and lying perfectly still,
grumbling a refusal. Mrs. Davilow went without the medicine and never
reproached her daughter; but the next day Gwendolen was keenly
conscious of what must be in her mamma's mind, and tried to make amends
by caresses which cost her no effort. Having always been the pet and
pride of the household, waited on by mother, sisters, governess and
maids, as if she had been a princess in exile, she naturally found it
difficult to think her own pleasure less important than others made it,
and when it was positively thwarted felt an astonished resentment apt,
in her cruder days, to vent itself in one of those passionate acts
which look like a contradiction of habitual tendencies. Though never
even as a child thoughtlessly cruel, nay delighting to rescue drowning
insects and watch their recovery, there was a disagreeable silent
remembrance of her having strangled her sister's canary-bird in a final
fit of exasperation at its shrill singing which had again and again
jarringly interrupted her own. She had taken pains to buy a white mouse
for her sister in retribution, and though inwardly excusing herself on
the ground of a peculiar sensitiveness which was a mark of her general
superiority, the thought of that infelonious murder had always made her
wince. Gwendolen's nature was not remorseless, but she liked to make
her penances easy, and now that she was twenty and more, some of her
native force had turned into a self-control by which she guarded
herself from penitential humiliation. There was more show of fire and
will in her than ever, but there was more calculation underneath it.
On this day of arrival at Offendene, which not even Mrs. Davilow had
seen before--the place having been taken for her by her brother-in-law,
Mr. Gascoigne--when all had got down from the carriage, and were
standing under the porch in front of the open door, so that they could
have a general view of the place and a glimpse of the stone hall and
staircase hung with sombre pictures, but enlivened by a bright wood
fire, no one spoke; mamma, the four sisters and the governess all
looked at Gwendolen, as if their feelings depended entirely on her
decision. Of the girls, from Alice in her sixteenth year to Isabel in
her tenth, hardly anything could be said on a first view, but that they
were girlish, and that their black dresses were getting shabby. Miss
Merry was elderly and altogether neutral in expression. Mrs. Davilow's
worn beauty seemed the more pathetic for the look of entire appeal
which she cast at Gwendolen, who was glancing round at the house, the
landscape and the entrance hall with an air of rapid judgment. Imagine
a young race-horse in the paddock among untrimmed ponies and patient
hacks.
"Well, dear, what do you think of the place," said Mrs. Davilow at
last, in a gentle, deprecatory tone.
"I think it is charming," said Gwendolen, quickly. "A romantic place;
anything delightful may happen in it; it would be a good background for
anything. No one need be ashamed of living here."
"There is certainly nothing common about it."
"Oh, it would do for fallen royalty or any sort of grand poverty. We
ought properly to have been living in splendor, and have come down to
this. It would have been as romantic as could be. But I thought my
uncle and aunt Gascoigne would be here to meet us, and my cousin Anna,"
added Gwendolen, her tone changed to sharp surprise.
"We are early," said Mrs. Davilow, and entering the hall, she said to
the housekeeper who came forward, "You expect Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne?"
"Yes, madam; they were here yesterday to give particular orders about
the fires and the dinner. But as to fires, I've had 'em in all the
rooms for the last week, and everything is well aired. I could wish
some of the furniture paid better for all the cleaning it's had, but I
_think_ you'll see the brasses have been done justice to. I _think_
when Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne come, they'll tell you nothing has been
neglected. They'll be here at five, for certain."
This satisfied Gwendolen, who was not prepared to have their arrival
treated with indifference; and after tripping a little way up the
matted stone staircase to take a survey there, she tripped down again,
and followed by all the girls looked into each of the rooms opening
from the hall--the dining-room all dark oak and worn red satin damask,
with a copy of snarling, worrying dogs from Snyders over the
side-board, and a Christ breaking bread over the mantel-piece; the
library with a general aspect and smell of old brown-leather; and
lastly, the drawing-room, which was entered through a small antechamber
crowded with venerable knick-knacks.
"Mamma, mamma, pray come here!" said Gwendolen, Mrs. Davilow having
followed slowly in talk with the housekeeper. "Here is an organ. I will
be Saint Cecilia: some one shall paint me as Saint Cecilia. Jocosa
(this was her name for Miss Merry), let down my hair. See, mamma?"
