George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged

by Emma Laybourn

  Chapter Thirteen

  Grandcourt, having made up his mind to marry Miss Harleth, let hardly a day go by in the next fortnight without seeing her by some arrangement or other. Mrs. Davilow and Gwendolen were invited to a large party at Diplow where many witnessed how the host distinguished the dowerless beauty, and showed no care for the heiress.

  Indeed the wonder to Mr. Gascoigne and Mrs. Davilow was that Grandcourt’s offer had not been already made; and in this wonder Grandcourt had a share himself. When he had told his resolution to Lush he had thought that the affair would be concluded quickly, and to his own surprise he had repeatedly promised himself in a morning that he would today give Gwendolen the opportunity of accepting him, and found in the evening that it was still unaccomplished. He had never admitted to himself that Gwendolen might refuse him, but we are often unable to act on our assumptions; our objection to a contrary result is so strong that it rises like a spectre between us and our certainty.

  He had arranged to have a beautiful horse of his brought for Gwendolen to ride. Mrs. Davilow was to accompany her in the carriage, and they were to go to Diplow for lunch. It was a fine mid-harvest time; the poppies glowed on the borders of the fields, the breeze moved gently among the ears of uncut corn, and winged the shadow of a cloud across the soft grey downs. The green pasture and the corn-fields made a setting of peace and permanence, where the cattle took their rest under wide branches.

  But the spirit of peace did not overcome Mrs. Davilow’s uneasy foreboding. Gwendolen and Grandcourt riding together in front of her made a gratifying sight; but it served chiefly to keep up the conflict of hopes and fears about her daughter’s lot. Here was an irresistible opportunity for a lover to speak, and Mrs. Davilow could only hope with trembling that Gwendolen would be favourable. That Mr. Grandcourt had produced some quite novel impression on her daughter was shown by her marked abstinence from satirical observations, nay, her total silence about him, a silence which Mrs. Davilow did not dare to break.

  “Would she be happy with him?” was a question that inevitably arose in the mother’s mind. “Well, perhaps as happy as she would be with anyone, or as most women are,” was the answer with which she tried to quiet herself.

  Grandcourt too wanted an end to the uncertainty that came from his not having spoken. As to any uncertainty about her answer – well, it was without any reasonable basis.

  Gwendolen enjoyed the riding, but her pleasure did not break forth in chat and laughter as it had with Rex. She spoke a little, and even laughed, but with a lightness as of a far-off echo: for her too there was some peculiar quality in the air – not due to any subjugation of her will by Mr. Grandcourt, for Gwendolen desired everyone to understand that she was going to do just as she liked. If she chose to take this husband, she was not going to renounce her freedom: “she would not do as other women did.”

  Grandcourt’s speeches this morning were of his usual brief sort, always giving signs of a suppressed and formidable ability to say more.

  “How do you like Criterion’s paces?” he said, after they had entered the park.

  “He is delightful to ride. I should like to have a leap with him, if it would not frighten mamma. There was a good wide channel we passed five minutes ago. I should like to have a gallop back and take it.”

  “Pray do. We can take it together.”

  “No, thanks. Mamma is so timid – it would alarm her too much. I dare take any leap when she is not near; but I do it and don’t tell her about it.”

  “We can let the carriage pass and then set off.”

  “No, no, pray don’t think of it any more: I spoke quite randomly,” said Gwendolen; she began to feel a new objection to carrying out her own proposition.

  “But Mrs. Davilow knows I shall take care of you.”

  “Yes, but she would think of you as having to take care of my broken neck.”

  There was a considerable pause before Grandcourt said, looking toward her, “I should like to have the right always to take care of you.”

  Gwendolen did not turn her eyes on him; it seemed to her a long while that she was first blushing, and then turning pale, before she answered, with the lightest flute-tone and a careless movement of the head, “Oh, I am not sure that I want to be taken care of: if I chose to risk breaking my neck, I should like to be free to do it.”

  She slowed her horse as she spoke, looking toward the advancing carriage. She was aware that she was risking something – not her neck, but the possibility of finally stopping Grandcourt’s advances, and she did not feel contented with the possibility.

  “Damn her!” thought Grandcourt, as he too checked his horse. He was not a wordy thinker, and this explosive phrase stood for mixed impressions: that he was being mystified, and was determined that this girl should not make a fool of him. Did she want him to throw himself at her feet and declare that he was dying for her? That would not happen. Or did she expect him to write his proposals? Equally a delusion. He would not make his offer in any way that could place him definitely in the position of being rejected. But as to her accepting him, she had done it already in accepting his marked attentions. She was merely coquetting, then?

