Chapter Fifty-six
Deronda did not take off his clothes that night. Gwendolen, after insisting on seeing him again, had been perfectly quiet, and had only asked him, with a whispering eagerness, to promise to come to her in the morning. Fearing a fever, he told her attendant that he was ready to be called if there were any alarming change of symptoms, making it understood that he was in communication with her friends in England. He felt bound to take care of her – a position which was easy for him to assume, because he was well known to Grandcourt’s valet.
When fatigue at last sent Deronda to sleep, his dreams came as a tangled web of yesterday’s events, and finally waked him.
Still, it was morning, and there had been no summons – an augury which cheered him while he dressed. On sending enquiries, he learned that Gwendolen had passed a wakeful night, but had shown no violent agitation, and was at last sleeping. He wondered at her strength; for he had an impression that even under the effects of a severe physical shock she was mastering herself with a determination of concealment.
For his own part, he thought that his sensibilities had been blunted by his meetings with his mother: his passionate sympathy was lacking. He had lately been living so keenly in his own world that his cares for Gwendolen were like a revisiting of past scenes, and his response to her was not yet revived.
Meanwhile he got a formal, legal statement from the fishermen who had rescued Gwendolen. Few details came to light. Grandcourt’s boat had been found drifting with its sail loose, and had been towed in. The fishermen thought it likely that he had been knocked overboard by the sail while putting about, and that he had not known how to swim; but their attention had been first arrested by his cry of distress, and while they were hastening with their oars, they heard a shriek from the lady, and saw her jump in.
On re-entering the hotel, Deronda was told that Gwendolen had risen, and desired to see him. He was shown into a darkened room, where she was sitting wrapped in a white shawl, her long hair carefully coiled and her little ear-rings still in place. As she stood, he saw a purple line under her eyes. With the expression of one accused and helpless, she looked like the unhappy ghost of that proud Gwendolen Harleth whom he had seen at the gaming table. The sight pierced him with pity, and his sympathy began to revive.
“I beseech you not to stand,” he said. She fell back into her chair, and he drew up another chair close by.
She said, in the lowest audible tone, “You know I am a guilty woman?”
Deronda turned paler. “I know nothing.”
“He is dead.” She uttered this in the same undertone.
“Yes,” said Deronda, in suspense and reluctant to speak.
“His face will not be seen above the water again,” said Gwendolen, clenching her hands.
“No.”
“Only by me – a dead face – I shall never get away from it.”
She spoke these words with quiet, desperate self-repression, looking away from Deronda. Was she exaggerating her own part in the event through horror? Was she in a state of delirium, which made her think some concealment was necessary? Deronda, his feelings torn between hope and fear, kept silent. She was bent on confession, and he dreaded hearing her confess: he wished, and yet rebuked the wish as cowardly, that she could bury her secrets in her own bosom. He was not a priest. But she spoke again, hurriedly–
“You will not say that I ought to tell the world? and be disgraced? I could not bear it. I cannot have my mother know. I must tell you; but you will not say that anyone else should know.”
“I can say nothing in my ignorance,” said Deronda, mournfully, “except that I desire to help you.”
“I told you from the beginning that I was afraid of myself.” There was a piteous pleading in the low murmur. Deronda could not look at her. “I felt hatred like an evil spirit. Every way I could free myself came into my mind; and it got worse. That is why I asked you to come to me in town. I thought then I would tell you, but I could not tell everything. And he came in.”
She paused, shuddering; but soon went on.
“I will tell you everything now. Do you think a woman who cried, and prayed, and struggled to be saved from herself, could be a murderess?”
“Great God!” said Deronda, in a deep, shaken voice, “don’t torture me. You have not murdered him. You threw yourself into the water to save him. This death was an accident that you could not have hindered.”
“Don’t be impatient with me.” The childlike beseeching in these words compelled Deronda to look at her face. She went on. “You said you felt for those who had done something wicked and were miserable; you said they might become better. I remembered all you said to me. It came to me at the very last – that was the reason why I – but now, if you turn away and forsake me, what shall I do? Am I worse than I was when you wanted to make me better? All the wrong I have done was in me then – and more – if you had not been patient with me. And now – will you forsake me?”
