George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged

by Emma Laybourn

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gwendolen looked as lovely and vigorous as a tall, newly-opened lily the next morning: yesterday’s self-distrust seemed no more than the transient shiver on the surface of a full stream. The roving archery match in Cardell Chase was a delightful prospect: she imagined herself moving like a wood-nymph under the beeches (in appreciative company), and the scene lent a charm to any further advances by Grandcourt. Gwendolen foresaw him making slow conversational approaches to a declaration, and foresaw herself encouraging it.

  When she came down to breakfast there were letters on her plate. One of them she read with a gathering smile, and then handed it to her mamma, who, on returning it, said–

  “You don’t feel inclined to go a thousand miles away?”

  “Not exactly so far.”

  “It was a sad omission not to have answered their invitation before this. Can’t you write this morning?”

  “It is not so pressing. Tomorrow will do. They leave town today; I will write to Dover. They will be there till Monday.”

  “Shall I write for you, dear – if it teases you?”

  Gwendolen did not speak immediately, but after sipping her coffee, answered brusquely, “No, I will write tomorrow.” Then, feeling compunction, she said with playful tenderness, “Dear, old, beautiful mamma!”

  “Old, child, truly.”

  “Please don’t, mamma! You are hardly twenty-five years older than I am. When you talk in that way my life shrivels up before me.”

  “One can have a great deal of happiness in twenty-five years, my dear.”

  “I must lose no time,” said Gwendolen, merrily. “The sooner I get my palaces and coaches the better.”

  “And a good husband who adores you, Gwen,” said Mrs. Davilow, encouragingly.

  Gwendolen put out her lips saucily and said nothing. Today’s decision began to be formidable. Still, there was the reassuring thought that marriage would be the gate into a larger freedom.

  The meeting place was a grassy spot called Green Arbour. It was here that the servants would prepare the picnic meal; while the warden of the Chase would guide the roving archers so as to keep them from wandering too far. The plan was to take only a stroll before luncheon, keeping the main roving expedition for the afternoon. When the groups began to scatter themselves through the light and shadow made by beeches and oaks, a painter would have been glad to look on.

  This roving archery was far prettier than the stationary game, but more difficult. Gwendolen did not distinguish herself in her first experiments, except by her lively grace. Grandcourt was continually by her side, yet it would have been hard to tell from mere looks and manners that their relation to each other had changed at all since their first conversation. Still most persons concluded them to be, if not engaged already, on the eve of being so. And she believed this herself.

  As the groups returned toward Green Arbour, Grandcourt said, “Do you know how long it is since I first saw you in this dress?”

  “The archery meeting was on the 25th, and this is the 13th,” said Gwendolen, laughingly. “Nearly three weeks.”

  A little pause, and then he said, “That is a great loss of time.”

  “That your knowing me has caused you? Pray don’t be uncomplimentary.”

  Pause again. “It is because of the gain that I feel the loss.”

  Here Gwendolen herself paused, thinking, “He is really very ingenious. He never speaks stupidly.”

  He continued: “The gain of knowing you makes me feel the time I lose in uncertainty. Do you like uncertainty?”

  “I think I do, rather,” said Gwendolen, with a playful smile. “There is more in it.”

  Grandcourt met her laughing eyes with a slow, steady look right into them, and said, “Do you mean more torment for me?”

  There was something so strange to Gwendolen in this moment that she was quite shaken. Blushing and looking away, she said, “No, that would make me sorry.”

  Grandcourt would have followed up this favourable answer; but he was aware that they were now within sight of everybody, descending a steep slope into Green Arbour. He offered his hand to help her, and they came down in silence, observed by many.

  I am not concerned to tell of the food that was eaten in that green refectory: it will be understood that it was of the best – the talk and laughter too, in the sense of belonging to the best society. Some of the gentlemen strolled and indulged in a cigar, there being an interval before four o’clock – the time to rove again. Among these, strange to say, was Grandcourt; but not Mr. Lush, who was making himself serviceable to everybody, and becoming more than ever a blot on the scene to Gwendolen, though he kept himself amiably aloof from her.

