When Gwendolen came down into the drawing-room, fresh as a newly-dipped swan, and sat leaning against the cushions of the settee beside her mamma, their misfortune had not yet turned its face and breath upon her. She felt prepared to hear everything, and began in a tone of deliberate intention,

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, the next thing to be done is to move away from this house.


Mr. Haynes most fortunately is as glad to have it now as he would have been when we took it.

Mr. Haynes most fortunately is glad to rent it.


Lord Brackenshaw's agent is to arrange everything with him to the best advantage for us: Bazley, you know; not at all an ill-natured man."

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, whose talents had not been applied to business so much as to discernment of the admiration excited by her charms.

"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?


We have nothing to carry but our clothes, you know?"


"I suppose you mean to go abroad, then?"


After all, this is what she had familiarized her mind with.


You never did learn anything about income and expenses," said Mrs. Davilow, trying to smile, and putting her hand on Gwendolen's as she added, mournfully, "that makes it so much harder for you, my pet."

You never did learn anything about income and expenses," said Mrs. Davilow, trying to smile.


said Gwendolen, with a trace of sharpness in her tone. She felt a new current of fear passing through her.

said Gwendolen, with a trace of sharpness and fear.


A little furniture is to be got in from the rectory--all that can be spared."

A little furniture is to be got from the rectory - all that can be spared."


Mrs. Davilow hesitated. She dreaded the reality for herself less than the shock she must give to Gwendolen, who looked at her with tense expectancy, but was silent.

Mrs. Davilow hesitated, dreading the shock she must give to Gwendolen.


"It is Sawyer's Cottage we are to go to."


At first, Gwendolen remained silent, paling with anger--justifiable anger, in her opinion.

Gwendolen was silent, paling with anger.


Something else than that ought to have been thought of.


"My sweet child, what else could have been thought of? Your uncle, I am sure, is as kind as he can be: but he is suffering himself; he has his family to bring up.

"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 nothing. We shall have absolutely nothing except what he and my sister give us.

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, and a communion cloth that the parishioners are to present to Pennicote Church."

I and the girls are going to work a table-cloth border for the Ladies' Charity at Winchester."


Mrs. Davilow went into these details timidly: but how else was she to bring the fact of their position home to this poor child who, alas!


must submit at present, whatever might be in the background for her?


and she herself had a superstition that there must be something better in the background.


"But surely somewhere else than Sawyer's Cottage might have been found," Gwendolen persisted--taken hold of (as if in a nightmare) by the image of this house where an exciseman had lived.

"But surely somewhere else than Sawyer's Cottage might have been found," Gwendolen persisted.


You know houses are scarce, and we may be thankful to get anything so private.


There are two little parlors and four bedrooms.

There are two little parlours and four bedrooms.


The ebb of sympathetic care for her mamma had gone so low just now, that Gwendolen took no notice of these deprecatory words.

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.


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."


said Gwendolen, coloring with fresh anger.

said Gwendolen, colouring with fresh anger.


"If I had known, I could have brought home the money I had won: and for want of knowing, I stayed and lost it.

"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 it would have done for us to live on a little while, till I could carry out some plan."

I had nearly two hundred pounds, and we could have lived on it a little while, till I could carry out some plan.


She paused an instant and then added more impetuously, "Everything has gone against me.


People have come near me only to blight me."


Among the "people" she was including Deronda.

Among "people" she was including Deronda.


If he had not interfered in her life she would have gone to the gaming-table again with a few napoleons, and might have won back her losses.

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 the gambling, but not daring to say more.

"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.


What is the good of calling the people's wickedness Providence? You said in your letter it was Mr. Lassman's fault we had lost our money. Has he run away with it all?"
"No, dear, you don't understand. There were great speculations: he meant to gain. It was all about mines and things of that sort. He risked too much."
"I don't call that Providence: it was his improvidence with our money, and he ought to be punished.

"I don't call other people's wickedness Providence.


Can't we go to law and recover our fortune?


My uncle ought to take measures, and not sit down by such wrongs.


"My dear child, law can never bring back money lost in that way.

"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: there is no law for people who are ruined.

Besides, one must have a fortune to get any law.


And our money has only gone along with other people's.


We are not the only sufferers: others have to resign themselves besides us."

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 and shillings because of that.

"But I don't resign myself to live at Sawyer's Cottage and see you working for sixpences.


I shall do what is more befitting our rank and education."


"I am sure your uncle and all of us will approve of that, dear, and admire you the more for it," said Mrs. Davilow, glad of an unexpected opening for speaking on a difficult subject.

"I am sure your uncle will approve of that, dear," said Mrs. Davilow, glad of an unexpected opening for speaking on a difficult subject.


"I didn't mean that you should resign yourself to worse when anything better offered itself.


Both your uncle and aunt have felt that your abilities and education were a fortune for you, and they have already heard of something within your reach."

"Your uncle and aunt have already heard of something that, with your education, is within your reach."


some of Gwendolen's anger gave way to interest, and she was not without romantic conjectures.

Gwendolen's anger gave way to interest and romantic conjectures.


"There are two situations that 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 then your manners and habits as a lady, are exactly what is wanted.

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,--"to save you from the petty, common way of living that we must go to--you would perhaps accept one of the two."

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."


be like Miss Graves at Madame Meunier's?


"I think, myself, that Dr. Monpert's would be more suitable.


There could be no hardship in a bishop's family."


There are hardships everywhere for a governess.


And I don't see that it would be pleasanter to be looked down on in a bishop's family than in any other.

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 very well I hate teaching.


Fancy me shut up with three awkward girls something like Alice!

Fancy me shut up with three awkward girls like Alice!


I would rather emigrate than be a governess."


What it precisely was to emigrate, Gwendolen was not called on to explain.


Mrs. Davilow was mute, seeing no outlet, and thinking with dread of the collision that might happen when Gwendolen had to meet her uncle and aunt.

Mrs. Davilow was mute, thinking with dread of the collision that might happen when Gwendolen met her aunt and uncle.


There was an air of reticence in Gwendolen's haughty, resistant speeches which implied that she had a definite plan in reserve; and her practical ignorance continually exhibited, could not nullify the mother's belief in the effectiveness of that forcible will and daring which had held mastery over herself.

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 have some ornaments, mamma, and I could sell them," said Gwendolen.

"I could sell some ornaments, mamma," said Gwendolen.


"They would make a sum: I want a little sum--just to go on with.

"I want a little sum - just to go on with.


I dare say Marshall, at Wanchester, would take them: I know he showed me some bracelets once that he said he had bought from a lady. Jocosa might go and ask him.

I dare say Marshall, at Wanchester, would take them: Jocosa might go and ask him.


"She would do anything she could, poor, dear soul.


I have not told you yet--she wanted me to take all her savings--her three hundred pounds.

She wanted me to take all her savings - her three hundred pounds.


I told her to set up a little school with it."


It will be hard for her to go into a new family now she has been so long with us."


"Oh, recommend her for the bishop's daughters," said Gwendolen, with a sudden gleam of laughter in her face.

"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 take care not to say such things to your uncle," said Mrs. Davilow.

"Do not say such things to your uncle," said Mrs. Davilow.


"He will be hurt at your despising what he has exerted himself about.

"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?"


But I daresay you know nothing about it, poor, dear mamma.


Can Jeffries go on horseback with a note?"


"Oh, my dear, Jeffries is not here, and the dealer has taken the horses.


But some one could go for us from Leek's farm.


The Arrowpoints are at Quetcham, I know.


