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Home -> George Eliot -> Daniel Deronda -> Chapter 9

Daniel Deronda - Chapter 9

1. Book I, Chapter 1

2. Chapter 2

3. Chapter 3

4. Chapter 4

5. Chapter 5

6. Chapter 6

7. Chapter 7

8. Chapter 8

9. Chapter 9

10. Chapter 10

11. Book II, Chapter 11

12. Chapter 12

13. Chapter 13

14. Chapter 14

15. Chapter 15

16. Chapter 16

17. Chapter 17

18. Chapter 18

19. Book III, Chapter 19

20. Chapter 20

21. Chapter 21

22. Chapter 22

23. Chapter 23

24. Chapter 24

25. Chapter 25

26. Chapter 26

27. Chapter 27

28. Book IV, Chapter 28

29. Chapter 29

30. Chapter 30

31. Chapter 31

32. Chapter 32

33. Chapter 33

34. Chapter 34

35. Book V, Chapter 35

36. Chapter 36

37. Chapter 37

38. Chapter 38

39. Chapter 39

40. Chapter 40

41. Book VI, Chapter 41

42. Chapter 42

43. Chapter 43

44. Chapter 44

45. Chapter 45

46. Chapter 46

47. Chapter 47

48. Chapter 48

49. Chapter 49

50. Book VII, Chapter 50

51. Chapter 51

52. Chapter 52

53. Chapter 53

54. Chapter 54

55. Chapter 55

56. Chapter 56

57. Chapter 57

58. Book VIII, Chapter 58

59. Chapter 59

60. Chapter 60

61. Chapter 61

62. Chapter 62

63. Chapter 63

64. Chapter 64

65. Chapter 65

66. Chapter 66

67. Chapter 67

68. Chapter 68

69. Chapter 69

70. Chapter 70







CHAPTER IX.

I'll tell thee, Berthold, what men's hopes are like:
A silly child that, quivering with joy,
Would cast its little mimic fishing-line
Baited with loadstone for a bowl of toys
In the salt ocean.


Eight months after the arrival of the family at Offendene, that is to say
in the end of the following June, a rumor was spread in the neighborhood
which to many persons was matter of exciting interest. It had no reference
to the results of the American war, but it was one which touched all
classes within a certain circuit round Wanchester: the corn-factors, the
brewers, the horse-dealers, and saddlers, all held it a laudable thing,
and one which was to be rejoiced in on abstract grounds, as showing the
value of an aristocracy in a free country like England; the blacksmith in
the hamlet of Diplow felt that a good time had come round; the wives of
laboring men hoped their nimble boys of ten or twelve would be taken into
employ by the gentlemen in livery; and the farmers about Diplow admitted,
with a tincture of bitterness and reserve that a man might now again
perhaps have an easier market or exchange for a rick of old hay or a
wagon-load of straw. If such were the hopes of low persons not in society,
it may be easily inferred that their betters had better reasons for
satisfaction, probably connected with the pleasures of life rather than
its business. Marriage, however, must be considered as coming under both
heads; and just as when a visit of majesty is announced, the dream of
knighthood or a baronetcy is to be found under various municipal
nightcaps, so the news in question raised a floating indeterminate vision
of marriage in several well-bred imaginations.

The news was that Diplow Hall, Sir Hugo Mallinger's place, which had for a
couple of years turned its white window-shutters in a painfully wall-eyed
manner on its fine elms and beeches, its lilied pool and grassy acres
specked with deer, was being prepared for a tenant, and was for the rest
of the summer and through the hunting season to be inhabited in a fitting
style both as to house and stable. But not by Sir Hugo himself: by his
nephew, Mr. Mallinger Grandcourt, who was presumptive heir to the
baronetcy, his uncle's marriage having produced nothing but girls. Nor was
this the only contingency with which fortune flattered young Grandcourt,
as he was pleasantly called; for while the chance of the baronetcy came
through his father, his mother had given a baronial streak to his blood,
so that if certain intervening persons slightly painted in the middle
distance died, he would become a baron and peer of this realm.

It is the uneven allotment of nature that the male bird alone has the
tuft, but we have not yet followed the advice of hasty philosophers who
would have us copy nature entirely in these matters; and if Mr. Mallinger
Grandcourt became a baronet or a peer, his wife would share the title--
which in addition to his actual fortune was certainly a reason why that
wife, being at present unchosen, should be thought of by more than one
person with a sympathetic interest as a woman sure to be well provided
for.

