George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged

by Emma Laybourn

  Chapter Three

  A Year Previously

  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; a spot where early memories may be entwined with affection as a sweet habit of the blood. 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 lacking in Gwendolen’s life. Only a year before her recall from Leubronn, Offendene was chosen as her mamma’s home simply for its nearness to Pennicote Rectory; and Mrs. Davilow, Gwendolen, and her four half-sisters were driven along the avenue for the first time on a late October afternoon when the rooks were cawing loudly, 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. The building was softened with green and grey lichen, so that there was no harshness in the face which it turned to the three avenues that cut through the grounds. One would have liked the house to have been lifted on a hill, so as to look over to the long thatched roofs of the distant villages, the church towers, the scattered homesteads and the gradual rise of surging woods in that beautiful part of Wessex.

  The house was just large enough to be called a mansion, and had been let with sombre furniture and faded upholstery. But nobody could suppose it to be inhabited by trades-people: and to live in a house which had once sufficed for dowager countesses added to Mrs. Davilow’s satisfaction in having her own establishment. This was suddenly possible on the death of Gwendolen’s step-father, Captain Davilow, who had for the last nine years joined his family only in a brief and fitful manner; but Gwendolen cared not why, only that her prospects had become more agreeable in consequence.

  She had disliked their former way of life, roving from one foreign watering-place to another, always feeling new dislike for new suites of hired furniture, and meeting new people under conditions which made her appear of little importance. The two years she had passed at a showy school, where she had been put in a foremost position, had only deepened her sense of herself as an exceptional person who could not remain in ordinary circumstances. Any fear of this evil was banished now that her mamma was to have an establishment.

  She would probably have known more about her father but for an incident which happened when she was twelve years old. Mrs. Davilow had brought out, as she did only at wide intervals, mementos of her first husband, and while showing his miniature to Gwendolen recalled the fact that dear papa had died when his little daughter was in baby-clothes. Gwendolen, immediately thinking of the unlovable step-father whom she had known while she was in short frocks, said–

  “Why did you marry again, mamma? It would have been nicer if you had not.”

  Mrs. Davilow coloured deeply, a slight convulsive movement passed over her face, and 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 time she had felt a painful guilt towards her mother. 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. One night under an attack of pain she found that the medicine 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, objected to step out into the cold, and lying perfectly still, grumbled 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 all, she naturally found it difficult to think her own pleasure unimportant, and when it was thwarted felt an astonished and passionate resentment. Though never as a child thoughtlessly cruel, nay delighting to rescue drowning insects, there was a disagreeable silent remembrance of her having strangled her sister’s canary-bird in a fit of exasperation at its shrill singing which had again and again jarringly interrupted her own. She had bought a white mouse for her sister in retribution, and though inwardly excusing herself on the grounds of a peculiar sensitivity which was a mark of her superiority, the thought of that understandable murder had always made her wince.

  Gwendolen was not without remorse, but she liked to make her penances easy, and now that she was twenty, she guarded herself from the humiliation of penance. 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, a place which not even Mrs. Davilow had seen before, her brother-in-law Mr. Gascoigne having rented it for her – all four got down from the carriage, and were standing in front of the open door, to have a general view of the place and a glimpse of the stone hall and staircase hung with sombre pictures. 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 but that they were girlish, and that their black dresses were getting shabby. Miss Merry, the elderly governess, was altogether neutral in expression. Mrs. Davilow’s worn beauty seemed the more pathetic for the look of appeal which she cast at Gwendolen, who was glancing round at her surroundings with an air of rapid judgment. Imagine a young race-horse in the paddock among ponies and patient hacks.

  “Well, dear, what do you think of the place?” said Mrs. Davilow.

  “I think it is charming,” said Gwendolen, quickly. “A romantic place; anything delightful may happen in it. No one need be ashamed of living here.”

  “There is certainly nothing common about it.”

  “Oh, it would do for fallen royalty. 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, “You expect Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne?”

  “Yes, madam; they were here yesterday to give orders about the fires and the dinner. Everything is well aired and cleaned. 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; and after tripping a little way up the 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, the library with a smell of old brown-leather; and lastly the drawing-room.

  “Mamma, mamma, pray come here!” said Gwendolen. “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 Jocosa took out the comb which fastened her hair, 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!” Gwendolen rose and laughed with delight.

  “What a queer, quaint, picturesque room!” she said. “I like these old embroidered chairs, and the garlands on the wainscot, and the pictures that may be anything.”

  “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.

  Everyone went to look. The opened wall-panel had disclosed the picture of an upturned dead face, from which a figure seemed to be fleeing with outstretched arms.

