George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged

by Emma Laybourn

  Chapter Ten

  Brackenshaw Park, where the Archery Meeting was held, looked out from gentle heights over the valley to the eastern downs and the broad, slow rise of country hanging like a vast curtain toward the west. The castle was built of rough-hewn limestone, full of lights and shadows made by dark lichens and the washings of the rain. Beech and fir sheltered it, and spread down the green slopes to the water below. The archery-ground was a carefully-kept enclosure at the farthest end of the park, protected by tall elms and a shading screen of hollies. The Archery Hall, with an arcade in front, showed like a white temple against the greenery.

  What could make a better background for the flower-groups of ladies, moving and bowing like leisurely lilies? There was a pleasant sound of musical laughter and a harmony of happy speech, now rising to mild excitement, now sinking to an agreeable murmur.

  No Archery Meeting could be more select. Within the enclosure no plebeian spectators were admitted except Lord Brackenshaw’s tenants and their families, chiefly the feminine members, who liked to consider which of those sweetly-dressed ladies they would choose to be. Probably they would not have chosen Gwendolen, but some lady with more pink in her cheeks and hair of fashionable yellow; but among the males, she was unanimously pronounced the finest girl present.

  No wonder she enjoyed her existence on that July day. Pre-eminence is sweet to those who love it, even under mediocre circumstances.

  And who can deny that bows and arrows are the prettiest weapons in the world for feminine forms to play with? They prompt attitudes full of grace and power, where fine marksmanship is freed from associations of bloodshed. All the prizes were of the nobler symbolic kind; the gold arrow and the silver, the gold star and the silver, to be worn in sign of achievement. Altogether the Brackenshaw Archery Club was an institution framed with good taste.

  And today all the elements were in its favour. There was mild warmth, and no wind to disturb either hair or the course of the arrow; and when there was a general march to extract the arrows, the joyous promenade of graceful movement was a show worth looking at. Everyone was obliged to admit Gwendolen’s surpassing charm.

  “That girl is like a high-mettled racer,” said Lord Brackenshaw to young Clintock.

  “Tremendously pretty too.”

  Perhaps she had never looked so well. Her face beamed with pleasure; for, being satisfied with her own chances, she felt kindly toward everybody. Not to be marked out as an heiress, like Miss Arrowpoint, gave an added triumph in eclipsing those advantages. Gwendolen was too full of joyous belief in herself to feel the least jealousy, although Miss Arrowpoint was one of the best archeresses.

  Even the reappearance of the formidable Herr Klesmer seemed only to fall in with Gwendolen’s amusement. What great musical maestro could make a good figure at an archery meeting? There was a satirical light in Gwendolen’s eyes as she looked toward the Arrowpoint party, with its intense contrast between Klesmer and the group of English country people.

  Fancy a gathering of men all with that ordinary stamp of the well-bred Englishman, watching the entrance of Herr Klesmer – his mane of hair floating backward under the absurd chimney-pot hat; his tall, thin figure clad in noticeably un-English style. When the fire that showed itself in his glances was turned into comedy by his hat, one felt why it is often better for greatness to be dead, and to have got rid of the outward man.

  Many present knew Klesmer, or knew of him; but they had only seen him on candle-light occasions when he appeared as a musician. Seeing him presented unexpectedly on this July afternoon, some were inclined to laugh; others felt a little disgust at the want of judgment shown by the Arrowpoints.

  “What extreme guys those artistic fellows usually are!” said young Clintock to Gwendolen. “Do look at the figure he cuts.”

  “You are blind to the majesty of genius,” said Gwendolen. “Herr Klesmer smites me with awe; I feel crushed in his presence; my courage oozes from me.”

  “Ah, you understand about his music.”

  “No, indeed,” she said with a light laugh; “it is he who understands mine and thinks it pitiable. But how remarkably well Miss Arrowpoint looks! She would make quite a fine picture in that gold-coloured dress.”

  “Too splendid, don’t you think?”

  “Well, perhaps a little too much like the figure of Wealth in an allegory.”

