George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged

by Emma Laybourn

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Gwendolen would not consent to remain at Genoa after her mother’s arrival. Her desire to get away helped to rally her strength. For that gem of the sea had turned into a place of punishment.

  “I shall never like to see the Mediterranean again,” she said to her mother, who thought that she quite understood her child’s feeling.

  Mrs. Davilow, indeed, though compelled formally to regard this time as one of severe calamity, was enjoying her life more than she had ever done since her daughter’s marriage. It seemed that her darling was brought back to her not merely with all the old affection, but with a conscious cherishing of her mother’s nearness, such as we give to a possession that we have been on the brink of losing.

  “Are you there, mamma?” cried Gwendolen, in the middle of the night, as she had in her young girlhood. (A bed had been made for her mother in the same room with hers.)

  “Yes, dear; can I do anything for you?”

  “No, thank you; only I like so to know you are there. Do you mind my waking you?” (Gwendolen would hardly have asked this in her early girlhood.)

  “I was not asleep, darling.”

  “It seemed not real that you were with me. I wanted to make it real. I can bear things if you are with me. But you must not lie awake and anxious. You must be happy now. You must let me make you happy now at last.”

  “God bless you, dear; I have the best happiness possible, when you make much of me.”

  But the next night, hearing that she was sighing and restless, Mrs. Davilow said, “Let me give you your sleeping-draught, Gwendolen.”

  “No, mamma, thank you; I don’t want to sleep.”

  “It would be good for you to sleep more, my darling.”

  “Don’t say what would be good for me, mamma,” Gwendolen answered impetuously. “You don’t know what would be good for me. You and my uncle must not contradict me and tell me what would be good for me.”

  Mrs. Davilow was silent, not wondering that the poor child was irritable. Presently Gwendolen said–

  “I was always naughty to you, mamma.”

  “No, dear.”

  “Yes, I was,” said Gwendolen insistently. “It is because I was always wicked that I am miserable now.”

  She burst into sobs. The determination to be silent about the facts of her married life reacted in these escapes.

  But light was breaking on the mother’s mind through the information that came to her from Sir Hugo, through Mr. Gascoigne. The good-natured baronet thought it best to tell the rector the purport of Grandcourt’s will, so as to save him the shock that would be in store for him otherwise.

  The rector was deeply hurt, and remembered, more vividly than before, how offensively proud and repelling the manners of the deceased had been – remembered also that he himself had received hints of former entangling dissipations. However, he did not express these thoughts, but remarked–

  “When a young man makes his will in health, he usually counts on living a long while. Probably Mr. Grandcourt did not believe that this will would ever have its present effect.”

  “Well, in point of fact,” said Sir Hugo, in his comfortable way, “since the boy is there, this was really the best alternative for the disposal of the estates. I forgive Grandcourt for that part of his will. But what I don’t forgive him for, is the shabby way he has provided for your niece. I think that she has not been well treated. And I hope you will urge her to rely on me as a friend.”

  Thus spake the chivalrous Sir Hugo, in his disgust at the young and beautiful widow of a Mallinger Grandcourt being left with only two thousand a year and a house in a coal-mining district. To the rector that income naturally appeared less shabby; but he had a keener sense of the humiliation cast over his niece, and also over her nearest friends, by the publishing of her husband’s relation to Mrs. Glasher. He felt the unpleasantness of communicating the facts to Mrs. Davilow, who had to tell Gwendolen.

  For the good rector had an innocent conviction that his niece was unaware of Mrs. Glasher’s existence. Not so Gwendolen’s mother, who now thought that she saw an explanation of much that had been enigmatic in her child’s conduct, concluding that in some way Gwendolen had been informed of this left-handed marriage and the existence of the children. She trusted that Gwendolen might confide in her during their journey to England, so that she could prepare her for any disappointment. But she was spared from devices on the subject.

  “I hope you don’t expect that I am going to be rich and grand, mamma,” said Gwendolen; “perhaps I shall have nothing.”

  Mrs. Davilow was startled, but said, after a moment’s reflection–

  “Oh yes, dear, you will have something. Sir Hugo says you are to have two thousand a year and the house at Gadsmere.”

  “What I have will depend on what I accept,” said Gwendolen. “You and my uncle must not attempt to cross me. I will do everything I can do to make you happy, but in anything about my husband I must not be interfered with. Is eight hundred a year enough for you, mamma?”

  “More than enough, dear.” Mrs. Davilow paused, and then said, “Do you know who is to have the rest of the money?”

  “Yes,” said Gwendolen, waving her hand in dismissal of the subject. “I know everything. It is all perfectly right, and I wish never to have it mentioned.”