  However, the carriage came up, and no further tête-à-tête could occur before their arrival at the house, where there was abundant company, to whom Gwendolen was naturally a centre of observation. Since the objectionable Mr. Lush was not there to look at her, this admiring attention heightened her spirits, and dispersed some of her uneasiness at her own indecision. Grandcourt’s manners were unchanged, but Gwendolen had learnt that his manners were no clue for her, and she was not the less afraid of him.

  She had not been at Diplow before except to dine; and since certain views from the windows and the garden were worth showing, it was proposed after luncheon that the party should make a little exploration. Here came frequent opportunities when Grandcourt might have kept Gwendolen apart, and have spoken to her unheard. But no! He indeed spoke to no one else, but his words were no more eager or intimate than in their first interview. He looked at her as much as usual; and some of her defiance returning, she looked full at him, not caring – rather preferring – that his eyes had no expression in them.

  But at last it seemed he planned to speak. After the tour of the grounds, the whole party stopped by the pool to be amused by Fetch’s bringing a water lily to the bank.

  Here Grandcourt, who stood with Gwendolen outside the group, turned deliberately, and fixing his eyes on a knoll with a winding path up it, said languidly–

  “This is a bore. Shall we go up there?”

  “Oh, certainly – since we are exploring,” said Gwendolen. She was rather pleased, and yet afraid.

  The path was too narrow for him to offer his arm, and they walked up in silence. When they were at the summit, Grandcourt said–

  “There is nothing to be seen here: the thing was not worth climbing.”

  How was it that Gwendolen did not laugh? She was perfectly silent, holding up her robe like a statue, and grasping the handle of her whip, which she had snatched up automatically when they had first set off.

  “What sort of a place do you prefer?” said Grandcourt.

  “I think I prefer places that are open and cheerful. I am not fond of anything sombre.”

  “Your place at Offendene is too sombre.”

  “It is, rather.”

  “You will not remain there long, I hope.”

  “Oh, yes, I think so. Mamma likes to be near her sister.”

  Silence for a short space.

  “It is not to be supposed that you will always live there, though Mrs. Davilow may.”

  “I don’t know. We women can’t go in search of adventures – to find the North-West Passage or the source of the Nile, or hunt tigers in the East. We must stay where we grow, like flowers, brought up to look pretty, and be dull without complaining. That is my notion about plants; they are often bored, and that is why some of them become poisonous. What do you think?” Gwend
olen had run on rather nervously, lightly whipping the rhododendron bush in front of her.

  “I quite agree. Most things are bores,” said Grandcourt. After a moment’s pause, he continued in his refined drawl–

  “But a woman can be married.”

  “Some women can.”

  “You, certainly, unless you are obstinately cruel.”

  “I am not sure that I am not both cruel and obstinate.” Here Gwendolen suddenly turned her head and looked full at Grandcourt. She was wondering what the effect of looking at him would be on herself, rather than on him.

  He stood perfectly still; and it flashed through her mind what a sort of lotos-eater’s stupor had begun in him and was taking possession of her. Then he said–

  “Are you as uncertain about yourself as you make others about you?”

  “I am quite uncertain about myself; I don’t know how uncertain others may be.”

  “And you wish them to understand that you don’t care?” said Grandcourt, with a new hardness in his tone.

  “I did not say that,” Gwendolen replied hesitatingly, and turning her eyes away whipped the rhododendron bush again. She wished she were on horseback that she might set off on a canter. It was impossible to set off running down the knoll.

  “You do care, then,” said Grandcourt, with a softened drawl.

  “Ha! my whip!” said Gwendolen, in a little scream of distress. She had let it go – what could be more natural in a slight agitation? – and it had gone with some force over the immediate shrubs, and had lodged itself in some branches half-way down the knoll. She could run down now, laughing prettily, and Grandcourt was obliged to follow; but rescuing the whip, she continued on her way to level ground, where she paused and looked at him with an exasperating brightness in her glance and a heightened, triumphant colour, which Mrs. Davilow noticed when they rejoined the party.

  “It is all coquetting,” thought Grandcourt; “the next time I beckon she will come down.”

  He thought that this final beckoning might happen the very next day, when there was to be a picnic archery meeting in Cardell Chase, according to the plan suggested on the day of the ball.

  Gwendolen felt herself being hurried towards two alternative likelihoods; two decisions, like two sides of a boundary-line, and she did not know on which side she should fall. This powerlessness to predict her own behaviour caused her some astonishment and terror; her favourite idea of doing as she liked seemed to fail her, and she could not foresee what she might choose to do. The prospect of marrying Grandcourt really seemed attractive to her: the dignities, the luxuries, which had now come within her reach, took hold of her nature.