Some readers of this history will doubtless regard it as incredible that
people should construct matrimonial prospects on the mere report that a
bachelor of good fortune and possibilities was coming within reach, and
will reject the statement as a mere outflow of gall: they will aver that
neither they nor their first cousins have minds so unbridled; and that in
fact this is not human nature, which would know that such speculations
might turn out to be fallacious, and would therefore not entertain them.
But, let it be observed, nothing is here narrated of human nature
generally: the history in its present stage concerns only a few people in
a corner of Wessex--whose reputation, however, was unimpeached, and who, I
am in the proud position of being able to state, were all on visiting
terms with persons of rank.

There were the Arrowpoints, for example, in their beautiful place at
Quetcham: no one could attribute sordid views in relation to their
daughter's marriage to parents who could leave her at least half a
million; but having affectionate anxieties about their Catherine's
position (she having resolutely refused Lord Slogan, an unexceptionable
Irish peer, whose estate wanted nothing but drainage and population), they
wondered, perhaps from something more than a charitable impulse, whether
Mr. Grandcourt was good-looking, of sound constitution, virtuous, or at
least reformed, and if liberal-conservative, not too liberal-conservative;
and without wishing anybody to die, thought his succession to the title an
event to be desired.

If the Arrowpoints had such ruminations, it is the less surprising that
they were stimulated in Mr. Gascoigne, who for being a clergyman was not
the less subject to the anxieties of a parent and guardian; and we have
seen how both he and Mrs. Gascoigne might by this time have come to feel
that he was overcharged with the management of young creatures who were
hardly to be held in with bit or bridle, or any sort of metaphor that
would stand for judicious advice.

Naturally, people did not tell each other all they felt and thought about
young Grandcourt's advent: on no subject is this openness found prudently
practicable--not even on the generation of acids, or the destination of
the fixed stars: for either your contemporary with a mind turned toward
the same subjects may find your ideas ingenious and forestall you in
applying them, or he may have other views on acids and fixed stars, and
think ill of you in consequence. Mr. Gascoigne did not ask Mr. Arrowpoint
if he had any trustworthy source of information about Grandcourt
considered as a husband for a charming girl; nor did Mrs. Arrowpoint
observe to Mrs. Davilow that if the possible peer sought a wife in the
neighborhood of Diplow, the only reasonable expectation was that he would
offer his hand to Catherine, who, however, would not accept him unless he
were in all respects fitted to secure her happiness. Indeed, even to his
wife the rector was silent as to the contemplation of any matrimonial
result, from the probability that Mr. Grandcourt would see Gwendolen at
the next Archery Meeting; though Mrs. Gascoigne's mind was very likely
still more active in the same direction. She had said interjectionally to
her sister, "It would be a mercy, Fanny, if that girl were well married!"
to which Mrs. Davilow discerning some criticism of her darling in the
fervor of that wish, had not chosen to make any audible reply, though she
had said inwardly, "You will not get her to marry for your pleasure"; the
mild mother becoming rather saucy when she identified herself with her
daughter.

To her husband Mrs. Gascoigne said, "I hear Mr. Grandcourt has got two
places of his own, but he comes to Diplow for the hunting. It is to be
hoped he will set a good example in the neighborhood. Have you heard what
sort of a young man he is, Henry?"

Mr. Gascoigne had not heard; at least, if his male acquaintances had
gossiped in his hearing, he was not disposed to repeat their gossip, or to
give it any emphasis in his own mind. He held it futile, even if it had
been becoming, to show any curiosity as to the past of a young man whose
birth, wealth, and consequent leisure made many habits venial which under
other circumstances would have been inexcusable. Whatever Grandcourt had
done, he had not ruined himself; and it is well-known that in gambling,
for example, whether of the business or holiday sort, a man who has the
strength of mind to leave off when he has only ruined others, is a
reformed character. This is an illustration merely: Mr. Gascoigne had not
heard that Grandcourt had been a gambler; and we can hardly pronounce him
singular in feeling that a landed proprieter with a mixture of noble blood
in his veins was not to be an object of suspicious inquiry like a reformed
character who offers himself as your butler or footman. Reformation, where
a man can afford to do without it, can hardly be other than genuine.
Moreover, it was not certain on any other showing hitherto, that Mr.
Grandcourt had needed reformation more than other young men in the ripe
youth of five-and-thirty; and, at any rate, the significance of what he
had been must be determined by what he actually was.