Miss Arrowpoint left her card the other day: I could not see her.


"I will write a note," said Gwendolen, rising.


said Mrs. Davilow, relieved in the midst of her wonderment by signs of alacrity and better humor.

said Mrs. Davilow, relieved by signs of her better humour.


"Don't mind what, there's a dear, good mamma," said Gwendolen, reseating herself a moment to give atoning caresses. "I mean to do something. Never mind what until it is all settled.

"Don't mind what, there's a dear, good mamma, until it is all settled.


The dear face!--it is ten years older in these three weeks.


don't cry"--Gwendolen, holding her mamma's head with both hands, kissed the trembling eyelids.

don't cry." Gwendolen kissed the trembling eyelids.


"But mind you don't contradict me or put hindrances in my way.


I cannot be dictated to by my uncle or any one else.


And I think"--here her tone took an edge of scorn--"I think I can do better for you than let you live in Sawyer's Cottage."

And I think" - her tone took an edge of scorn - "I think I can do better for you than Sawyer's Cottage."


In uttering this last sentence Gwendolen again rose, and went to a desk where she wrote the following note to Klesmer:,

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 of him the very great favor that he will call upon her, if possible, to-morrow.

'Miss Harleth presents her compliments to Herr Klesmer, and ventures to request that he will call upon her tomorrow.


Her reason for presuming so far on his kindness is of a very serious nature.


Unfortunate family circumstances have obliged her to take a course in which she can only turn for advice to the great knowledge and judgment of Herr Klesmer.

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, as she addressed the letter.

"Pray get this sent to Quetcham at once, mamma," said Gwendolen.


"The man must be told to wait for an answer.


For the moment, the absorbing purpose was to get the letter dispatched; but when she had been assured on this point, another anxiety arose and kept her in a state of uneasy excitement.

She was in a state of uneasy excitement.


If Klesmer happened not to be at Quetcham, what could she do next?

If Klesmer was not at Quetcham, what could she do next?


Gwendolen's belief in her star, so to speak, had had some bruises.

Gwendolen's belief in her star had had some bruises.


A splendid marriage which presented itself within reach had shown a hideous flaw.

A prospective splendid marriage had shown a hideous flaw.


The chances of roulette had not adjusted themselves to her claims; and a man of whom she knew nothing had thrust himself between her and her intentions.

The chances of roulette had not adjusted themselves to her claims; and a strange man had thrust himself between her and her intentions.


The conduct of those uninteresting people who managed the business of the world had been culpable just in the points most injurious to her in particular.


Gwendolen Harleth, with all her beauty and conscious force, felt the close threats of humiliation: for the first time the conditions of this world seemed to her like a hurrying roaring crowd in which she had got astray, no more cared for and protected than a myriad of other girls, in spite of its being a peculiar hardship to her.

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: the unwelcome negative urged itself as a probability, and set her brain working at desperate alternatives which might deliver her from Sawyer's Cottage or the ultimate necessity of "taking a situation," a phrase that summed up for her the disagreeables most wounding to her pride, most irksome to her tastes; at least so far as her experience enabled her to imagine disagreeables.

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 a hopefulness which even cast a satisfactory light over her peculiar troubles, as what might well enter into the biography of celebrities and remarkable persons.

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 immediate acquaintances cross-examined as to whether they thought her remarkable, the first who said "No" would have surprised her.

And if she had heard her acquaintances being asked whether they thought her remarkable, a "No" would have surprised her.


"I question things but do not find One that will answer to my mind: And all the world appears unkind."


Gwendolen was glad that she had got through her interview with Klesmer before meeting her uncle and aunt.


She had made up her mind now that there were only disagreeables before her, and she felt able to maintain a dogged calm in the face of any humiliation that might be proposed.

She had decided that there were only disagreeables before her, and she felt able to maintain a dogged calm in the face of any humiliation that might be proposed.


The meeting did not happen until the Monday, when Gwendolen went to the rectory with her mamma.


They had called at Sawyer's Cottage by the way, and had seen every cranny of the narrow rooms in a mid-day light, unsoftened by blinds and curtains; for the furnishing to be done by gleanings from the rectory had not yet begun.

They called at Sawyer's Cottage on the way, and saw the narrow rooms unsoftened by blinds and curtains; for the furnishing to be done by gleanings from the rectory had not yet begun.


She had not opened her lips while they were looking round at the bare walls and floors, and the little garden with the cabbage-stalks, and the yew arbor all dust and cobwebs within.

She had been silent as they looked round at the bare rooms, the little garden with the cabbage-stalks, and the dusty yew arbour.


"You and the four girls all in that closet of a room, with the green and yellow paper pressing on your eyes?

"You and the four girls in that closet of a room?


"It will be some comfort that you have not to bear it too, dear."


"If it were not that I must get some money, I would rather be there than go to be a governess."

"I would rather be there than be a governess."


"Don't set yourself against it beforehand, Gwendolen.


If you go to the palace you will have every luxury about you. And you know how much you have always cared for that.

At the bishop's palace you will have every luxury about you, and you have always cared for that.


You will not find it so hard as going up and down those steep narrow stairs, and hearing the crockery rattle through the house, and the dear girls talking."

You will not find it so hard as going up and down those narrow stairs, with the noise carrying through the house."


"It is like a bad dream," said Gwendolen, impetuously.


"I cannot believe that my uncle will let you go to such a place.

"I cannot believe that my uncle will let you go there.


He ought to have taken some other steps."


It seems to me a very extraordinary world if people in our position must sink in this way all at once," said Gwendolen, the other worlds with which she was conversant being constructed with a sense of fitness that arranged her own future agreeably.

It seems to me a very extraordinary world if people in our position must sink in this way all at once," said Gwendolen.


It was her temper that framed her sentences under this entirely new pressure of evils: she could have spoken more suitably on the vicissitudes in other people's lives, though it was never her aspiration to express herself virtuously so much as cleverly--a point to be remembered in extenuation of her words, which were usually worse than she was.


And, notwithstanding the keen sense of her own bruises, she was capable of some compunction when her uncle and aunt received her with a more affectionate kindness than they had ever shown before.

But despite the keen sense of her own bruises, she felt some compunction when her uncle and aunt received her with affection and kindness.


She could not but be struck by the dignified cheerfulness with which they talked of the necessary economies in their way of living, and in the education of the boys.

She was struck by the dignified cheerfulness with which they talked of the economies they must make.


Mr. Gascoigne's worth of character, a little obscured by worldly opportunities--as the poetic beauty of women is obscured by the demands of fashionable dressing--showed itself to great advantage under this sudden reduction of fortune.

Mr. Gascoigne's worth of character showed itself to great advantage under this sudden reduction of fortune.


Prompt and methodical, he had set himself not only to put down his carriage, but to reconsider his worn suits of clothes, to leave off meat for breakfast, to do without periodicals, to get Edwy from school and arrange hours of study for all the boys under himself, and to order the whole establishment on the sparest footing possible.

Prompt and methodical, he had decided not only to put down his carriage, but to reconsider his worn suits of clothes, to leave off meat for breakfast, to do without periodicals, to teach his boys himself, and to order his establishment on the sparest footing possible.


For all healthy people economy has its pleasures; and the rector's spirit had spread through the household.

The rector's spirit had spread through the household.


Mrs. Gascoigne and Anna, who always made papa their model, really did not miss anything they cared about for themselves, and in all sincerity felt that the saddest part of the family losses was the change for Mrs. Davilow and her children.

