Chapter Twenty-one
It was half-past ten in the morning when Gwendolen Harleth, after her gloomy journey from Leubronn, arrived at the station near Offendene. No one was awaiting her, for in her impatience she had set off on an earlier train than the one her telegraph had mentioned to her family. Deposited alone on the platform with her trunks, and waiting while a vehicle was being got from the Railway Inn, Gwendolen felt that the dirty paint in the waiting-room matched the dreary prospect opened by her family troubles. The vehicle was a shabby old barouche: such trifles must tell on a fastidious lady with an Indian shawl over her arm, some twenty cubic feet of trunks, and a mortal dislike of her new consciousness of poverty. This ugliness and humiliation was the beginning of being at home again, and a sample of what she must expect.
On this theme her discontent rung its sad changes during her slow drive in the uneasy barouche. She imagined that the family would go abroad again; for of course there must be some little income left – her mamma did not mean that they would have literally nothing. To go to a dull place abroad and live poorly, was the dismal future that threatened her: she imagined herself plunged into dullness with her tedious sisters. But she did not mean to submit to her misfortune. She had not yet quite believed in it, but now it began to affect her like an uncomfortable waking.
The self-delight with which she had kissed her image in the glass had faded before the sense of futility in being anything – charming, clever, resolute – what was the good of it all? Events might turn out anyhow, and men were hateful. Gwendolen had begun to be angry with Grandcourt for being what had hindered her from marrying him, and causing her present dreary lot.
But now the house was in sight. A figure appearing under the portico brought a rush of new, less selfish feeling, and when she saw the dear beautiful face with fresh lines of sadness, she threw her arms round her mother’s neck, and for the moment felt only her mother’s sorrow.
Behind were the sad faces of the four superfluous girls, each having her own world which was of no importance to anyone else, but all of them feeling Gwendolen’s presence to be somehow a relenting of misfortune: where Gwendolen was, something interesting would happen. Even her hurried submission to their kisses, and “Now go away, girls,” carried the comfort which weakness finds in decision and authoritativeness. Miss Merry busied herself with the trunks, while Mrs. Davilow and Gwendolen hastened upstairs and shut themselves in the bedroom.
“Never mind, mamma dear,” said Gwendolen, tenderly pressing her handkerchief against Mrs. Davilow’s tearful cheeks. “Never mind. I don’t mind. I will do something. I will be something. Things will come right. It seemed worse because I was away. Come now! you must be glad because I am here.”
Gwendolen felt every word of that speech. A rush of tenderness stirred her into generous resolution; and the self-confident projects which had vaguely occurred to her during her journey acquired new definiteness. She seemed to perceive how she could be “something.” Her fond mother looked at her with adoration, saying,
“Bless you, my good darling! I can be happy, if you can!”
But later in the day there was an ebb; the old slippery rocks reappeared as Gwendolen’s courage shrank. At first, her surroundings still ensured her personal ease: the roomy stillness of the house while she rested; her little luxuries supplied without trouble to her; and a tray of her favourite food brought to her in private. For she had said, “Keep them all away from us today, mamma. Let you and me be alone together.”
When Gwendolen came down into the drawing-room, fresh as a newly-dipped swan, she sat on the settee beside her mamma, prepared to hear everything, and began–
“What have you thought of doing, exactly, mamma?”
“Oh, my dear, we must leave this house. Mr. Haynes most fortunately is glad to rent it. Lord Brackenshaw’s agent is to arrange everything.”
“I cannot help thinking that Lord Brackenshaw would let you stay here rent-free, mamma,” said Gwendolen, who had paid less attention to business than to the admiration excited by her charms.
“My dear child, Lord Brackenshaw is in Scotland, and knows nothing about us. Neither your uncle nor I would choose to apply to him. Besides, what could we do in this house without servants, and without money to warm it? The sooner we are out the better.”
“I suppose you mean to go abroad, then?”
“Oh, no, dear, no. How could we travel? You never did learn anything about income and expenses,” said Mrs. Davilow, trying to smile.
“But where are we to go?” said Gwendolen, with a trace of sharpness and fear.
“It is all decided. A little furniture is to be got from the rectory – all that can be spared.” Mrs. Davilow hesitated, dreading the shock she must give to Gwendolen. “It is Sawyer’s Cottage we are to go to.”
Gwendolen was silent, paling with anger. Then she said haughtily,
“That is impossible. My uncle ought not to allow that. I will not submit to it.”
“My sweet child, your uncle is as kind as he can be: but he is suffering with losses himself; he has his family to bring up. You must remember – we have absolutely nothing except what he and my sister give us. They have been as wise and active as possible, and we must try to earn something. I and the girls are going to work a table-cloth border for the Ladies’ Charity at Winchester.” Mrs. Davilow said this timidly.
“But surely somewhere else than Sawyer’s Cottage might have been found,” Gwendolen persisted.
“No, indeed, dear. Houses are scarce. It is not so very bad. There are two little parlours and four bedrooms. You shall sit alone whenever you like.”
The ebb of sympathy for her mamma had gone so low just now, that Gwendolen took no notice of these words.