  The mother was silent. She did not like to meet her daughter’s eyes, and sat down again under a sad constraint, wondering what wretchedness her child had perhaps gone through. But Gwendolen was watching her mother with that new divination which experience had given her; and said tenderly, “Come and sit nearer, mamma, and don’t be unhappy.” When Mrs. Davilow did so, Gwendolen leaned toward her caressingly and said, “I mean to be very wise; I do, really. And so good to you, dear, old, sweet mamma, you won’t know me. Only you must not cry.”

  Gwendolen had resolved to ask Deronda whether she ought to accept any of her husband’s money – whether she might accept enough to provide for her mother. The poor thing felt strong enough to do anything that would give her a higher place in Deronda’s mind.

  Sir Hugo kindly invited Gwendolen and Mrs. Davilow to Park Lane, to stay for as long as they needed. No proposal could have suited Gwendolen better. It would be easy for her there to have an interview with Deronda, if she could only get a letter to him.

  During the journey, Sir Hugo ventured to talk to her about her future arrangements. He had become quite fatherly towards her, calling her “my dear,” and in mentioning Gadsmere, spoke of what “we” might do to make the best of that property. Gwendolen sat in pale silence while Sir Hugo, addressing Mrs. Davilow or Mr. Gascoigne, conjectured that Mrs. Grandcourt might prefer letting Gadsmere to residing there, in which case he thought that it might be leased to one of the fellows engaged with the coal.

  “If one’s business lay there, Gadsmere would be a paradise,” he said.

  “A more important place than Offendene, I suppose?” said Mr. Gascoigne.

  “Much,” said the baronet, decisively. “The grounds are on a different scale.”

  “Our poor dear Offendene is empty after all,” said Mrs. Davilow. “Mr. Haynes cried off, and no-one has taken it since.”

  Gwendolen had turned with a changed glance when her mother said this; it was during one of the long unaccountable pauses often experienced in foreign trains at some country station. There was a dreamy, sunny stillness over the fields; and to Gwendolen the talk within the carriage seemed only to make the dreamland larger with an indistinct region of coal-pits, and a purgatorial Gadsmere which she would never visit; then this dozing view dissolved into a vision of Offendene. She saw the grey shoulders of the downs, the cattle-specked fields, the neatly-clipped hedges on the road to Offendene, the avenue, the hall-door opening, and her mother coming out to meet her. All that brief experience of a quiet home which had once seemed dull, now came back to her as a restful escape.

  However, Gwendolen gave no outward sign of interest in the conv
ersation. The baronet and the rector were talking about their families. Sir Hugo declared his intention of taking his family to Diplow for a month or two in autumn; and Mr. Gascoigne cordially rejoiced in that prospect. Altogether, the journey was continued with mutual liking between the male fellow-travellers.

  Meanwhile Gwendolen sat by like one who had visited the spirit-world and whose experience threw a strange unreality over all worldly talk; and Mrs. Davilow was chiefly occupied in imagining what her daughter was feeling, and in wondering whether she would accept her husband’s bequest.

  Gwendolen in fact had a purpose shutting off every other resolution. She wanted again to consult Deronda, so that she might secure herself against any act he would disapprove. Would her remorse have maintained its power within her, if it had not been for that conscience which was made for her by Deronda? His influence had begun with what she had felt to be his judgment of her at the gaming-table.

  But Gwendolen did not know his address, and her only way of reaching him was through Sir Hugo. She knew the construction that might be put on her seeking out Deronda; but she would not let go of her dependence. When she was in Park Lane and knew that the baronet was about to go down to the Abbey, she said to him without hesitation, while her mother was present–

  “Sir Hugo, I wish to see Mr. Deronda again as soon as possible. Will you let him know that I want to see him?”

  A quick thought passed across Sir Hugo’s face, but he said easily, “Upon my word, I don’t know whether he’s at his chambers or the Abbey at this moment. But I’ll send a note to his chambers, and if he’s at the Abbey I can give him your message and send him up. I am sure he will want to obey your wish.”

  The baronet spoke with grave kindness, as if nothing could seem more appropriate. But he was convinced that Gwendolen had a passionate attachment to Deronda, and thinking that this might lead her into imprudences, he was determined to screen her as far as lay in his power. To him it was a pretty story that this fine creature and his favourite Dan should have turned out to be formed for each other, and that the unsuitable husband should have made his exit in such excellent time. In truth, what most vexed his mind was a doubt whether Dan had not got some scheme or other in his head, which would prove to be dearer to him than the lovely Mrs. Grandcourt, and put that neatly-prepared marriage with her out of the question.

  Of course all this thinking on Sir Hugo’s part was premature, only a fortnight after Grandcourt’s death. But it is the trick of thinking to be either premature or behind-hand.

  However, he sent the note to Deronda’s chambers, and it found him there.