  �
�How horrible!” said Mrs. Davilow; but Gwendolen shuddered silently, and Isabel, a plain and 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 angrily. She closed the panel hastily, saying, “There is a lock – where is the key? Let nobody open this again; and bring the key to me.”

  Then turning with a flushed face, she said, “Let us go to our own room, mamma.”

  The housekeeper found the key in the drawer of a cabinet, and later handed it to Bugle, the lady’s-maid, telling her significantly to give it to her Royal Highness.

  “I don’t know who you mean, Mrs. Startin,” said Bugle, rather offended at this irony in a new servant.

  “I mean the young lady that’s to command us all,” replied Mrs. Startin.

  When Gwendolen and Mrs. Davilow entered their black and yellow bedroom, where a pretty little white couch sat by the side of the bed, Gwendolen’s first movement was to go to the tall mirror, while her mamma sat down and looked at the reflection of her daughter and the room.

  “That is a becoming glass, Gwendolen; or is it the black and gold colour that sets you off?” said Mrs. Davilow, as Gwendolen stood brushing back her hair.

  “I should make a tolerable St. Cecilia with some white roses on my head,” said Gwendolen, “only how about my nose, mamma? Saints’ noses never turn up. I wish you had given me your straight nose. Now, mamma,” she said, going to help her mamma undress with caressing touches, “you should be happy. Can nobody be happy after they are quite young? You have made me feel sometimes as if nothing were of any use. But now you might be happy.”

  “So I shall, dear,” said Mrs. Davilow, patting her cheek.

  “Yes, but really. Not with a sort of make-believe,” said Gwendolen resolutely. “See your hand and arm!– much more beautiful than mine. Anyone can see you were more beautiful.”

  “No, dear; I was always heavier. Never half so charming as you are.”

  “Well, 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 muddle away my life as other people do, being nothing remarkable. I shall not let other people interfere with me as they have done.” Gwendolen proceeded to take off her own dress, waiting to have her hair wound up by her mamma.

  There was silence for a minute, till Mrs. Davilow, coiling up her daughter’s hair, said, “I am sure I have never crossed you, Gwendolen.”

  “You often want me to do what I don’t like.”

  “You mean, giving Alice lessons?”

  “Yes. I have done it because you asked me. But I don’t see why I should. It bores me to death, she is so slow. It would be much better for her to be ignorant, mamma; 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 do your hair, mamma.”

  “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. Do promise me, Gwendolen. 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.

  When Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne and their daughter came, Gwendolen, far from being scornful, behaved as prettily as possible. Her relatives had not seen her since she was sixteen, and she was anxious – no, not anxious, but resolved that they should admire her.

  Mrs. Gascoigne bore a family likeness to her younger sister. But she was darker and slighter than Gwendolen’s mother, her face was unworn by grief, her movements were less languid, her expression more alert and critical, as suited a rector’s wife. They both had natures inclined to obedience; but had ended up in very different places. The younger sister had been unfortunate in her marriages; the elder believed herself the most enviable of wives, and based her decided opinions on her husband’s authority. And there was much to encourage trust there. Mr Gascoigne had agreeable virtues, some striking advantages, and his failings leaned toward the side of success.

  One of his advantages was a fine appearance, even more impressive at fifty-seven than it had been earlier in life. He looked a gentleman with his handsome dark features and iron-grey hair. Perhaps he owed this unclerical aspect to the fact that he had once been Captain Gaskin, having taken orders and a diphthong only shortly before his engagement. He had authority in his parish, and a gift for administration, being a tolerant man. He smiled pleasantly at the flower-growing interests of his fellow-clergyman: for himself, he preferred following the history of a campaign. Mr. Gascoigne would have thought of himself as free from nonsense, a man who looked at religion by daylight, and saw it in its relation to other things. Indeed, the worst criticism of him was worldliness: not that he did not care for the poor, 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.

  Gwendolen wondered that she had not remembered how very fine a man her uncle was. It was a matter of extreme interest to her that she should have a dignified male relative nearby, and that her 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 she would like him to be proud of introducing her as his niece. And he appeared 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. “She is a year younger than you, but her growing days are certainly over. I hope you will be excellent companions.”

  He did give a comparing glance at his daughter; but it was clear 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, 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 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 and unimportant, and yet from her earliest days an obtrusive fact in her life. She was conscious of having been much kinder to them than could have been expected. She could tell 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 hunched her shoulders, how Bertha and Fanny whispered and tittered together about everything, or how Isabel was always listening and staring and forgetting where she was?

  “You have brothers, Anna,” said Gwendolen. “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 to imagine you a romp,” said Gwendolen, smiling.

  “Of course, I am altered now; I am come out, and all that. But I like to go blackberrying with Edwy and Lotta as well as ever. I am not very fond of society; 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.”