Mrs. Gascoigne and Anna did not miss anything they cared about, and sincerely felt that the saddest part of the family losses was the change for Mrs. Davilow and her children.


Anna for the first time could merge her resentment on behalf of Rex in her sympathy with Gwendolen; and Mrs. Gascoigne was disposed to hope that trouble would have a salutary effect on her niece, without thinking it her duty to add any bitters by way of increasing the salutariness.

Anna submerged her resentment on behalf of Rex in her sympathy with Gwendolen; and Mrs. Gascoigne hoped privately that trouble would have a salutary effect on her niece.


They had both been busy devising how to get blinds and curtains for the cottage out of the household stores; but with delicate feeling they left these matters in the back-ground, and talked at first of Gwendolen's journey, and the comfort it was to her mamma to have her at home again.

They had both been busy devising how to get curtains for the cottage out of the household stores; but with delicate feeling they left these matters in the background, and talked at first of Gwendolen's journey, and the comfort it was to her mamma to have her at home again.


In fact there was nothing for Gwendolen to take as a justification for extending her discontent with events to the persons immediately around her, and she felt shaken into a more alert attention, as if by a call to drill that everybody else was obeying, when her uncle began in a voice of firm kindness to talk to her of the efforts he had been making to get her a situation which would offer her as many advantages as possible.

Her uncle then began to tell her of his efforts to get her a situation with as many advantages as possible.


Mr. Gascoigne had not forgotten Grandcourt, but the possibility of further advances from that quarter was something too vague for a man of his good sense to be determined by it: uncertainties of that kind must not now slacken his action in doing the best he could for his niece under actual conditions.


"I felt that there was no time to be lost, Gwendolen; for a position in a good family where you will have some consideration is not to be had at a moment's notice.

"I felt that there was no time to be lost, Gwendolen; for a position in a good family is not to be had at a moment's notice.


And however long we waited we could hardly find one where you would be better off than at Bishop Mompert's.

And you would hardly find a better one than at Bishop Mompert's.


I am known to both him and Mrs. Mompert, and that of course is an advantage to you. Our correspondence has gone on favorably; but I cannot be surprised that Mrs. Mompert wishes to see you before making an absolute engagement.

I am known to both him and Mrs. Mompert; she wishes to see you before making an absolute engagement.


She thinks of arranging for you to meet her at Wanchester when she is on her way to town.

She thinks of arranging for you to meet her at Wanchester."


I dare say you will feel the interview rather trying for you, my dear; but you will have a little time to prepare your mind."


"Do you know _why_ she wants to see me, uncle?"

"Do you know why she wants to see me, uncle?"


said Gwendolen, whose mind had quickly gone over various reasons that an imaginary Mrs. Mompert with three daughters might be supposed to entertain, reasons all of a disagreeable kind to the person presenting herself for inspection.

said Gwendolen, whose mind had quickly gone over various disagreeable reasons.


She would like to have a more precise idea of you than my report can give.


And a mother is naturally scrupulous about a companion for her daughters.

A mother is naturally scrupulous about a companion for her daughters.


But she herself exercises a close supervision over her daughters' education, and that makes her less anxious as to age. She is a woman of taste and also of strict principle, and objects to having a French person in the house.

She is a woman of taste and also of strict principle, and closely supervises her daughters' education.


I feel sure that she will think your manners and accomplishments as good as she is likely to find; and over the religious and moral tone of the education she, and indeed the bishop himself, will preside."

I feel sure that she will think your manners and accomplishments as good as she is likely to find."


Gwendolen dared not answer, but the repression of her decided dislike to the whole prospect sent an unusually deep flush over her face and neck, subsiding as quickly as it came.

Gwendolen dared not answer, but her dislike to the whole prospect made her flush deeply.


Anna, full of tender fears, put her little hand into her cousin's, and Mr. Gascoigne was too kind a man not to conceive something of the trial which this sudden change must be for a girl like Gwendolen.

Anna tenderly put her hand into her cousin's, and Mr. Gascoigne was too kind not to understand what a trial this sudden change must be.


Bent on giving a cheerful view of things, he went on, in an easy tone of remark, not as if answering supposed objections,


"I think so highly of the position, that I should have been tempted to try and get it for Anna, if she had been at all likely to meet Mrs. Mompert's wants.

"I should have been tempted to try and get the position for Anna, if she had been likely to meet Mrs. Mompert's wants.


It is really a home, with a continuance of education in the highest sense: 'governess' is a misnomer.

It is really a home, with a continuance of education in the highest sense.


The bishop's views are of a more decidedly Low Church color than my own--he is a close friend of Lord Grampian's; but, though privately strict, he is not by any means narrow in public matters.

The bishop's views are more decidedly Low Church than my own; but though privately strict, he is not by any means narrow in public matters.


Indeed, he has created as little dislike in his diocese as any bishop on the bench.


He has always remained friendly to me, though before his promotion, when he was an incumbent of this diocese, we had a little controversy about the Bible Society."

He has always been friendly to me, though before his promotion, we had a little controversy about the Bible Society."


The rector's words were too pregnant with satisfactory meaning to himself for him to imagine the effect they produced in the mind of his niece.

The rector's words were too full of satisfactory meaning to himself for him to imagine the effect they produced on his niece.


"Continuance of education"--"bishop's views"--"privately strict"--"Bible Society,"--it was as if he had introduced a few snakes at large for the instruction of ladies who regarded them as all alike furnished with poison-bags, and, biting or stinging, according to convenience.

"Bishop's views" - "privately strict" - "Bible Society," - it was as if he had introduced a few snakes into the conversation.


To Gwendolen, already shrinking from the prospect open to her, such phrases came like the growing heat of a burning glass--not at all as the links of persuasive reflection which they formed for the good uncle. She began, desperately, to seek an alternative.

Gwendolen, shrinking from the prospect, began desperately to seek an alternative.


"There was another situation, I think, mamma spoke of?"


'"Yes," said the rector, in rather a depreciatory tone; "but that is in a school.


I should not have the same satisfaction in your taking that.


It would be much harder work, you are aware, and not so good in any other respect.

It would be much harder work, and not so good in other respects."


Besides, you have not an equal chance of getting it."


"Oh dear no," said Mrs. Gascoigne, "it would be much harder for you, my dear--it would be much less appropriate.


"You might not have a bedroom to yourself."


And Gwendolen's memories of school suggested other particulars which forced her to admit to herself that this alternative would be no relief. She turned to her uncle again and said, apparently in acceptance of his ideas,
"When is Mrs. Mompert likely to send for me?"

Gwendolen said, apparently in acceptance, "When is Mrs. Mompert likely to send for me?"


"That is rather uncertain, but she has promised not to entertain any other proposal till she has seen you.


She has entered with much feeling into your position.


It will be within the next fortnight, probably.


I am going to let part of my glebe uncommonly well."


The rector ended very cheerfully, leaving the room with the satisfactory conviction that Gwendolen was going to adapt herself to circumstances like a girl of good sense.

The rector left the room with the cheerful conviction that Gwendolen was going to act like a girl of good sense.


Having spoken appropriately, he naturally supposed that the effects would be appropriate; being accustomed, as a household and parish authority, to be asked to "speak to" refractory persons, with the understanding that the measure was morally coercive.


said Mrs. Gascoigne, when her husband had left the room.


"He is indeed," said Mrs. Davilow, cordially.


"I think cheerfulness is a fortune in itself.


"And Rex is just like him," said Mrs. Gascoigne.