She had thrown off her hat and gloves, and seated herself before the
organ in an admirable pose, looking upward; while the submissive and
sad Jocosa took out the one comb which fastened the coil of hair, and
then shook out the mass till it fell in a smooth light-brown stream far
below its owner's slim waist.
Mrs. Davilow smiled and said, "A charming picture, my dear!" not
indifferent to the display of her pet, even in the presence of a
housekeeper. Gwendolen rose and laughed with delight. All this seemed
quite to the purpose on entering a new house which was so excellent a
background.
"What a queer, quaint, picturesque room!" she went on, looking about
her. "I like these old embroidered chairs, and the garlands on the
wainscot, and the pictures that may be anything. That one with the
ribs--nothing but ribs and darkness--I should think that is Spanish,
mamma."
"Oh, Gwendolen!" said the small Isabel, in a tone of astonishment,
while she held open a hinged panel of the wainscot at the other end of
the room.
Every one, Gwendolen first, went to look. The opened panel had
disclosed the picture of an upturned dead face, from which an obscure
figure seemed to be fleeing with outstretched arms. "How horrible!"
said Mrs. Davilow, with a look of mere disgust; but Gwendolen shuddered
silently, and Isabel, a plain and altogether inconvenient child with an
alarming memory, said--
"You will never stay in this room by yourself, Gwendolen."
"How dare you open things which were meant to be shut up, you perverse
little creature?" said Gwendolen, in her angriest tone. Then snatching
the panel out of the hand of the culprit, she closed it hastily,
saying, "There is a lock--where is the key? Let the key be found, or
else let one be made, and let nobody open it again; or rather, let the
key be brought to me."
At this command to everybody in general Gwendolen turned with a face
which was flushed in reaction from her chill shudder, and said, "Let us
go up to our own room, mamma."
The housekeeper on searching found the key in the drawer of the cabinet
close by the panel, and presently handed it to Bugle, the lady's-maid,
telling her significantly to give it to her Royal Highness.
"I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Startin," said Bugle, who had been
busy up-stairs during the scene in the drawing-room, and was rather
offended at this irony in a new servant.
"I mean the young lady that's to command us all-and well worthy for
looks and figure," replied Mrs. Startin in propitiation. "She'll know
what key it is."
"If you have laid out what we want, go and see to the others, Bugle,"
Gwendolen had said, when she and Mrs. Davilow entered their black and
yellow bedroom, where a pretty little white couch was prepared by the
side of the black and yellow catafalque known as the best bed. "I will
help mamma."
But her first movement was to go to the tall mirror between the
windows, which reflected herself and the room completely, while her
mamma sat down and also looked at the reflection.
"That is a becoming glass, Gwendolen; or is it the black and gold color
that sets you off?" said Mrs. Davilow, as Gwendolen stood obliquely
with her three-quarter face turned toward the mirror, and her left hand
brushing back the stream of hair.
"I should make a tolerable St. Cecilia with some white roses on my
head," said Gwendolen,--"only how about my nose, mamma? I think saint's
noses never in the least turn up. I wish you had given me your
perfectly straight nose; it would have done for any sort of
character--a nose of all work. Mine is only a happy nose; it would not
do so well for tragedy."
"Oh, my dear, any nose will do to be miserable with in this world,"
said Mrs. Davilow, with a deep, weary sigh, throwing her black bonnet
on the table, and resting her elbow near it.
"Now, mamma," said Gwendolen, in a strongly remonstrant tone, turning
away from the glass with an air of vexation, "don't begin to be dull
here. It spoils all my pleasure, and everything may be so happy now.
What have you to be gloomy about _now_?"
"Nothing, dear," said Mrs. Davilow, seeming to rouse herself, and
beginning to take off her dress. "It is always enough for me to see you
happy."
"But you should be happy yourself," said Gwendolen, still
discontentedly, though going to help her mamma with caressing touches.
"Can nobody be happy after they are quite young? You have made me feel
sometimes as if nothing were of any use. With the girls so troublesome,
and Jocosa so dreadfully wooden and ugly, and everything make-shift
about us, and you looking so dull--what was the use of my being
anything? But now you _might_ be happy."