Mrs. Davilow, too, although she would not respond to her sister's pregnant
remark, could not be inwardly indifferent to an advent that might promise
a brilliant lot for Gwendolen. A little speculation on "what may be" comes
naturally, without encouragement--comes inevitably in the form of images,
when unknown persons are mentioned; and Mr. Grandcourt's name raised in
Mrs. Davilow's mind first of all the picture of a handsome, accomplished,
excellent young man whom she would be satisfied with as a husband for her
daughter; but then came the further speculation--would Gwendolen be
satisfied with him? There was no knowing what would meet that girl's taste
or touch her affections--it might be something else than excellence; and
thus the image of the perfect suitor gave way before a fluctuating
combination of qualities that might be imagined to win Gwendolen's heart.
In the difficulty of arriving at the particular combination which would
insure that result, the mother even said to herself, "It would not signify
about her being in love, if she would only accept the right person." For
whatever marriage had been for herself, how could she the less desire it
for her daughter? The difference her own misfortunes made was, that she
never dared to dwell much to Gwendolen on the desirableness of marriage,
dreading an answer something like that of the future Madame Roland, when
her gentle mother urging the acceptance of a suitor, said, "Tu seras
heureuse, ma chere." "Oui, maman, comme toi."

In relation to the problematic Mr. Grandcourt least of all would Mrs.
Davilow have willingly let fall a hint of the aerial castle-building which
she had the good taste to be ashamed of; for such a hint was likely enough
to give an adverse poise to Gwendolen's own thought, and make her detest
the desirable husband beforehand. Since that scene after poor Rex's
farewell visit, the mother had felt a new sense of peril in touching the
mystery of her child's feeling, and in rashly determining what was her
welfare: only she could think of welfare in no other shape than marriage.

The discussion of the dress that Gwendolen was to wear at the Archery
Meeting was a relevant topic, however; and when it had been decided that
as a touch of color on her white cashmere, nothing, for her complexion,
was comparable to pale green--a feather which she was trying in her hat
before the looking-glass having settled the question--Mrs. Davilow felt
her ears tingle when Gwendolen, suddenly throwing herself into the
attitude of drawing her bow, said with a look of comic enjoyment--

"How I pity all the other girls at the Archery Meeting--all thinking of
Mr. Grandcourt! And they have not a shadow of a chance."

Mrs. Davilow had not the presence of mind to answer immediately, and
Gwendolen turned round quickly toward her, saying, wickedly--

"Now you know they have not, mamma. You and my uncle and aunt--you all
intend him to fall in love with me."

Mrs. Davilow, pigued into a little stratagem, said, "Oh, my, dear, that is
not so certain. Miss Arrowpoint has charms which you have not."

"I know, but they demand thought. My arrow will pierce him before he has
time for thought. He will declare himself my slave--I shall send him round
the world to bring me back the wedding ring of a happy woman--in the
meantime all the men who are between him and the title will die of
different diseases--he will come back Lord Grandcourt--but without the
ring--and fall at my feet. I shall laugh at him--he will rise in
resentment--I shall laugh more--he will call for his steed and ride to
Quetcham, where he will find Miss Arrowpoint just married to a needy
musician, Mrs. Arrowpoint tearing her cap off, and Mr. Arrowpoint standing
by. Exit Lord Grandcourt, who returns to Diplow, and, like M. Jabot,
_change de linge_."

Was ever any young witch like this? You thought of hiding things from her
--sat upon your secret and looked innocent, and all the while she knew
by the corner of your eye that it was exactly five pounds ten you were
sitting on! As well turn the key to keep out the damp! It was probable
that by dint of divination she already knew more than any one else did of
Mr. Grandcourt. That idea in Mrs. Davilow's mind prompted the sort of
question which often comes without any other apparent reason than the
faculty of speech and the not knowing what to do with it.

"Why, what kind of a man do you imagine him to be, Gwendolen?"

"Let me see!" said the witch, putting her forefinger to her lips, with a
little frown, and then stretching out the finger with decision. "Short--
just above my shoulder--crying to make himself tall by turning up his
mustache and keeping his beard long--a glass in his right eye to give him
an air of distinction--a strong opinion about his waistcoat, but uncertain
and trimming about the weather, on which he will try to draw me out. He
will stare at me all the while, and the glass in his eye will cause him to
make horrible faces, especially when he smiles in a flattering way. I
shall cast down my eyes in consequence, and he will perceive that I am not
indifferent to his attentions. I shall dream that night that I am looking
at the extraordinary face of a magnified insect--and the next morning he
will make an offer of his hand; the sequel as before."

"That is a portrait of some one you have seen already, Gwen. Mr.
Grandcourt may be a delightful young man for what you know."

"Oh, yes," said Gwendolen, with a high note of careless admission, taking
off her best hat and turning it round on her hand contemplatively. "I
wonder what sort of behavior a delightful young man would have? I know he
would have hunters and racers, and a London house and two country-houses--
one with battlements and another with a veranda. And I feel sure that with
a little murdering he might get a title."