  And Grandcourt himself? He seemed to have as little flaw as a lover and husband could. Gwendolen wished to mount the chariot and drive the plunging horses herself, with a spouse by her side who would fold his arms and give her his countenance without looking ridiculous. Grandcourt was adorably quiet and free from absurdities.

  But what else was he? He had been everywhere, and seen everything. That was desirable, and a gratifying preamble to his supreme preference for Gwendolen Harleth. He did not appear to enjoy anything much. That was not necessary: the less he had of particular desires, the more freedom his wife was likely to have in following hers. Gwendolen conceived that after marriage she would most probably be able to manage him thoroughly.

  How was it that he caused her unusual constraint now? – that she was less daring and playful in her talk with him than with any other admirer she had known? His lack of demonstrativeness acted as a charm in more senses than one, and was slightly benumbing. Grandcourt after all was formidable: a handsome lizard of a hitherto unknown species, not the lively, darting kind. But Gwendolen knew hardly anything about lizards. This splendid specimen was probably gentle, suitable as a boudoir pet: what may not a lizard be, if you know nothing to the contrary?

  It hardly occurred to her to think how his life of thirty-six years had been passed: she imagined him always cold and dignified, not likely ever to have committed himself. He had hunted the tiger – had he ever been in love? Both experiences seemed remote from the Mr. Grandcourt who had come to Diplow in order to change her destiny. On the whole she wished to marry him; he suited her purpose; her prevailing, deliberate intention was to accept him.

  But was she going to fulfil her deliberate intention? She began to be afraid of herself. Already her assertion of independence in evading his advances had been carried farther than was necessary, and she was thinking with some anxiety of what she might do on the next occasion.

  On their drive homeward, she was observed by her mamma, who took the excitement in her eyes and her total silence as signs that something had occurred between her and Grandcourt. Mrs. Davilow’s uneasiness determined her to risk a question.

  “Something has happened, dear?” she began.

  Gwendolen looked round, roused to consciousness of herself. She took off her gloves and then her hat, so that the soft breeze might blow on her head, but did not speak.

  “Mr. Grandcourt has been saying something?– Tell me, dear.”

  “What am I to tell you, mamma?” was the perverse answer.

  “I am sure something has agitated you. You ought to confide in me, Gwen. You ought not to leave me in doubt and anxiety.” Mrs. Davilow’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Mamma, dear, please don’t be miserable,” said Gwendolen, with pettish remonstrance. “It only makes me more so. I am in doubt myself.”

  “About Mr. Grandcourt’s intentions?”

  “No; not at all,” said Gwendolen, with a pretty toss of the head.

  “About whether you will accept him, then?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Have you given him a doubtful answer?”

  “I have given him no answer at all.”

  “He has spoken so that you could not misunderstand him?”

  “As far as I would let him speak.”

  “You expect him to persevere?” Mrs. Davilow put this question rather anxiously. “You don’t consider that you have discouraged him?”

  “I dare say not.”

  “I thought you liked him, dear,” said Mrs. Davilow, timidly.

  “So I do, mamma, as liking goes. There is less to dislike about him than about most men. He is quiet and distinguished.” Gwendolen spoke with gravity; but suddenly added with a smile– “Indeed he has all the qualities that would make a husband tolerable – battlement, veranda, stable, etc., and no glass in his eye.”

  “Do be serious, dear. Am I to understand that you mean to accept him?”

  “Oh, pray, mamma, leave me to myself,” said Gwendolen, with pettish distress. Mrs. Davilow said no more.

  When they got home Gwendolen declared that she would not dine: she was tired, and would come down in the evening to see her uncle.

  Mr. Gascoigne heard a softened account of this conversation. The mother hinted that Gwendolen was in some uncertainty about her own mind, but inclined to acceptance. The result was that the uncle felt himself called on to interfere; his duty was to guide his niece in a momentous crisis of this kind.

  To the rector, aristocratic heirship excused its possessor from ordinary moral standards. Grandcourt, the almost certain baronet, the probable peer, was the sort of public personage an ancient community may feel proud of; though privately these great persons must often be inconvenient and even unpleasant. But Mr. Gascoigne was disposed to think the best, and set aside the gossip he had heard. If Grandcourt had really made any deeper experiments in folly than were common in young men of high prospects, he was of an age to have finished them. All accounts can be suitably wound up when a man has not ruined himself, and the expense may be taken as an insurance against future error. There was every reason to believe that a woman of well-regulated mind would be happy with Grandcourt.

  When Gwendolen came down to tea, her uncle greeted her with his usual kindness.