"So I shall, dear," said Mrs. Davilow, patting the cheek that was
bending near her.
"Yes, but really. Not with a sort of make-believe," said Gwendolen,
with resolute perseverance. "See what a hand and arm!--much more
beautiful than mine. Any one can see you were altogether more
beautiful."
"No, no, dear; I was always heavier. Never half so charming as you are."
"Well, but what is the use of my being charming, if it is to end in my
being dull and not minding anything? Is that what marriage always comes
to?"
"No, child, certainly not. Marriage is the only happy state for a
woman, as I trust you will prove."
"I will not put up with it if it is not a happy state. I am determined
to be happy--at least not to go on muddling away my life as other
people do, being and doing nothing remarkable. I have made up my mind
not to let other people interfere with me as they have done. Here is
some warm water ready for you, mamma," Gwendolen ended, proceeding to
take off her own dress and then waiting to have her hair wound up by
her mamma.
There was silence for a minute or two, till Mrs. Davilow said, while
coiling the daughter's hair, "I am sure I have never crossed you,
Gwendolen."
"You often want me to do what I don't like."
"You mean, to give Alice lessons?"
"Yes. And I have done it because you asked me. But I don't see why I
should, else. It bores me to death, she is so slow. She has no ear for
music, or language, or anything else. It would be much better for her
to be ignorant, mamma: it is her _rôle_, she would do it well."
"That is a hard thing to say of your poor sister, Gwendolen, who is so
good to you, and waits on you hand and foot."
"I don't see why it is hard to call things by their right names, and
put them in their proper places. The hardship is for me to have to
waste my time on her. Now let me fasten up your hair, mamma."
"We must make haste; your uncle and aunt will be here soon. For
heaven's sake, don't be scornful to _them_, my dear child! or to your
cousin Anna, whom you will always be going out with. Do promise me,
Gwendolen. You know, you can't expect Anna to be equal to you."
"I don't want her to be equal," said Gwendolen, with a toss of her head
and a smile, and the discussion ended there.
When Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne and their daughter came, Gwendolen, far
from being scornful, behaved as prettily as possible to them. She was
introducing herself anew to relatives who had not seen her since the
comparatively unfinished age of sixteen, and she was anxious--no, not
anxious, but resolved that they should admire her.
Mrs. Gascoigne bore a family likeness to her sister. But she was darker
and slighter, her face was unworn by grief, her movements were less
languid, her expression more alert and critical as that of a rector's
wife bound to exert a beneficent authority. Their closest resemblance
lay in a non-resistant disposition, inclined to imitation and
obedience; but this, owing to the difference in their circumstances,
had led them to very different issues. The younger sister had been
indiscreet, or at least unfortunate in her marriages; the elder
believed herself the most enviable of wives, and her pliancy had ended
in her sometimes taking shapes of surprising definiteness. Many of her
opinions, such as those on church government and the character of
Archbishop Laud, seemed too decided under every alteration to have been
arrived at otherwise than by a wifely receptiveness. And there was much
to encourage trust in her husband's authority. He had some agreeable
virtues, some striking advantages, and the failings that were imputed
to him all leaned toward the side of success.