"I must tell you the comfort we have had in a letter from him.

We have had such comfort in a letter from him.


I must read you a little bit," she added, taking the letter from her pocket, while Anna looked rather frightened--she did not know why, except that it had been a rule with her not to mention Rex before Gwendolen.

I must read you a little bit." She took the letter from her pocket, while Anna looked rather frightened, as she never mentioned Rex before Gwendolen.


The proud mother ran her eyes over the letter, seeking for sentences to read aloud. But apparently she had found it sown with what might seem to be closer allusions than she desired to the recent past, for she looked up, folding the letter, and saying,

But her mother apparently found no sentences to read aloud that were free from difficult allusions, for she folded up the letter, saying-


"However, he tells us that our trouble has made a man of him; he sees a reason for any amount of work: he means to get a fellowship, to take pupils, to set one of his brothers going, to be everything that is most remarkable.

"He tells us that our trouble has made a man of him; he means to work for a fellowship, to take pupils, and to set one of his brothers going.


The letter is full of fun--just like him.

The letter is full of fun, just like him.


He says, 'Tell mother she has put out an advertisement for a jolly good hard-working son, in time to hinder me from taking ship; and I offer myself for the place.'

He says, 'Tell mother she has put out an advertisement for a jolly good hard-working son, and I offer myself for the place.'


I never saw my husband so much moved by anything since Rex was born.

I never saw my husband so much moved by anything as this letter.


This letter, in fact, was what had helped both Mrs. Gascoigne and Anna to show Gwendolen an unmixed kindliness; and she herself felt very amiably about it, smiling at Anna, and pinching her chin, as much as to say, "Nothing is wrong with you now, is it?"

This letter, in fact, was what had helped both Mrs. Gascoigne and Anna to show Gwendolen an unmixed kindliness; and she herself felt glad.


She had no gratuitously ill-natured feeling, or egoistic pleasure in making men miserable.

She had no egoistic pleasure in making men miserable.


She only had an intense objection to their making her miserable.


But when the talk turned on furniture for the cottage Gwendolen was not roused to show even a languid interest.

But when the talk turned on furniture for the cottage, Gwendolen could not show even a languid interest.


She thought that she had done as much as could be expected of her this morning, and indeed felt at an heroic pitch in keeping to herself the struggle that was going on within her.

She thought that she had done as much as could be expected of her this morning, and indeed felt heroic in keeping her internal struggle to herself.


The recoil of her mind from the only definite prospect allowed her, was stronger than even she had imagined beforehand. The idea of presenting herself before Mrs. Mompert in the first instance, to be approved or disapproved, came as pressure on an already painful bruise; even as a governess, it appeared she was to be tested and was liable to rejection.

She recoiled from the prospect of meeting Mrs. Mompert; even as a governess, she was to be tested and was liable to rejection.


After she had done herself the violence to accept the bishop and his wife, they were still to consider whether they would accept her; it was at her peril that she was to look, speak, or be silent.

After she had done herself the violence to accept the bishop and his wife, they were still to consider whether they would accept her.


And even when she had entered on her dismal task of self-constraint in the society of three girls whom she was bound incessantly to edify, the same process of inspection was to go on: there was always to be Mrs. Mompert's supervision; always something or other would be expected of her to which she had not the slightest inclination; and perhaps the bishop would examine her on serious topics.

And when she had entered on her dismal task of edifying the three girls, there was always to be Mrs. Mompert's supervision.


Gwendolen, lately used to the social successes of a handsome girl, whose lively venturesomeness of talk has the effect of wit, and who six weeks before would have pitied the dullness of the bishop rather than have been embarrassed by him, saw the life before her as an entrance into a penitentiary.

Gwendolen, used to the social successes of a handsome girl, whose lively, venturesome talk has the effect of wit, saw the life before her as an entrance into a penitentiary.


Wild thoughts of running away to be an actress, in spite of Klesmer, came to her with the lure of freedom; but his words still hung heavily on her soul; they had alarmed her pride and even her maidenly dignity: dimly she conceived herself getting amongst vulgar people who would treat her with rude familiarity--odious men, whose grins and smirks would not be seen through the strong grating of polite society.


Gwendolen's daring was not in the least that of the adventuress; the demand to be held a lady was in her very marrow; and when she had dreamed that she might be the heroine of the gaming-table, it was with the understanding that no one should treat her with the less consideration, or presume to look at her with irony as Deronda had done.


To be protected and petted, and to have her susceptibilities consulted in every detail, had gone along with her food and clothing as matters of course in her life: even without any such warning as Klesmer's she could not have thought it an attractive freedom to be thrown in solitary dependence on the doubtful civility of strangers.


The endurance of the episcopal penitentiary was less repulsive than that; though here too she would certainly never be petted or have her susceptibilities consulted.


Her rebellion against this hard necessity which had come just to her of all people in the world--to her whom all circumstances had concurred in preparing for something quite different--was exaggerated instead of diminished as one hour followed another, with the imagination of what she might have expected in her lot and what it was actually to be.

She felt a growing rebellion against this hard necessity which had come just to her of all people in the world - to her, who was meant for something quite different.


The family troubles, she thought, were easier for every one than for her--even for poor dear mamma, because she had always used herself to not enjoying.

The family troubles, she thought, were easier for everyone than for her.


As to hoping that if she went to the Momperts' and was patient a little while, things might get better--it would be stupid to entertain hopes for herself after all that had happened: her talents, it appeared, would never be recognized as anything remarkable, and there was not a single direction in which probability seemed to flatter her wishes.

If she went to the Momperts', her talents would never be recognized as anything remarkable.


Some beautiful girls who, like her, had read romances where even plain governesses are centres of attraction and are sought in marriage, might have solaced themselves a little by transporting such pictures into their own future; but even if Gwendolen's experience had led her to dwell on love-making and marriage as her elysium, her heart was too much oppressed by what was near to her, in both the past and the future, for her to project her anticipations very far off.

Some girls, who had read romances where even plain governesses are sought in marriage, might have solaced themselves a little by such pictures; but even if Gwendolen was inclined to dwell on love-making as her elysium, her heart was too much oppressed.


She had a world-nausea upon her, and saw no reason all through her life why she should wish to live.

She saw no reason why she should wish to live.


No religious view of trouble helped her: her troubles had in her opinion all been caused by other people's disagreeable or wicked conduct; and there was really nothing pleasant to be counted on in the world: that was her feeling; everything else she had heard said about trouble was mere phrase-making not attractive enough for her to have caught it up and repeated it.

No religious view of trouble helped her: her troubles had in her opinion all been caused by other people's conduct; and there was really nothing pleasant to be counted on in the world.


As to the sweetness of labor and fulfilled claims; the interest of inward and outward activity; the impersonal delights of life as a perpetual discovery; the dues of courage, fortitude, industry, which it is mere baseness not to pay toward the common burden; the supreme worth of the teacher's vocation;--these, even if they had been eloquently preached to her, could have been no more than faintly apprehended doctrines: the fact which wrought upon her was her invariable observation that for a lady to become a governess--to "take a situation"--was to descend in life and to be treated at best with a compassionate patronage.

As to the sweetness of labour, the interest of activity, the impersonal delights of life as a perpetual discovery, the dues of fortitude and industry, the supreme worth of the teacher's vocation;- these doctrines could have barely touched her: the only fact that mattered was that for a lady to become a governess was to descend in life.


And poor Gwendolen had never dissociated happiness from personal pre-eminence and _clat_.