Her hands, which had been so tightly clenched before, were now trembling on the arm of her chair. Deronda took one of them, and clasped it as if they were going to walk together like two children: it was the only way in which he could answer, “I will not forsake you.” And all the while he felt as if he were putting his name to a blank paper which might be filled up terribly.
That grasp was an entirely new experience to Gwendolen: she had never before had from any man a sign of tenderness which her own being had needed, and she interpreted it as a promise of inexhaustible patience and constancy. This made it possible for her to go on.
“All sorts of contrivances in my mind – I fought against them – I was terrified at them – I saw his dead face” – her voice sank almost to a whisper – “long ago I saw it and I wished him to be dead. And yet it terrified me. I wanted to kill – it was as strong as thirst – and then directly – I felt beforehand I had done something unalterable – that would make me like an evil spirit. And it came – it came.”
She was silent for a moment.
“It had been in my mind when I first spoke to you at the Abbey. I had done something then. It was the only thing I did toward carrying out my thoughts. They remained like dreadful dreams – all but one. I did one act – and I never undid it – when we were at Ryelands. There was something in the cabinet in my boudoir – small and sharp like a long willow leaf in a silver sheath. I locked it in my dressing-case. I was haunted with how I should use it. But I never looked at it again. I dared not unlock the drawer: it had a key, and when we were in the yacht, I dropped the key into the deep water, to deliver myself. After that I began to think how I could open the drawer without the key: but when I met you in Genoa, I thought I would talk to you and tell you this – everything I could not tell you in town; and then I was forced to go out in the boat.”
A sob rose, and she sank back in her chair. Deronda said, insistently–
“And it has all remained in your imagination. To the last the evil temptation has been resisted?”
There was silence. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She pressed her handkerchief against them and sat upright, summoning her resolution; and began again in a whisper–
“No, no; I will tell you everything as God knows it. I will tell you no falsehood. I used to think I could never be wicked. I thought of wicked people as if they were a long way off from me. Since then I have felt wicked. And everything has been a punishment – all the things I used to wish for – as if they were red-hot. Because I ought not to have married. I wronged some one else. I broke my promise. I wanted to make my gain out of another’s loss – like roulette – and the money burned into me. And I could not complain. I knew I was guilty. When we were on the sea, and I lay awake at night, I sometimes felt that everything I had done lay open without excuse – everything held a punishment for me – everything but you. I thought that you would not want me punished – you would have helped me to be better. And only thinking of that helped me. You will not want to punish me now?”
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br /> Again a sob had risen.
“God forbid!” groaned Deronda. But he sat motionless.
This long wandering over her past was difficult to bear, but he dared not again urge her with a question. After an interval she continued.
“That made it so hard when I was forced to go in the boat. Because when I saw you it was an unexpected joy, and I thought I could tell you everything, and then it would have less power over me. I hoped and trusted in that. For after all my struggles and my crying, the hatred and the temptation and the thirst for what I dreaded, always came back. And that disappointment – when I had to go in the boat – brought the evil back. There was no escape. Oh, it seems so long ago now since I stepped into that boat! I could have given up everything in that moment, for lightning to strike him dead.”
She spoke with compressed fierceness. “If he were here again, what should I do? I cannot wish him here – and yet I cannot bear his dead face. I was a coward. I ought to have gone away and wandered like a beggar rather than stay. Sometimes I thought he would kill me if I resisted his will. But now – his dead face is there, and I cannot bear it.”
Suddenly loosing Deronda’s hand, she started up, stretching out her arms, and said with a moan–
“I have been a cruel woman! Die, die – you are forsaken – go down, go down into darkness. Forsaken – I shall be forsaken.”
She sank in her chair again and broke into sobs, forgetting even Deronda’s presence. He was completely unmanned. This young creature’s agony of remorse pierced him with passionate pity. He rose from his seat, impelled to turn his back toward her and walk to a distance.
But presently she was still. When Deronda turned round, he saw her eyes were dilated, her lips parted, in an image of forlorn beseeching – too timid to entreat in words. Was she forsaken by him now, already?