  When there was a general move to start, Mr. Lush offered to fetch the ladies’ bows from the charge of Mr Brackenshaw’s valet; but Gwendolen hurried to fetch hers herself. The valet, on her approach, gave her the bow and also a letter addressed to her.

  She perceived at a glance that the address was in a lady’s handwriting. Mr. Lush was coming to fetch other bows: to avoid meeting him she walked away, opening the letter. It contained these words–

  ‘If Miss Harleth is in doubt whether to accept Mr. Grandcourt, let her leave her party after they have passed the Whispering Stones and return to that spot. She will then hear something to decide her; but only by keeping this letter a strict secret from everyone. If she does not act according to this letter, she will repent, as the woman who writes it has repented. The secrecy Miss Harleth will feel herself bound in honour to guard.’

  Gwendolen felt an inward shock; but her immediate thought was, “It is come in time.” Her youthfulness meant that she was absorbed by the idea of the revelation to be made, and did not even think of showing the letter to anyone. She at once resolved that she would manage to go unobserved to the Whispering Stones; and thrusting the letter into her pocket she turned back to rejoin the company.

  It was a surprise to everyone that Grandcourt was not there in time to set out roving with the rest. “We shall find him by-and-by,” said Lord Brackenshaw. No man could be waited for. This apparent forgetfulness might be taken for the distraction of a lover so absorbed in thinking of his beloved as to forget an appointment which would bring him into her actual presence. But Gwendolen thought, “Can he too be starting away from a decision?”

  It was not exactly a pleasant thought; but it was near the truth. “Starting away,” however, was not the right expression for the languor that came over Grandcourt, like a fit of diseased numbness, when an end seemed within easy reach. At that moment he had begun a second large cigar in a vague, hazy obstinacy; if anyone had interrupted him to request his return, he would have said in a slow undertone, “You’ll be kind enough to go to the devil, will you?”

  But he was not interrupted, and the rovers set off, leaving behind only a few ladies, including Mrs. Davilow, who preferred a quiet stroll. The enjoyment of the day was soon at its highest pitch, the archery getting more spirited and the changing scenes of the forest growing lovelier with the lengthening shadows of the mellowing afternoon. Gwendolen felt an excitement – a sense of adventure rather than alarm.

  The roving had lasted nearly an hour before the arrival at the Whispering Stones, two tall blocks that leaned toward each other like gigantic grey-mantled figures. They were soon passed by, on the way to a fine grove of beeches, where the archers found plenty of marks.

  Suddenly the group seemed to be hurrying forward under the guidance of Mr. Lush, and Gwendolen perceived her opportunity of slipping away. Soon she was out of sight, and without running she seemed to fly along the ground till she was back at the Whispering Stones. They turned their blank grey sides to her: what was on the other side?

  Walking round the right-hand stone, she found herself in front of some one whose large dark eyes met hers. Startled, she shrank bank, but at the same time perceived that the stranger was a lady, and one who must have been exceedingly handsome. She perceived, also, that a few y
ards away were two children seated on the grass.

  “Miss Harleth?” said the lady.

  “Yes.” All Gwendolen’s consciousness was wonder.

  “Have you accepted Mr. Grandcourt?”

  “No.”

  “I have promised to tell you something. And you will promise to keep my secret. You will not tell Mr. Grandcourt, or anyone else, that you have seen me?”

  “I promise.”

  “My name is Lydia Glasher. Mr. Grandcourt ought not to marry anyone but me. I left my husband and child for him nine years ago. Those two children are his, and we have two more, older girls. My husband is dead, and Mr. Grandcourt ought to marry me. He ought to make that boy his heir.”

  Gwendolen’s eyes followed hers to the boy. The handsome, curly-haired little fellow was puffing out his cheeks in trying to blow a tiny trumpet. He was a cherub.

  The two women’s eyes met again, and Gwendolen said proudly, “I will not interfere with your wishes.” She was shivering, and her lips were pale.