That where these threatened to forsake her, she should take life to be hardly worth the having, cannot make her so unlike the rest of us, men or women, that we should cast her out of our compassion; our moments of temptation to a mean opinion of things in general being usually dependent on some susceptibility about ourselves and some dullness to subjects which every one else would consider more important.


Surely a young creature is pitiable who has the labyrinth of life before her and no clue--to whom distrust in herself and her good fortune has come as a sudden shock, like a rent across the path that she was treading carelessly.

We should pity a young creature who has the labyrinth of life before her and no clue as to how to navigate it.


In spite of her healthy frame, her irreconcilable repugnance affected her even physically; she felt a sort of numbness and could set about nothing; the least urgency, even that she should take her meals, was an irritation to her; the speech of others on any subject seemed unreasonable, because it did not include her feeling and was an ignorant claim on her.

In spite of her healthy frame, she felt a sort of numbness and could set about nothing; the least urgency was an irritation to her; the speech of others on any subject seemed unreasonable, because it did not include her feeling.


It was not in her nature to busy herself with the fancies of suicide to which disappointed young people are prone: what occupied and exasperated her was the sense that there was nothing for her but to live in a way she hated.

It was not in her nature to busy herself with fancies of suicide: what exasperated her was the sense that there was nothing for her but to live in a way she hated.


She avoided going to the rectory again: it was too intolerable to have to look and talk as if she were compliant; and she could not exert herself to show interest about the furniture of that horrible cottage.

She could not exert herself to visit the Gascoignes or to show interest about the furniture of the horrible cottage.


Miss Merry was staying on purpose to help, and such people as Jocosa liked that sort of thing.

Miss Merry was staying to help; such people as Jocosa liked that sort of thing.


Her mother had to make excuses for her not appearing, even when Anna came to see her.


For that calm which Gwendolen had promised herself to maintain had changed into sick motivelessness: she thought, "I suppose I shall begin to pretend by-and-by, but why should I do it now?"

The calm which Gwendolen had promised herself to maintain had changed into sick motivelessness: she thought, "I suppose I shall begin to pretend by-and-by, but why should I do it now?"


Her mother watched her with silent distress; and, lapsing into the habit of indulgent tenderness, she began to think what she imagined that Gwendolen was thinking, and to wish that everything should give way to the possibility of making her darling less miserable.

Her mother watched her with silent distress, wishing only that she could make her darling less miserable.


One day when she was in the black and yellow bedroom and her mother was lingering there under the pretext of considering and arranging Gwendolen's articles of dress, she suddenly roused herself to fetch the casket which contained the ornaments.

One day when Gwendolen was in the bedroom with her mother, she suddenly roused herself to fetch the casket which contained the ornaments.


"Mamma," she began, glancing over the upper layer, "I had forgotten these things.

"Mamma," she began, "I had forgotten these things.


You will not mind about parting with them.


She lifted the upper tray and looked below.


"If we can do without them, darling, I would rather keep them for you," said Mrs. Davilow, seating herself beside Gwendolen with a feeling of relief that she was beginning to talk about something.

"I would rather keep them for you, darling," said Mrs. Davilow, relieved that Gwendolen was beginning to talk about something.


The usual relation between them had become reversed.


It was now the mother who tried to cheer the daughter.


"Why, how came you to put that pocket handkerchief in here?"

"Why, how came you to put that handkerchief in here?"


It was the handkerchief with the corner torn off which Gwendolen had thrust in with the turquoise necklace.


"It happened to be with the necklace--I was in a hurry," said Gwendolen, taking the handkerchief away and putting it in her pocket.

"It happened to be with the necklace - I was in a hurry.


"Don't sell the necklace, mamma," she added, a new feeling having come over her about that rescue of it which had formerly been so offensive.

Don't sell the necklace, mamma," she said, a new feeling coming over her about that rescue of it which had formerly been so offensive.


"No, dear, no; it was made out of your dear father's chain.


And I should prefer not selling the other things.


All my best ornaments were taken from me long ago."


Mrs. Davilow colored. She usually avoided any reference to such facts about Gwendolen's step-father as that he had carried off his wife's jewelry and disposed of it.

Mrs. Davilow coloured, for she usually avoided any such reference to Gwendolen's step-father, who had disposed of his wife's jewellery.


"And these things have not been reckoned on for any expenses. Carry them with you."


"That would be quite useless, mamma," said Gwendolen, coldly.


You had better get me a gray frieze livery and a straw poke, such as my aunt's charity children wear."

You had better get me a straw poke hat, such as charity children wear."


"No, dear, no; don't take that view of it.


I feel sure the Momperts will like you the better for being graceful and elegant."

I feel sure the Momperts will like you to be graceful and elegant."


"I am not at all sure what the Momperts will like me to be.


It is enough that I am expected to be what they like," said Gwendolen bitterly.


"If there is anything you would object to less--anything that could be done--instead of your going to the bishop's, do say so, Gwendolen.

"If there is anything you would object to less than going to the bishop's, do tell me, Gwendolen.


I will try for anything you wish," said the mother, beseechingly.

I will try for anything you wish," beseeched her mother.


I must think myself fortunate if they will have me.


I shall get some money for you. That is the only thing I have to think of.

I shall get some money for you, at least.


I shall not spend any money this year: you will have all the eighty pounds.


I don't know how far that will go in housekeeping; but you need not stitch your poor fingers to the bone, and stare away all the sight that the tears have left in your dear eyes."

I don't know how far that will go in housekeeping; but you need not stitch your poor fingers to the bone."


Gwendolen did not give any caresses with her words as she had been used to do.


She did not even look at her mother, but was looking at the turquoise necklace as she turned it over her fingers.

Gwendolen did not even look at her mother, but at the turquoise necklace as she turned it over her fingers.


"Bless you for your tenderness, my good darling!"


said Mrs. Davilow, with tears in her eyes.


"Don't despair because there are clouds now.


There may be great happiness in store for you yet."


"I don't see any reason for expecting it, mamma," said Gwendolen, in a hard tone; and Mrs. Davilow was silent, thinking as she had often thought before--"What did happen between her and Mr. Grandcourt?"

"I don't see any reason for expecting it, mamma," said Gwendolen, in a hard tone; and Mrs. Davilow was silent, thinking as she had often thought before - "What did happen between her and Mr. Grandcourt?"


"I _will_ keep this necklace, mamma," said Gwendolen, laying it apart and then closing the casket.

"I will keep this necklace, mamma," said Gwendolen, laying it aside.


"But do get the other things sold, even if they will not bring much."


I wonder if all the poor wretches who have ever taken it felt as I do."


"How can any one know that I exaggerate, when I am speaking of my own feeling?


She took out the torn handkerchief from her pocket again, and wrapped it deliberately round the necklace.

She wrapped the torn handkerchief around the necklace.


Mrs. Davilow observed the action with some surprise, but the tone of her last words discouraged her from asking any question.

Mrs. Davilow observed this with surprise, but felt unable to ask any question.


The "feeling" Gwendolen spoke of with an air of tragedy was not to be explained by the mere fact that she was going to be a governess: she was possessed by a spirit of general disappointment.

Gwendolen was possessed by a spirit of general disappointment.


It was not simply that she had a distaste for what she was called on to do: the distaste spread itself over the world outside her penitentiary, since she saw nothing very pleasant in it that seemed attainable by her even if she were free.

It was not simply that she had a distaste for what she was called on to do: the distaste spread itself over the world.