One of his advantages was a fine person, which perhaps was even more
impressive at fifty-seven than it had been earlier in life. There were
no distinctively clerical lines in the face, no tricks of starchiness
or of affected ease: in his Inverness cape he could not have been
identified except as a gentleman with handsome dark features, a nose
which began with an intention to be aquiline but suddenly became
straight, and iron-gray, hair. Perhaps he owed this freedom from the
sort of professional make-up which penetrates skin, tones and gestures
and defies all drapery, to the fact that he had once been Captain
Gaskin, having taken orders and a diphthong but shortly before his
engagement to Miss Armyn. If any one had objected that his preparation
for the clerical function was inadequate, his friends might have asked
who made a better figure in it, who preached better or had more
authority in his parish? He had a native gift for administration, being
tolerant both of opinions and conduct, because he felt himself able to
overrule them, and was free from the irritations of conscious
feebleness. He smiled pleasantly at the foible of a taste which he did
not share--at floriculture or antiquarianism for example, which were
much in vogue among his fellow-clergyman in the diocese: for himself,
he preferred following the history of a campaign, or divining from his
knowledge of Nesselrode's motives what would have been his conduct if
our cabinet had taken a different course. Mr. Gascoigne's tone of
thinking after some long-quieted fluctuations had become ecclesiastical
rather than theological; not the modern Anglican, but what he would
have called sound English, free from nonsense; such as became a man who
looked at a national religion by daylight, and saw it in its relation
to other things. No clerical magistrate had greater weight at sessions,
or less of mischievous impracticableness in relation to worldly
affairs. Indeed, the worst imputation thrown out against him was
worldliness: it could not be proved that he forsook the less fortunate,
but it was not to be denied that the friendships he cultivated were of
a kind likely to be useful to the father of six sons and two daughters;
and bitter observers--for in Wessex, say ten years ago, there were
persons whose bitterness may now seem incredible--remarked that the
color of his opinions had changed in consistency with this principle of
action. But cheerful, successful worldliness has a false air of being
more selfish than the acrid, unsuccessful kind, whose secret history is
summed up in the terrible words, "Sold, but not paid for."
Gwendolen wondered that she had not better remembered how very fine a
man her uncle was; but at the age of sixteen she was a less capable and
more indifferent judge. At present it was a matter of extreme interest
to her that she was to have the near countenance of a dignified male
relative, and that the family life would cease to be entirely,
insipidly feminine. She did not intend that her uncle should control
her, but she saw at once that it would be altogether agreeable to her
that he should be proud of introducing her as his niece. And there was
every sign of his being likely to feel that pride. He certainly looked
at her with admiration as he said--
"You have outgrown Anna, my dear," putting his arm tenderly round his
daughter, whose shy face was a tiny copy of his own, and drawing her
forward. "She is not so old as you by a year, but her growing days are
certainly over. I hope you will be excellent companions."
He did give a comparing glance at his daughter, but if he saw her
inferiority, he might also see that Anna's timid appearance and
miniature figure must appeal to a different taste from that which was
attracted by Gwendolen, and that the girls could hardly be rivals.
Gwendolen at least, was aware of this, and kissed her cousin with real
cordiality as well as grace, saying, "A companion is just what I want.
I am so glad we are come to live here. And mamma will be much happier
now she is near you, aunt."
The aunt trusted indeed that it would be so, and felt it a blessing
that a suitable home had been vacant in their uncle's parish. Then, of
course, notice had to be taken of the four other girls, whom Gwendolen
had always felt to be superfluous: all of a girlish average that made
four units utterly unimportant, and yet from her earliest days an
obtrusive influential fact in her life. She was conscious of having
been much kinder to them than could have been expected. And it was
evident to her that her uncle and aunt also felt it a pity there were
so many girls:--what rational person could feel otherwise, except poor
mamma, who never would see how Alice set up her shoulders and lifted
her eyebrows till she had no forehead left, how Bertha and Fanny
whispered and tittered together about everything, or how Isabel was
always listening and staring and forgetting where she was, and treading
on the toes of her suffering elders?
"You have brothers, Anna," said Gwendolen, while the sisters were being
noticed. "I think you are enviable there."
"Yes," said Anna, simply. "I am very fond of them; but of course their
education is a great anxiety to papa. He used to say they made me a
tomboy. I really was a great romp with Rex. I think you will like Rex.
He will come home before Christmas."
"I remember I used to think you rather wild and shy; but it is
difficult now to imagine you a romp," said Gwendolen, smiling.
"Of course, I am altered now; I am come out, and all that. But in
reality I like to go blackberrying with Edwy and Lotta as well as ever.
I am not very fond of going out; but I dare say I shall like it better
now you will be often with me. I am not at all clever, and I never know
what to say. It seems so useless to say what everybody knows, and I can
think of nothing else, except what papa says."
"I shall like going out with you very much," said Gwendolen, well
disposed toward this _naïve_ cousin. "Are you fond of riding?"
"Yes, but we have only one Shetland pony amongst us. Papa says he can't
afford more, besides the carriage-horses and his own nag; he has so
many expenses."
"I intend to have a horse and ride a great deal now," said Gwendolen,
in a tone of decision. "Is the society pleasant in this neighborhood?"