  “You are very attractive, Miss Harleth. But when he first knew me, I too was young. Since then my life has been broken and embittered. It is not fair that he should be happy and I miserable, and my boy thrust out of sight for another.”

  These words were uttered bitingly. Gwendolen felt a sort of terror, as if some ghastly vision had come to her in a dream and said, “I am a woman’s life.”

  “Have you anything more to say to me?” she asked, still proudly and coldly. The revulsion within her did not soften her. Everyone seemed hateful.

  “Nothing. You know what I wished you to know. You can inquire about me if you like. My husband was Colonel Glasher.”

  “Then I will go,” said Gwendolen, moving away ceremoniously.

  In a few minutes she was in the beech grove again, but her party had gone out of sight. All was solitude till she reached the avenue to Green Arbour, walking rapidly as a means of suspending her thoughts. She had already made up her mind what to do.

  Mrs. Davilow was astonished to see Gwendolen returning. To her look of surprise Gwendolen said–

  “Oh, I have been rather silly. I lingered behind to look at the Whispering Stones, and I lost sight of the others. I thought it best to come home by the short way. I had had enough walking.”

  “Your party did not meet Mr. Grandcourt, I presume,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint.

  “No,” said Gwendolen, with a light laugh. “Where can he be? I should think he has fallen into the pool.”

  Despite Gwendolen’s resolve not to betray any agitation, her tone was unusually high and hard. Mrs. Arrowpoint thought that the young lady was much piqued, and that Mr. Grandcourt was probably seeing reason to change his mind.

  “If you have no objection, mamma, I will order the carriage,” said Gwendolen. By the time the carriage was ready, the roving party reappeared, and with them Mr. Grandcourt.

  “Ah, there you are!” said Lord Brackenshaw to Gwendolen. “We thought at first you had met Grandcourt and he had taken you home. Lush said so. But after that we met Grandcourt.”

  “You are going?” said Grandcourt, coming up with his usual air.

  “Yes,” said Gwendolen, busily arranging her scarf across her shoulders.

  “May I call at Offendene tomorrow?”

  “Oh yes, if you like,” said Gwendolen, her voice as light and sharp as the first touch of frost.

  Before he could lead them to the carriage, she swiftly sprang into it on her own.

  “I wished to be on this side, mamma,” she said, apologetically. But she had avoided Grandcourt’s touch: he lifted his hat and walked away, with the not unsatisfactory impression that she was offended by his neglect.

  The mother and daughter drove for five minutes in silence. Then Gwendolen said, “I intend to join the Langens at Dover, mamma. I shall pack immediately on getting home, and set off by the early train. We can let them know by telegraph.”

  “Good heavens, child! what can be your reason for saying so?”

  “My reason for saying it, mamma, is that I mean to do it.”

  “But why do you mean to do it?”

  “I wish to go away.”

  “Is it because you are offended with Mr. Grandcourt’s odd behaviour in walking off to-day?”

  “It is useless to ask. I am not going to marry Mr. Grandcourt.”

  “What can I tell your uncle, Gwendolen? You led him to believe last night that you had made up your mind in favour of Mr. Grandcourt.”

  “I am very sorry, mamma, dear, but I can’t help it,” said Gwendolen, with still harder resistance in her tone. “Whatever you or my uncle think, I shall not alter my resolve, and I shall not tell my reason. I don’t care if I never marry anyone. All men are bad, and I hate them. Don’t interfere with me. If I am to be miserable, let it be by my own choice.”

  The helpless mother was reduced to trembling silence. She began to see that the difficulty would be lessened if Gwendolen went away.

  And she did go. The packing was done that evening, and early the next day Mrs. Davilow accompanied her daughter to the railway station, whose dingy torpor seemed very melancholy. Gwendolen had hardened in the last twenty-four hours: her reading had somehow not prepared her for this encounter with reality. Mrs. Davilow felt Gwendolen’s indifference keenly, and as she drove back alone, the brightening morning was sadder to her than before.

  Mr. Grandcourt called that day at Offendene, but nobody was at home.