Naturally her grievances did not seem to her smaller than some of her male contemporaries held theirs to be when they felt a profession too narrow for their powers, and had an _ priori_ conviction that it was not worth while to put forth their latent abilities.


Because her education had been less expensive than theirs, it did not follow that she should have wider emotions or a keener intellectual vision.


Her griefs were feminine; but to her as a woman they were not the less hard to bear, and she felt an equal right to the Promethean tone.


But the movement of mind which led her to keep the necklace, to fold it up in the handkerchief, and rise to put it in her _ncessaire_, where she had first placed it when it had been returned to her, was more peculiar, and what would be called less reasonable.

But the movement of mind which led her to keep the necklace, folded up in the handkerchief, was more peculiar.


It came from that streak of superstition in her which attached itself both to her confidence and her terror--a superstition which lingers in an intense personality even in spite of theory and science; any dread or hope for self being stronger than all reasons for or against it.

It came from that streak of superstition in her which attached itself both to her confidence and her terror - a superstition which lingers in an intense personality in spite of science.


Why she should suddenly determine not to part with the necklace was not much clearer to her than why she should sometimes have been frightened to find herself in the fields alone: she had a confused state of emotion about Deronda--was it wounded pride and resentment, or a certain awe and exceptional trust?

Why she should suddenly determine not to part with the necklace was not clear to her: she had a confused state of emotion about Deronda. Was it wounded pride and resentment, or a certain awe and trust?


It was something vague and yet mastering, which impelled her to this action about the necklace.

It was something vague and yet mastering, which impelled her to this action.


There is a great deal of unmapped country within us which would have to be taken into account in an explanation of our gusts and storms.


"The pang, the curse with which they died, Had never passed away: I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor lift them up to pray."

Book 7 - THE MOTHER AND THE SON | Chapter 56


Deronda did not take off his clothes that night.


Gwendolen, after insisting on seeing him again before she would consent to be undressed, had been perfectly quiet, and had only asked him, with a whispering, repressed eagerness, to promise that he would come to her when she sent for him in the morning.

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.


Still, the possibility that a change might come over her, the danger of a supervening feverish condition, and the suspicion that something in the late catastrophe was having an effect which might betray itself in excited words, acted as a foreboding within him. He mentioned to her attendant that he should keep himself ready to be called if there were any alarming change of symptoms, making it understood by all concerned that he was in communication with her friends in England, and felt bound meanwhile to take all care on her behalf--a position which it was the easier for him to assume, because he was well known to Grandcourt's valet, the only old servant who had come on the late voyage.

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.


But when fatigue from the strangely various emotion of the day at last sent Deronda to sleep, he remained undisturbed except by the morning dreams, which came as a tangled web of yesterday's events, and finally waked him, with an image drawn by his pressing anxiety.

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 made his toilet, and reflected that it was too early to send inquiries.

Still, it was morning, and there had been no summons - an augury which cheered him while he dressed.


Later, he learned that she had passed a too wakeful night, but had shown no violent signs of agitation, and was at last sleeping.

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 the force that dwelt in this creature, so alive to dread; for he had an irresistible impression that even under the effects of a severe physical shock she was mastering herself with a determination of concealment.

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 what he had been going through in the meeting with his mother: he seemed to himself now to be only fulfilling claims, and his more passionate sympathy was in abeyance.

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 an experience quite apart from Gwendolen's lot, that his present cares for her were like a revisiting of scenes familiar in the past, and there was not yet a complete revival of the inward response to them.

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 employed himself in getting a formal, legally recognized statement from the fishermen who had rescued Gwendolen.

Meanwhile he got a formal, legal statement from the fishermen who had rescued Gwendolen.


The boat in which Grandcourt had gone out had been found drifting with its sail loose, and had been towed in.

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 flapping of the sail while putting about, and that he had not known how to swim; but, though they were near, their attention had been first arrested by a cry which seemed like that of a man in distress, and while they were hastening with their oars, they heard a shriek from the lady, and saw her jump 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 was desiring to see him.

On re-entering the hotel, Deronda was told that Gwendolen had risen, and desired to see him.


He was shown into a room darkened by blinds and curtains, where she was seated with a white shawl wrapped round her, looking toward the opening door like one waiting uneasily. But her long hair was gathered up and coiled carefully, and, through all, the blue stars in her ears had kept their place: as she started impulsively to her full height, sheathed in her white shawl, her face and neck not less white, except for a purple line under her eyes, her lips a little apart with the peculiar expression of one accused and helpless, she looked like the unhappy ghost of that Gwendolen Harleth whom Deronda had seen turning with firm lips and proud self-possession from her losses at the gaming table.

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 the effects of all their past relations began to revive within him.

The sight pierced him with pity, and his sympathy began to revive.


"I beseech you to rest--not to stand," said Deronda, as he approached her; and she obeyed, falling back into her chair again.
"Will you sit down near me?" she said. "I want to speak very low."
She was in a large arm-chair, and he drew a small one near to her side.

"I beseech you not to stand," he said. She fell back into her chair, and he drew up another chair close by.


The action seemed to touch her peculiarly: turning her pale face full upon his, which was very near, she said, in the lowest audible tone, "You know I am a guilty woman?"

She said, in the lowest audible tone, "You know I am a guilty woman?"


Deronda himself turned paler as he said, "I know nothing."


She uttered this with the same undertoned decision.


"Yes," said Deronda, in a mournful suspense which made him reluctant to speak.

"Yes," said Deronda, in suspense and reluctant to speak.


"His face will not be seen above the water again," said Gwendolen, in a tone that was not louder, but of a suppressed eagerness, while she held both her hands clenched.

"His face will not be seen above the water again," said Gwendolen, clenching her hands.


"Not by any one else--only by me--a dead face--I shall never get away from it."

"Only by me - a dead face - I shall never get away from it."


It was with an inward voice of desperate self-repression that she spoke these last words, while she looked away from Deronda toward something at a distance from her on the floor.

She spoke these words with quiet, desperate self-repression, looking away from Deronda.


She was seeing the whole event--her own acts included--through an exaggerating medium of excitement and horror?

Was she exaggerating her own part in the event through horror?


Was she in a state of delirium into which there entered a sense of concealment and necessity for self-repression?

Was she in a state of delirium, which made her think some concealment was necessary?


Such thoughts glanced through Deronda as a sort of hope. But imagine the conflict of feeling that kept him silent.

Deronda, his feelings torn between hope and fear, kept silent.


She was bent on confession, and he dreaded hearing her confession. Against his better will he shrank from the task that was laid on him: he wished, and yet rebuked the wish as cowardly, that she could bury her secrets in her own bosom.

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 dreaded the weight of this woman's soul flung upon his own with imploring dependence.


But she spoke again, hurriedly, looking at him,


"You will not say that I ought to tell the world?


you will not say that I ought to be disgraced?


I must tell you; but you will not say that any one else should 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--as soon as I could--I told you I was afraid of myself."

"I told you from the beginning that I was afraid of myself."


There was a piteous pleading in the low murmur in which Deronda turned his ear only.

There was a piteous pleading in the low murmur.


"I felt a hatred in me that was always working like an evil spirit--contriving things.


Everything I could do to free myself came into my mind; and it got worse--all things got worse.

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 the worst about myself. I tried. But I could not tell everything.

I thought then I would tell you, but I could not tell everything.


She paused, while a shudder passed through her; but soon went on.

She paused, shuddering; but soon went on.


Do you think a woman who cried, and prayed, and struggled to be saved from herself, could be a murderess?"


said Deronda, in a deep, shaken voice, "don't torture me needlessly.

said Deronda, in a deep, shaken voice, "don't torture me.