  This speech of Gwendolen’s had rather a malicious sound, but it was not really more than a bubble of fun. She did not wish Miss Arrowpoint or anyone else to be out of the way, believing in her own good fortune even more than in her skill. The belief in both naturally grew stronger as the shooting went on, for she promised to achieve one of the best scores. She trod on air, and all things pleasant seemed possible.

  “How does the scoring stand, I wonder?” said Lady Brackenshaw to her lord in an interval of shooting. “It seems to me that Miss Harleth is likely to win the gold arrow.”

  “Gad, I think she will, if she carries it on! she is running Juliet Fenn hard. It is wonderful for one in her first year. Catherine is not up to her usual mark,” continued his lordship, turning to the heiress’s mother nearby. “But she got the gold arrow last time.”

  “Catherine will be very glad for others to win,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint, “she is so magnanimous. It was entirely her kindness that made us bring Herr Klesmer instead of Canon Stople. I am sure she would rather have brought the Canon; but she is always thinking of others. But where is our new neighbour? I thought Mr. Grandcourt was to be here to-day.”

  “So he was. The time’s getting on too,” said his lordship, looking at his watch. “But he only got to Diplow the other day. Why, Gascoigne!” – the rector was just then close by with Gwendolen – “this is too bad; you bring your niece to beat all the archeresses.”

  “It is rather scandalous in her,” said Mr. Gascoigne, with much inward satisfaction. “But it is not my doing, my lord.”

  “It is not my fault, either,” said Gwendolen, with pretty archness. “If I am to aim, I can’t help hitting.”

  “Ay, ay, that may be fatal for some people,” said Lord Brackenshaw, good-humouredly; then taking out his watch again– “The time’s getting on. Grandcourt is always late, and he’s no bowman – understands nothing about it. But I told him he must come and see the flower of the neighbourhood.”

  Gwendolen, who joined her mamma and aunt until it was time to shoot again, felt that Mr. Grandcourt’s absence might compromise her pleasure. Under all her saucy satire, she was far from indifferent as to the impression she would make on him. True, he was not to have the slightest power over her (for Gwendolen had not considered that the desire to conquer is itself a sort of subjection); she had made up her mind that he was to be one of those complimentary and admiring men of whom she had some experience, and she imagined he would be ridiculous.

  But that was no reason why she could spare his presence: she did not wish him to save her the trouble of a refusal, by showing no desire to make her an offer. Mr. Grandcourt taking hardly any notice of her, and becoming shortly engaged to Miss Arrowpoint, was not a picture which flattered her imagination.

  Hence Gwendolen had been all ears to Lord Brackenshaw’s words about Grandcourt; and when he did arrive, no-one was more awake to the fact than her, although she steadily avoided looking where he was likely to be. She would not betray the slightest interest in Mr. Grandcourt. She became again absorbed in the shooting, and resolutely abstained from looking round, so that even if he were watching, it might be clear she was not aware of him. And all the while the certainty that he was there made a distinct thread in her consciousness. Perhaps her shooting was the better for it: at any rate, she raised a storm of clapping and applause by three hits in the gold – a feat which was rewarded by a special gold star.

  That moment was a happy one. There was a general falling into ranks to give her space to advance and receive the gold star from Lady Brackenshaw; she was the central object of that pretty picture, and everyone must g
aze at her.

  She herself was determined not to turn her eyes any way except toward Lady Brackenshaw, but her thoughts undeniably turned in other ways. It pleased her that Herr Klesmer must be observing her at a moment when music and his superiority were far in the background; for the unconquered Klesmer threw a trace of his malign power even across her pleasant consciousness that Mr. Grandcourt was probably admiring her. She did not expect to admire him, but that was not necessary to her peace of mind.

  Gwendolen met Lady Brackenshaw’s smile charmingly, and bent with easy grace to have the star fixed near her shoulder. After an exchange of congratulations, she was standing aside examining an arrow with rather an absent air when Lord Brackenshaw came up and said:

  “Miss Harleth, here is a gentleman who is not willing to wait any longer for an introduction. Will you allow me to introduce Mr. Mallinger Grandcourt?”

  BOOK II: MEETING STREAMS