  “My dear,” he said, in a fatherly way, “I want to speak to you on a
momentous subject. You will guess what I mean. In such matters I consider myself bound to act as your father. You have no objection, I hope?”

  “Oh dear, no, uncle. You have always been very kind to me,” said Gwendolen frankly. This evening she was willing to be fortified against her troublesome self. The rector always conveyed authority: he seemed to take for granted that his audience was going to be rationally obedient.

  “It is naturally a satisfaction to me that the prospect of an advantageous marriage for you has presented itself so early. I do not know exactly what has passed between you and Mr. Grandcourt, but I presume there can be little doubt, from the way in which he has distinguished you, that he desires to make you his wife. Have you any doubt of that yourself, my dear?”

  “I suppose that is what he has been thinking of. But he may have changed his mind tomorrow,” said Gwendolen.

  “Why? Has he made advances which you have discouraged?”

  “I think he meant – he began to make advances – but I did not encourage them.”

  “Will you confide in me so far as to tell me your reasons?”

  “I am not sure that I had any reasons, uncle.” Gwendolen laughed rather artificially.

  “You are aware that this is not a trivial occasion, Gwendolen. It concerns your establishment for life under circumstances which may not occur again. You have a duty here both to yourself and your family. Have you any ground for hesitating as to your acceptance of Mr. Grandcourt?”

  “I suppose I hesitate without grounds.”

  “Is he disagreeable to you personally?”

  “No.”

  “Have you heard anything of him which has affected you disagreeably?” The rector thought it impossible that Gwendolen could be aware of the gossip he had heard, but in any case he must endeavour to put things in the right light for her.

  “I have heard nothing about him except that he is a great match,” said Gwendolen, with some sauciness; “and that affects me very agreeably.”

  “Then, my dear Gwendolen, I have nothing further to say than this: you hold your fortune in your own hands – a fortune such as rarely happens to a girl in your circumstances, and which makes your acceptance a duty. Your course is one of responsibility, into which caprice must not enter. A man does not like to have his attachment trifled with: he may not be at once repelled, but the trifling may be carried too far. And I must point out to you that if Mr. Grandcourt were repelled without your having intended to refuse him, your situation would be a humiliating and painful one.”

  Gwendolen became pale as she listened to this warning, which made her more conscious of the risks that lay within herself. She was silent.

  “I mean this in kindness, my dear,” said the rector, his tone softening.

  “I know that, uncle,” said Gwendolen, rising. “I am not foolish. I know that I must be married some time – before it is too late; and I don’t see how I could do better than marry Mr. Grandcourt. I mean to accept him, if possible.” She felt as if she were reinforcing herself by speaking with this decisiveness to her uncle.

  But the rector was a little startled by so bare a version of his own meaning from those young lips. He wished his niece parks, carriages, and a title, but he also wished her not to be cynical: on the contrary, to be religiously dutiful, with warm domestic affections.

  “My dear Gwendolen,” he said with benign gravity, “I trust that you will find in marriage a new fountain of duty and affection. Marriage is the only true and satisfactory sphere of a woman, and if you marry Mr. Grandcourt, you will have an increasing power of rank and wealth, which may be used for the benefit of others. I trust that you will grace your position, not only by your natural personal gifts, but by a good and consistent life.”

  “I hope mamma will be happier,” said Gwendolen, more cheerfully, moving toward the door. Mr. Gascoigne felt that he had come to a satisfactory understanding with his niece.

  Meanwhile there was another person who believed that he, too, had done something toward bringing about a favourable decision in his sense – which happened to be the reverse of the rector’s.

  Mr. Lush’s absence from Diplow during Gwendolen’s visit had been due, not to any fear of meeting that supercilious young lady, but to an engagement from which he expected important consequences.

  He was gone, in fact, to the station to meet a lady, with a maid and two children, whom he took to a hotel. She was an impressive woman, who would turn heads; her figure was slim and tall, her face rather emaciated, so that its sculpturesque beauty was the more pronounced; her crisp hair was perfectly black, as were the large, anxious eyes that looked around uneasily. Her dress was soberly correct, her age about seven-and-thirty. The children were lovely – a dark-haired girl of six or more, a fairer boy of five. When Lush expressed surprise at their presence, she said sharply–

  “Why should I not bring all four if I liked?”

  “Oh, certainly,” said Lush, with nonchalance.

  He stayed an hour or so in talk with her, and then rode back to Diplow, hopeful as to the execution of his little plan. Grandcourt’s marriage to Gwendolen Harleth would not, he believed, be good for either of them, and it would plainly be disagreeable to himself. But now he felt confident enough to lay odds that the marriage would never happen.