You threw yourself into the water with the impulse to save him.

You threw yourself into the water to save him.


This death was an accident that you could not have hindered."


The tremor, the childlike beseeching in these words compelled Deronda to turn his head and look at her face.

The childlike beseeching in these words compelled Deronda to look at her face.


"You said--you used to say--you felt more for those who had done something wicked and were miserable; you said they might get better--they might be scourged into something better.

"You said you felt for those who had done something wicked and were miserable; you said they might become better.


If you had not spoken in that way, everything would have been worse.


It came to me at the very last--that was the reason why I--But now, if you cannot bear with me when I tell you everything--if you turn away from me and forsake me, what shall I do?

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 found me and wanted to make me better?

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--and more--if you had not come and been patient with me.

All the wrong I have done was in me then - and more - if you had not been patient with me.


Her hands, which had been so tightly clenched some minutes before, were now helplessly relaxed and trembling on the arm of her chair.

Her hands, which had been so tightly clenched before, were now trembling on the arm of her chair.


Her quivering lips remained parted as she ceased speaking.


Deronda could not answer; he was obliged to look away.


He took one of her hands, 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."

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.


Their attitude, his adverted face with its expression of a suffering which he was solemnly resolved to undergo, might have told half the truth of the situation to a beholder who had suddenly entered.


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 its powerful effect on her into a promise of inexhaustible patience and constancy.

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.


The stream of renewed strength made it possible for her to go on as she had begun--with that fitful, wandering confession where the sameness of experience seems to nullify the sense of time or of order in events.


"All sorts of contrivances in my mind--but all so difficult. And I fought against them--I was terrified at them--I saw his dead face"--here her voice sank almost to a whisper close to Deronda's ear--"ever so long ago I saw it and I wished him to be dead.

"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.


I could not speak--I wanted to kill--it was as strong as thirst--and then directly--I felt beforehand I had done something dreadful, unalterable--that would make me like an evil spirit.

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.


She was silent a moment or two, as if her memory had lost itself in a web where each mesh drew all the rest.


"It had all been in my mind when I first spoke to you--when we were at the Abbey.

"It had been in my mind when I first spoke to you at the Abbey.


It was the only thing I did toward carrying out my thoughts.


They went about over everything; but they all remained like dreadful dreams--all but one.

They remained like dreadful dreams - all but one.


I did one act--and I never undid it--it is there still--as long ago as when we were at Ryelands.

I did one act - and I never undid it - when we were at Ryelands.


There it was--something my fingers longed for among the beautiful toys in the cabinet in my boudoir--small and sharp like a long willow leaf in a silver sheath.

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 the drawer of my dressing-case.


I was continually haunted with it and how I should use it.


I fancied myself putting it under my pillow.


But I never did. I never looked at it again.


I dared not unlock the drawer: it had a key all to itself; and not long ago, when we were in the yacht, I dropped the key into the deep water.

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.


It was my wish to drop it and deliver myself.


After that I began to think how I could open the drawer without the key: and when I found we were to stay at Genoa, it came into my mind that I could get it opened privately at the hotel. But then, when we were going up the stairs, I met you; and I thought I should talk to you alone and tell you this--everything I could not tell you in town; and then I was forced to go out in the boat."

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 had for the first time risen with the last words, and she sank back in her chair.

A sob rose, and she sank back in her chair.


The memory of that acute disappointment seemed for the moment to efface what had come since.


Deronda did not look at her, but he said, insistently,


"And it has all remained in your imagination.


To the last the evil temptation has been resisted?"


She pressed her handkerchief against them and sat upright. She was summoning her resolution; and again, leaning a little toward Deronda's ear, she began in a whisper,

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 will tell you the exact truth.


I used to think I could never be wicked.


I thought of wicked people as if they were a long way off me.

I thought of wicked people as if they were a long way off from me.


Since then I have been wicked. I have felt wicked.


And everything has been a punishment to me--all the things I used to wish for--it is as if they had been made red-hot.

And everything has been a punishment - all the things I used to wish for - as if they were red-hot.


The very daylight has often been a punishment to me.


Because--you know--I ought not to have married.


I meant to get pleasure for myself, and it all turned to misery.


I wanted to make my gain out of another's loss--you remember?--it was like roulette--and the money burned into me.

I wanted to make my gain out of another's loss - like roulette - and the money burned into me.


It was as if I had prayed that another should lose and I should win.


And I had won, I knew it all--I knew I was guilty.


When we were on the sea, and I lay awake at night in the cabin, I sometimes felt that everything I had done lay open without excuse--nothing was hidden--how could anything be known to me only?--it was not my own knowledge, it was God's that had entered into me, and even the stillness--everything held a punishment for me--everything but you.

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 always thought that you would not want me to be punished--you would have tried and helped me to be better.

I thought that you would not want me punished - you would have helped me to be better.


You will not change--you will not want to punish me now?"


This long wandering with the conscious-stricken one over her past was difficult to bear, but he dared not again urge her with a question.

This long wandering over her past was difficult to bear, but he dared not again urge her with a question.


He must let her mind follow its own need.


She unconsciously left intervals in her retrospect, not clearly distinguishing between what she said and what she had only an inward vision of.


Her next words came after such an interval.


"That all made it so hard when I was forced to go in the boat.

"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--about the locked-up drawer and what I had not told you before. And if I had told you, and knew it was in your mind, it would have less power over me.

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.


For after all my struggles and my crying, the hatred and rage, the temptation that frightened me, the longing, the thirst for what I dreaded, always came back.

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 was quite shut out from speaking to you, and was driven to go in the boat--brought all the evil back, as if I had been locked in a prison with it and no escape.

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, to have the forked lightning for a weapon to strike him dead."

I could have given up everything in that moment, for lightning to strike him dead."


Some of the compressed fierceness that she was recalling seemed to find its way into her undertoned utterance. After a little silence she said, with agitated hurry,


"If he were here again, what should I do?


I cannot wish him here--and yet I cannot bear his dead face.

I cannot wish him here - and yet I cannot bear his dead face.


I ought to have gone away--gone and wandered like a beggar rather than stay to feel like a fiend.

I ought to have gone away and wandered like a beggar rather than stay.


But turn where I would there was something I could not bear.


Sometimes I thought he would kill _me_ if I resisted his will.

Sometimes I thought he would kill me if I resisted his will.


But now--his dead face is there, and I cannot bear it."

But now - his dead face is there, and I cannot bear it."


Suddenly loosing Deronda's hand, she started up, stretching her arms to their full length upward, and said with a sort of moan,

Suddenly loosing Deronda's hand, she started up, stretching out her arms, and said with a moan-


Die--die--you are forsaken--go down, go down into darkness.

Die, die - you are forsaken - go down, go down into darkness.


Forsaken--no pity--_I_ shall be forsaken."


She sank in her chair again and broke into sobs. Even Deronda had no place in her consciousness at that moment.

She sank in her chair again and broke into sobs, forgetting even Deronda's presence.


Instead of finding, as he had imagined, that his late experience had dulled his susceptibility to fresh emotion, it seemed that the lot of this young creature, whose swift travel from her bright rash girlhood into this agony of remorse he had had to behold in helplessness, pierced him the deeper because it came close upon another sad revelation of spiritual conflict: he was in one of those moments when the very anguish of passionate pity makes us ready to choose that we will know pleasure no more, and live only for the stricken and afflicted.