The irony of this speech was of the doubtful sort that has some genuine
belief mixed up with it. Poor Mrs. Davilow felt uncomfortable under it.
Her own meanings being usually literal and in intention innocent; and she
said with a distressed brow:

"Don't talk in that way, child, for heaven's sake! you do read such books
--they give you such ideas of everything. I declare when your aunt and I
were your age we knew nothing about wickedness. I think it was better so."

"Why did you not bring me up in that way, mamma?" said Gwendolen. But
immediately perceiving in the crushed look and rising sob that she had
given a deep wound, she tossed down her hat and knelt at her mother's feet
crying--

"Mamma, mamma! I was only speaking in fun. I meant nothing."

"How could I, Gwendolen?" said poor Mrs. Davilow, unable to hear the
retraction, and sobbing violently while she made the effort to speak.
"Your will was always too strong for me--if everything else had been
different."

This disjoined logic was intelligible enough to the daughter. "Dear mamma,
I don't find fault with you--I love you," said Gwendolen, really
compunctious. "How can you help what I am? Besides, I am very charming.
Come, now." Here Gwendolen with her handkerchief gently rubbed away her
mother's tears. "Really--I am contented with myself. I like myself better
than I should have liked my aunt and you. How dreadfully dull you must
have been!"

Such tender cajolery served to quiet the mother, as it had often done
before after like collisions. Not that the collisions had often been
repeated at the same point; for in the memory of both they left an
association of dread with the particular topics which had occasioned them:
Gwendolen dreaded the unpleasant sense of compunction toward her mother,
which was the nearest approach to self-condemnation and self-distrust that
she had known; and Mrs. Davilow's timid maternal conscience dreaded
whatever had brought on the slightest hint of reproach. Hence, after this
little scene, the two concurred in excluding Mr. Grandcourt from their
conversation.

When Mr. Gascoigne once or twice referred to him, Mrs. Davilow feared
least Gwendolen should betray some of her alarming keen-sightedness about
what was probably in her uncle's mind; but the fear was not justified.
Gwendolen knew certain differences in the characters with which she was
concerned as birds know climate and weather; and for the very reason that
she was determined to evade her uncle's control, she was determined not to
clash with him. The good understanding between them was much fostered by
their enjoyment of archery together: Mr. Gascoigne, as one of the best
bowmen in Wessex, was gratified to find the elements of like skill in his
niece; and Gwendolen was the more careful not to lose the shelter of his
fatherly indulgence, because since the trouble with Rex both Mrs.
Gascoigne and Anna had been unable to hide what she felt to be a very
unreasonable alienation from her. Toward Anna she took some pains to
behave with a regretful affectionateness; but neither of them dared to
mention Rex's name, and Anna, to whom the thought of him was part of the
air she breathed, was ill at ease with the lively cousin who had ruined
his happiness. She tried dutifully to repress any sign of her changed
feeling; but who in pain can imitate the glance and hand-touch of
pleasure.

This unfair resentment had rather a hardening effect on Gwendolen, and
threw her into a more defiant temper. Her uncle too might be offended if
she refused the next person who fell in love with her; and one day when
that idea was in her mind she said--

"Mamma, I see now why girls are glad to be married--to escape being
expected to please everybody but themselves."

Happily, Mr. Middleton was gone without having made any avowal; and
notwithstanding the admiration for the handsome Miss Harleth, extending
perhaps over thirty square miles in a part of Wessex well studded with
families whose numbers included several disengaged young men, each glad to
seat himself by the lively girl with whom it was so easy to get on in
conversation,--notwithstanding these grounds for arguing that Gwendolen
was likely to have other suitors more explicit than the cautious curate,
the fact was not so.

Care has been taken not only that the trees should not sweep the stars
down, but also that every man who admires a fair girl should not be
enamored of her, and even that every man who is enamored should not
necessarily declare himself. There are various refined shapes in which the
price of corn, known to be potent cause in their relation, might, if
inquired into, show why a young lady, perfect in person, accomplishments,
and costume, has not the trouble of rejecting many offers; and nature's
order is certainly benignant in not obliging us one and all to be
desperately in love with the most admirable mortal we have ever seen.
Gwendolen, we know, was far from holding that supremacy in the minds of
all observers. Besides, it was but a poor eight months since she had come
to Offendene, and some inclinations become manifest slowly, like the
sunward creeping of plants.

In face of this fact that not one of the eligible young men already in the
neighborhood had made Gwendolen an offer, why should Mr. Grandcourt be
thought of as likely to do what they had left undone?

Perhaps because he was thought of as still more eligible; since a great
deal of what passes for likelihood in the world is simply the reflex of a
wish. Mr. and Mrs. Arrowpoint, for example, having no anxiety that Miss
Harleth should make a brilliant marriage, had quite a different likelihood
in their minds.




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