  “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. Papa can’t afford more; he has so many expenses.”

  “I intend to have a horse and ride a great deal,” said Gwendolen decisively. “Is the society pleasant in this neighbourhood?”

  “Papa says it is, very. There are 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.”

  Just then dinner was announced, and Gwendolen’s question was soon answered by her uncle, who dwelt much on the advantages of their getting a place like Offendene.

  “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; “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; 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 his wife. “Henry has taught me how to manage. 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.”

  “Oh, my dear Nancy, 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 better 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 the Brackenshaw Archery Club – the most select thing anywhere. That is, if she has no objection,” added Mr. Gascoigne.

  “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 smile.

  “Anna, poor child, is too short-sighted for archery. But you shall practise with me. I must make you an accomplished archer before our great meeting in July. In fact, as to neighbourhood, 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 at Quetcham Hall; and their parties are the best things of the sort we have. Mrs. Arrowpoint is peculiar, certainly; 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 not dull and dismal.”

  Altogether, she felt satisfied with her prospects at Offendene. Even the curates were almost always young men of family, and Mr. Middleton, the present curate, was said to be quite an acquisition: it was only a pity he was soon to leave.

  But there was one point about which she was anxious. Her mamma, she knew, intended to submit to her uncle’s judgment about expenditure: so the question of a saddle-horse had to be referred to Mr. Gascoigne. After Gwendolen had played on the piano, had sung to her hearers’ admiration, and had joined her uncle in a duet, she seized the opportune moment for saying, “Mamma, you have not spoken to my uncle about my riding.”

  “Gwendolen desires above all things to have a horse to ride – a pretty, light, lady’s horse,” said Mrs. Davilow, looking at Mr. Gascoigne. “Do you think we can manage it? She rides so well. She has had lessons, and the riding-master said she might be trusted with any mount.” Even if Mrs. Davilow had not wished her darling to have a horse, she would not have dared to be lukewarm in trying to get it for her.

  “We could lend her the pony sometimes,” said Mrs. Gascoigne, watching her husband’s face, and quite ready to disapprove if he did.

  “I cannot endure ponies,” said Gwendolen. “I would rather give up some other indulgence and have a horse.” (Was there ever a young person not ready to give up an unspecified indulgence for the sake of a favourite one?)

  “There is the price of the horse, and then his keep,” said Mr. Gascoigne, considering. “The carriage-horses are already a heavy item. And remember what you ladies cost in clothes now.”

  “I really wear nothing but two black dresses,” said Mrs. Davilow hastily. “And the younger girls need nothing yet. Besides, Gwendolen will save me so much by giving her sisters lessons.” Here Mrs. Davilow blushed. “If it were not for that, I must have a more expensive governess, and masters besides.”

  “That is decidedly good,” said Mr. Gascoigne, heartily. And Gwendolen, who was a deep young lady, suddenly moved away to the other end of the long drawing-room, and busied herself with pieces of music.

  “The dear child has had no pleasures,” said Mrs. Davilow pleadingly. “She really needs the exercise – she needs cheering. And if you were to see her on horseback, it is something splendid.”

  “Certainly, a fine woman never looks better than on horseback,” said Mr. Gascoigne. “And Gwendolen has the figure for it. I will consult Lord Brackenshaw’s head groom.”

  “You are very kind.”

  “That he always is,” said Mrs. Gascoigne. And later that night, when she and her husband were in private, she said,

  “I thought you were almost too indulgent about the horse for Gwendolen. She ought not to claim so much more than your own daughter; especially before we see how Fanny manages on her income. You have enough to do without taking this trouble on yourself.”

  “My dear Nancy, this girl is worth some expense: you don’t often see her equal. She ought to make a first-rate marriage, and I should not be doing my duty if I did not help her forward. She has been under a disadvantage with such a stepfather. I feel for the girl. And I should like your sister to have the benefit of your having married rather a better specimen of our kind than she did.”

  “Rather better! I should think so. I would not grudge anything to poor Fanny. But I have been thinking of one thing you have never mentioned.”

  “What is that?”

  “The boys. I hope they will not be falling in love with Gwendolen.”

  “Don’t presuppose anything of the kind, my dear, and there will be no danger. Rex will never be at home for long, and Warham is going to India. It is wiser to take it for granted that cousins will not fall in love. The boys will have nothing, and Gwendolen will have nothing. They can’t marry. At the worst there would only be a little crying, and you can’t save boys and girls from that.”

  Mrs. Gascoigne’s mind was satisfied: if anything did happen, there was the comfort of feeling that her husband would know what was to be done, and would have the energy to do it.