But his eyes met hers sorrowfully, and seemed to say, “I know you are guilty, but I shall not forsake you.” He sat down by her side again.
Gwendolen was pierced with compunction, and she said, in a tone of loving regret–
“I make you very unhappy.”
Deronda gave an indistinct “Oh.” Then, gathering resolution, he said, “There is no question of being happy or unhappy. What I most desire is what will most help you. Tell me all you feel it a relief to tell.”
Devoted as these words were, they widened his spiritual distance from her, and made it more difficult for her to speak: she felt an impulse to humble herself before him. But she stayed silent, until her stillness made Deronda say–
“Perhaps you are too weary. Shall I go away, and come again whenever you wish it?”
“No, no,” said Gwendolen, the dread of his leaving her bringing back her power of speech. “I want to tell you what came over me in that boat. I was full of rage – and I could do nothing but sit there like a galley slave. And then we went out of the port – into the deep – and everything was still – he only spoke to order me – and the very light about me seemed to hold me prisoner. When I was a child I used to fancy sailing away into a world where there would be nobody I did not like, such as my step-father. And now just the opposite had come to me. I had stepped into a boat, and my life was sailing away into solitude with him, away from deliverance. And because I felt more helpless than ever, I had cruel wishes – I fancied impossible ways of – I did not want to die myself; I was afraid of our being drowned together. If it had been any use, I should have prayed that something might befall him; that he might sink out of my sight and leave me alone. I knew no way of killing him there, but I did, I did kill him in my thoughts.”
She sank into silence for a minute, submerged by the weight of memory.
“But all the while I felt that I was getting more wicked. And it came to me just then – what you once said – about dreading to increase my wrong-doing and my remorse. It was like a writing of fire within me. Getting wicked was misery – being shut out forever from better lives. I felt despair that it was no use – evil wishes were too strong. I remember then letting go the tiller and saying ‘God help me!’ But then I was forced to take it again and go on; and the evil prayers came again and blotted out everything else, till, in the midst of them – I don’t know how it was – he was turning the sail – there was a gust – he was struck – I know nothing – I only know that I saw my wish outside me.”
She began to whisper hurriedly.
“I saw him sink, and my heart gave a leap. I think I did not move. I kept my hands tight. It was long enough for me to be glad, and yet to think he would come up again. And he did come up – farther off – the boat had moved. ‘The rope!’ he called out, in a voice not his own – I hear it now – and I stooped for the rope – I felt I must – I felt sure he could swim, and he would come back whether or not, and I dreaded him. But he was gone down again, and I had the rope in my hand – no, there he was again – his face above the water – and he cried again – and my heart said, ‘Die!’ – and he sank; and I felt ‘I am wicked, I am lost! – and I had the rope in my hand – I don’t know what I thought – I was leaping away from myself – I would have saved him then. I was leaping from my crime, and there it was – close to me as I fell – there was the dead face – dead, dead. It can never be altered. That was what happened. You know it all.”
She sank back in her chair, exhausted. Deronda felt the burden on his spirit lighten. The word “guilty” had held possibilities worse than the fact; and Gwendolen’s confession convinced him that there had been throughout a counterbalancing struggle of her better will. It seemed almost certain that her murderous thought had had no outward effect – that, quite apart from it, the death was inevitable. He held it likely that Gwendolen’s remorse aggravated her inward guilt, and that she gave the character of decisive action to what had been an instantaneous desire. But her remorse was the precious sign of a recoverable nature, and the awakening of a new life within her; it marked her off from the criminals whose only regret is failure in securing their evil wish. Deronda could not utter one word to diminish that sacred aversion to her worst self.
All this mingled thought and feeling kept him silent. He did not know how long it was before he turned to look at her, and saw her sunk back with closed eyes, like a lost, weary, storm-beaten white doe. He rose, and she opened her eyes with a slight quivering that seemed like fear.
“You must rest now. Try to sleep. And may I see you again when you have rested? Let us say no more now.”
The tears came, and she could not answer except by a slight movement of the head. Deronda urged her again to rest, and left her.
George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged Page 59