"Papa says it is, very. There are the clergymen all about, you know;
and the Quallons, and the Arrowpoints, and Lord Brackenshaw, and Sir
Hugo Mallinger's place, where there is nobody--that's very nice,
because we make picnics there--and two or three families at Wanchester:
oh, and old Mrs. Vulcany, at Nuttingwood, and--"
But Anna was relieved of this tax on her descriptive powers by the
announcement of dinner, and Gwendolen's question was soon indirectly
answered by her uncle, who dwelt much on the advantages he had secured
for them in getting a place like Offendene. Except the rent, it
involved no more expense than an ordinary house at Wanchester would
have done.
"And it is always worth while to make a little sacrifice for a good
style of house," said Mr. Gascoigne, in his easy, pleasantly confident
tone, which made the world in general seem a very manageable place of
residence: "especially where there is only a lady at the head. All the
best people will call upon you; and you need give no expensive dinners.
Of course, I have to spend a good deal in that way; it is a large item.
But then I get my house for nothing. If I had to pay three hundred a
year for my house I could not keep a table. My boys are too great a
drain on me. You are better off than we are, in proportion; there is no
great drain on you now, after your house and carriage."
"I assure you, Fanny, now that the children are growing up, I am
obliged to cut and contrive," said Mrs. Gascoigne. "I am not a good
manager by nature, but Henry has taught me. He is wonderful for making
the best of everything; he allows himself no extras, and gets his
curates for nothing. It is rather hard that he has not been made a
prebendary or something, as others have been, considering the friends
he has made and the need there is for men of moderate opinions in all
respects. If the Church is to keep its position, ability and character
ought to tell."
"Oh, my dear Nancy, you forget the old story--thank Heaven, there are
three hundred as good as I. And ultimately, we shall have no reason to
complain, I am pretty sure. There could hardly be a more thorough
friend than Lord Brackenshaw--your landlord, you know, Fanny. Lady
Brackenshaw will call upon you. And I have spoken for Gwendolen to be a
member of our Archery Club--the Brackenshaw Archery Club--the most
select thing anywhere. That is, if she has no objection," added Mr.
Gascoigne, looking at Gwendolen with pleasant irony.
"I should like it of all things," said Gwendolen. "There is nothing I
enjoy more than taking aim--and hitting," she ended, with a pretty nod
and smile.
"Our Anna, poor child, is too short-sighed for archery. But I consider
myself a first-rate shot, and you shall practice with me. I must make
you an accomplished archer before our great meeting in July. In fact,
as to neighborhood, you could hardly be better placed. There are the
Arrowpoints--they are some of our best people. Miss Arrowpoint is a
delightful girl--she has been presented at Court. They have a
magnificent place--Quetcham Hall--worth seeing in point of art; and
their parties, to which you are sure to be invited, are the best things
of the sort we have. The archdeacon is intimate there, and they have
always a good kind of people staying in the house. Mrs. Arrowpoint is
peculiar, certainly; something of a caricature, in fact; but
well-meaning. And Miss Arrowpoint is as nice as possible. It is not all
young ladies who have mothers as handsome and graceful as yours and
Anna's."
Mrs. Davilow smiled faintly at this little compliment, but the husband
and wife looked affectionately at each other, and Gwendolen thought,
"My uncle and aunt, at least, are happy: they are not dull and dismal."
Altogether, she felt satisfied with her prospects at Offendene, as a
great improvement on anything she had known. Even the cheap curates,
she incidentally learned, were almost always young men of family, and
Mr. Middleton, the actual curate, was said to be quite an acquisition:
it was only a pity he was so soon to leave.
But there was one point which she was so anxious to gain that she could
not allow the evening to pass without taking her measures toward
securing it. Her mamma, she knew, intended to submit entirely to her
uncle's judgment with regard to expenditure; and the submission was not
merely prudential, for Mrs. Davilow, conscious that she had always been
seen under a cloud as poor dear Fanny, who had made a sad blunder with
her second marriage, felt a hearty satisfaction in being frankly and
cordially identified with her sister's family, and in having her
affairs canvassed and managed with an authority which presupposed a
genuine interest. Thus the question of a suitable saddle-horse, which
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