George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged

by Emma Laybourn

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Mr. Gascoigne brought the news that Mrs. Mompert had fixed the following Tuesday for her interview with Gwendolen. He said nothing of his having heard that Mr. Grandcourt had returned to Diplow, feeling that it would be unkind under the present reverses. He thought of his niece’s caprice with regret, but considered that Grandcourt had been the first to behave oddly, in suddenly walking away. The rector felt that he should now encourage his niece to accept her lot.

  “I feel sure that Mrs. Mompert will be pleased with you,” he said. “You will know how to conduct yourself with a woman who holds in all senses the relation of a superior to you. This trouble has come on you young, but that makes it in some respects easier, and we will benefit from adjusting our minds to it.”

  This was precisely what Gwendolen was unable to do; and after her uncle was gone, the bitter tears fell slowly as she sat alone. Her heart denied that the trouble was easier because she was young. When was she to have any happiness, if not while she was young? She saw a sterile, dreary path at her feet, which she had no courage to tread. She was in that first rage of disappointment in life’s morning, which older people are apt to remember dimly, intolerant of its self-enclosed unreasonableness. What passion seems more absurd than this amazed anguish that I, and no other, should be the smitten one? Gwendolen, poor, spoiled child, had lost all her illusion of her own high destiny; the lovely eyes and the majestic figure seemed now to have no magic in them.

  She walked up and down the drawing-room, while a slow tear fell. She thought, “I have always felt that mamma was not a happy woman; I dare say I shall be more unhappy than she has been. Poor mamma! I can get a little money for her – that is all I shall care about now.”

  And then with an entirely new movement of her imagination, she saw her mother getting old and white, and herself no longer young, and their two faces meeting still with memory and love, and her mother thinking– “Poor Gwen too is sad and faded now.”

  Then, for the first time, she sobbed, not in anger, but with a sort of tender misery. As her mother entered and put her arms around her, she sobbed anew in spite of herself.

  Mrs. Davilow had something in her hand which was causing her anxiety, and she dared not speak until her darling had become calmer. But Gwendolen, with a deep breath, drew back and looked at her tremulous mother.

  “It was nothing, mamma,” she said, before she perceived a letter in her mother’s hand. “What is that? – worse news still?” she asked bitterly.

  “You will hardly guess where it comes from, dear,” said Mrs Davilow.

  “Don’t ask me to guess anything,” said Gwendolen, rather impatiently.

  “It is addressed to you, dear. It comes from Diplow,” said Mrs. Davilow, giving her the letter.

  Gwendolen knew Grandcourt’s indistinct handwriting, and blushed deeply; but as she read, the colour died from her face. She turned the open note toward her mother. The words were few and formal:

  ‘Mr. Grandcourt presents his compliments to Miss Harleth, and begs to know whether he may call at Offendene tomorrow after two and see her alone. Mr. Grandcourt has just returned from Leubronn, where he had hoped to find Miss Harleth.’

  Mrs. Davilow read, and then looked inquiringly at Gwendolen, who turned away.

  “It must be answered, darling,” said Mrs. Davilow, timidly. “The man waits.”

  Gwendolen clasped her hands, gazing straight before her. The sudden change of the situation was bewildering. A few minutes earlier she was looking along an inescapable path of monotony; and lo, now, a moment of choice was come. Yet was it triumph she felt or terror? Impossible not to feel some triumph in her power; but then came the terror. Quick, quick, like pictures in a book, all that she had gone through in relation to Grandcourt – the allurements, the vacillations, the resolve to accept, the final repulsion; the face of that dark-eyed lady with the lovely boy: her own pledge (was it a pledge not to marry him?) – the new disbelief in the worth of men.

  What was the good of choice? What did she wish? Anything different? No! And yet in the dark seed-growths of consciousness a new wish was forming itself – “I wish I had never known it!” She wished for anything to save her from the dread of letting Grandcourt come.

  At last Mrs. Davilow said gently–

  “You need to write an answer, dear.”

  Gwendolen drew a deep breath. “Please lay me out the pen and paper.”

  That was gaining time. Was she to decline Grandcourt’s visit? Like a warm current through her terror was the notion that this would be an event – an opportunity for her to look and speak with her former effectiveness. The interest of the morrow was no longer at a deadlock.

  “There is really no reason why you should be so alarmed at the man’s waiting a few minutes, mamma,” she said.

  “No, dear,” said Mrs. Davilow, in the tone of one corrected, “he can wait another quarter of an hour, if you like.”

  At once Gwendolen felt a contradictory desire to be hastened: hurry would save her from deliberate choice.

  “I must decide,” she said, walking to the writing-table. There was a busy undercurrent of thought in her. Why should she not let him come? It bound her to nothing. He had followed her to Leubronn: he meant a renewal of his suit. What then? She could reject him. Why deny herself the freedom of doing this?

  “I wonder whether Mr. Grandcourt has heard of our misfortunes?” said Mrs. Davilow.

  “That could make no difference to a man in his position,” said Gwendolen, rather contemptuously,

  “It would to some men. If Mr. Grandcourt did know, I think it a strong proof of his attachment to you.”

  Mrs. Davilow spoke with unusual emphasis: it was the first time she had ventured to say anything about Grandcourt which might seem to be in his favour. The effect of her words was stronger than she could imagine. They raised a new vision in Gwendolen’s mind – a vision of what Grandcourt might do for her mother if she, Gwendolen, did what she was not going to do. At once, in a hurry, she began to write. To act in a hurry was to keep away from an absolute decision, and to leave open as many issues as possible.

  She wrote:

  ‘Miss Harleth presents her compliments to Mr. Grandcourt. She will be at home after two o’clock tomorrow.’

  Then she said, “Pray ring the bell, mamma, if there is anyone to answer it.” She really did not know who did the work of the house.

  It was not till after the letter had been taken away that Mrs. Davilow ventured to ask–

  “What did you write, Gwen?”

  “I said that I should be at home,” answered Gwendolen, rather loftily. “You must not expect anything to happen, mamma.”

  “But Mr. Grandcourt will consider that you have already accepted him, in allowing him to come. His note plainly means that he is coming to make you an offer.”

  “Very well; and I wish to have the pleasure of refusing him.” And Gwendolen implied her wish not to be questioned by saying– “Put down that detestable needle-work, and let us walk in the avenue. I am stifled.”