“I cannot conceive that all your property is gone at once, mamma. How can you be sure in so short a time? It is not a week since you wrote to me.”
“The first news came much earlier, dear. But I would not spoil your pleasure till it was quite necessary.”
“Oh, how vexatious!” said Gwendolen, colouring with fresh anger. “If I had known, I could have brought home the money I had won, instead of staying to lose it. I had nearly two hundred pounds, and we could have lived on it a little while, till I could carry out some plan. Everything has gone against me. People have come near me only to blight me.”
Among “people” she was including Deronda. If he had not interfered in her life she would have gone to the gaming-table again, and might have won back her losses.
“We must resign ourselves to the will of Providence, my child,” said poor Mrs. Davilow, startled by this revelation of gambling, but not daring to say more. She felt sure that “people” meant Grandcourt, about whom her lips were sealed.
“I don’t call other people’s wickedness Providence. Can’t we go to law and recover our fortune? My uncle ought to take action. We ought to go to law.”
“My dear child, law can never bring back money lost in speculation in that way. Your uncle says it is milk spilled upon the ground. Besides, one must have a fortune to get any law. And we are not the only sufferers: others have to resign themselves besides us.”
“But I don’t resign myself to live at Sawyer’s Cottage and see you working for sixpences. I shall not do it. I shall do what is more befitting our rank and education.”
“I am sure your uncle will approve of that, dear,” said Mrs. Davilow, glad of an unexpected opening for speaking on a difficult subject. “Your uncle and aunt have already heard of something that, with your education, is within your reach.”
“What is that, mamma?” Gwendolen’s anger gave way to interest and romantic conjectures.
“Two situations offer themselves. One is in a bishop’s family, where there are three daughters, and the other is in quite a high class of school; and in both, your French, and music, and dancing – and your manners as a lady, are exactly what is wanted. Each is a hundred a year – and – just for the present,” Mrs. Davilow had become frightened
and hesitating– “perhaps you would accept one of the two.”
“What! be a teacher? No.”
“I think, myself, that Dr. Monpert’s would be more suitable. There could be no hardship in a bishop’s family.”
“Excuse me, mamma. There are hardships everywhere for a governess. I don’t see that it would be pleasanter to be looked down on in a bishop’s family than anywhere else. Besides, you know I hate teaching. Fancy me shut up with three awkward girls like Alice! I would rather emigrate.”
What it precisely was to emigrate, Gwendolen was not called on to explain. Mrs. Davilow was mute, thinking with dread of the collision that might happen when Gwendolen met her aunt and uncle. Her daughter’s haughty, resistant speeches implied that she had a plan in reserve, and Mrs. Davilow could not help believing in the force of her will.
“I could sell some ornaments, mamma,” said Gwendolen. “I want a little sum – just to go on with. I dare say Marshall, at Wanchester, would take them: Jocosa might go and ask him. Jocosa is going to leave us, of course. But she might do that first.”
“She would do anything she could, poor, dear soul. She wanted me to take all her savings – her three hundred pounds. I told her to set up a little school with it.”
“Oh, recommend her for the bishop’s daughters,” said Gwendolen, with a sudden laugh. “I am sure she will do better than I should.”
“Do not say such things to your uncle,” said Mrs. Davilow. “He will be hurt at your despising the post he has found. But I dare say you have something else in your mind that he might not disapprove, if you consulted him.”
“There is some one else I want to consult first. Are the Arrowpoints at Quetcham still, and is Herr Klesmer there?”
“The Arrowpoints are at Quetcham. But I don’t know about Herr Klesmer.”
“I will write a note,” said Gwendolen, rising.
“What can you be thinking of, Gwen?” said Mrs. Davilow, relieved by signs of her better humour.
“Don’t mind what, there’s a dear, good mamma, until it is all settled. And then you shall be comforted. Now, now! don’t cry.” Gwendolen kissed the trembling eyelids. “But don’t hinder me. I cannot be dictated to. My life is my own affair. And I think” – her tone took an edge of scorn – “I think I can do better for you than Sawyer’s Cottage.”
With this, Gwendolen went to a desk where she wrote this note to Klesmer:
‘Miss Harleth presents her compliments to Herr Klesmer, and ventures to request that he will call upon her tomorrow. Unfortunate family circumstances have obliged her to take a course in which she can only turn for advice to the great knowledge of Herr Klesmer.’
“Pray get this sent to Quetcham at once, mamma,” said Gwendolen.
She was in a state of uneasy excitement. If Klesmer was not at Quetcham, what could she do next? Gwendolen’s belief in her star had had some bruises. Things had gone against her. A prospective splendid marriage had shown a hideous flaw. The chances of roulette had not adjusted themselves to her claims; and a strange man had thrust himself between her and her intentions. Gwendolen Harleth, with all her beauty and conscious force, felt the threats of humiliation. If Klesmer were not at Quetcham, that would be all of a piece with the rest.
Still Klesmer might be there, and Gwendolen thought of the result in that case with hope, as if her present troubles were only such as might enter the biography of celebrities and remarkable people. And if she had heard her acquaintances being asked whether they thought her remarkable, a “No” would have surprised her.
George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged Page 23