This young creature's agony of remorse pierced him with passionate pity.


He had risen from his seat while he watched that terrible outburst--which seemed the more awful to him because, even in this supreme agitation, she kept the suppressed voice of one who confesses in secret. At last he felt impelled to turn his back toward her and walk to a distance.

He rose from his seat, impelled to turn his back toward her and walk to a distance.


Her mind had opened to the sense that he had gone away from her.


When Deronda turned round to approach her again, he saw her face bent toward him, her eyes dilated, her lips parted. She was an image of timid forlorn beseeching--too timid to entreat in words while he kept himself aloof from her.

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.


But his eyes met hers sorrowfully--met hers for the first time fully since she had said, "You know I am a guilty woman," and that full glance in its intense mournfulness seemed to say, "I know it, but I shall all the less forsake you."

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 in the same attitude--without turning his face toward her and without again taking her hand.


Once more Gwendolen was pierced, as she had been by his face of sorrow at the Abbey, with a compunction less egoistic than that which urged her to confess, and she said, in a tone of loving regret,

Gwendolen was pierced with compunction, and she said, in a tone of loving regret-


Deronda gave an indistinct "Oh," just shrinking together and changing his attitude a little.


Then he had gathered resolution enough to say clearly, "There is no question of being happy or unhappy.

Then, gathering resolution, he said, "There is no question of being happy or unhappy.


What I most desire at this moment is what will most help you.

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 she felt it more difficult to speak: she had a vague need of getting nearer to that compassion which seemed to be regarding her from a halo of superiority, and the need turned into an impulse to humble herself more.

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.


She was ready to throw herself on her knees before him; but no--her wonderfully mixed consciousness held checks on that impulse, and she was kept silent and motionless by the pressure of opposing needs. Her stillness made Deronda at last say,

But she stayed silent, until her stillness made Deronda say-


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.

"No, no," said Gwendolen, the dread of his leaving her bringing back her power of speech.


She went on with her low-toned eagerness, "I want to tell you what it was that came over me in that boat.

"I want to tell you what came over me in that boat.


I was full of rage at being obliged to go--full of rage--and I could do nothing but sit there like a galley slave.

I was full of rage - and I could do nothing but sit there like a galley slave.


And then we got away--out of the port--into the deep--and everything was still--and we never looked at each other, only he spoke to order me--and the very light about me seemed to hold me a prisoner and force me to sit as I did.

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.


It came over me that when I was a child I used to fancy sailing away into a world where people were not forced to live with any one they did not like--I did not like my father-in-law to come home.

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, I thought, just the opposite had come to me.

And now just the opposite had come to me.


I had stepped into a boat, and my life was a sailing and sailing away--gliding on and no help--always into solitude with _him_, away from deliverance.

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, my thoughts went out over worse things--I longed for worse things--I had cruel wishes--I fancied impossible ways of--I did not want to die myself; I was afraid of our being drowned together.

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--I should have prayed that something might befall him. I should have prayed that he might sink out of my sight and leave me alone.

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 which no words could represent.

She sank into silence for a minute, submerged by the weight of memory.


"But yet, all the while I felt that I was getting more wicked.

"But all the while I felt that I was getting more wicked.


And what had been with me so much, came to me just then--what you once said--about dreading to increase my wrong-doing and my remorse--I should hope for nothing then.

And it came to me just then - what you once said - about dreading to increase my wrong-doing and my remorse.


It was all like a writing of fire within me.

It was like a writing of fire within me.


Getting wicked was misery--being shut out forever from knowing what you--what better lives were.

Getting wicked was misery - being shut out forever from better lives.


That had always been coming back to me then--but yet with a despair--a feeling that it was no use--evil wishes were too strong.

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 longings, the evil prayers came again and blotted everything else dim, 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."

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 speak more hurriedly, and in more of a whisper.


"I saw him sink, and my heart gave a leap as if it were going out of me.

"I saw him sink, and my heart gave a leap.


It was long enough for me to be glad, and yet to think it was no use--he would come up again.

It was long enough for me to be glad, and yet to think he would come up again.


And he _was_ come--farther off--the boat had moved.

And he did come up - farther off - the boat had moved.


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.

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.


That was in my mind--he would come back.


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 I held my hand, and my heart said, 'Die!'

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 'It is done--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.

- 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.

I was leaping from my crime, and there it was - close to me as I fell - there was the dead face - dead, dead.


She sank back in her chair, exhausted with the agitation of memory and speech.


Deronda felt the burden on his spirit less heavy than the foregoing dread.

Deronda felt the burden on his spirit lighten.


The word "guilty" had held a possibility of interpretations worse than the fact; and Gwendolen's confession, for the very reason that her conscience made her dwell on the determining power of her evil thoughts, convinced him the more that there had been throughout a counterbalancing struggle of her better will.

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.

It seemed almost certain that her murderous thought had had no outward effect - that, quite apart from it, the death was inevitable.


Still, a question as to the outward effectiveness of a criminal desire dominant enough to impel even a momentary act, cannot alter our judgment of the desire; and Deronda shrank from putting that question forward in the first instance.


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 inappreciably instantaneous glance of desire.

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; it was the culmination of that self-disapproval which had been 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.

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--that thorn-pressure which must come with the crowning of the sorrowful better, suffering because of the worse.

Deronda could not utter one word to diminish that sacred aversion to her worst self.


All this mingled thought and feeling kept him silent; speech was too momentous to be ventured on rashly.

All this mingled thought and feeling kept him silent.


There were no words of comfort that did not carry some sacrilege.


If he had opened his lips to speak, he could only have echoed, "It can never be altered--it remains unaltered, to alter other things."


But he was silent and motionless--he did not know how long--before he turned to look at her, and saw her sunk back with closed eyes, like a lost, weary, storm-beaten white doe, unable to rise and pursue its unguided way.

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 stood before her. The movement touched her consciousness, and she opened her eyes with a slight quivering that seemed like fear.

He rose, and she opened her eyes with a slight quivering that seemed like fear.


And may I see you again this evening--to-morrow--when you have had some rest?

And may I see you again when you have rested?


The tears came, and she could not answer except by a slight movement of the head.


Deronda rang for attendance, spoke urgently of the necessity that she should be got to rest, and then left her.

Deronda urged her again to rest, and left her.


Grandcourt having made up his mind to marry Miss Harleth, showed a power of adapting means to ends. During the next fortnight there was hardly a day on which by some arrangement or other he did not see her, or prove by emphatic attentions that she occupied his thoughts.

Grandcourt, having made up his mind to marry Miss Harleth, let hardly a day go by in the next fortnight without seeing her by some arrangement or other.


His cousin, Mrs. Torrington, was now doing the honors of his house, so that Mrs. Davilow and Gwendolen could be invited to a large party at Diplow in which there were many witnesses how the host distinguished the dowerless beauty, and showed no solicitude about the heiress.

Mrs. Davilow and Gwendolen were invited to a large party at Diplow where many witnessed how the host distinguished the dowerless beauty, and showed no care for the heiress.


The world--I mean Mr. Gascoigne and all the families worth speaking of within visiting distance of Pennicote--felt an assurance on the subject which in the rector's mind converted itself into a resolution to do his duty by his niece and see that the settlements were adequate.


Indeed the wonder to him and Mrs. Davilow was that the offer for which so many suitable occasions presented themselves had not been already made; and in this wonder Grandcourt himself was not without a share.

Indeed the wonder to Mr. Gascoigne and Mrs. Davilow was that Grandcourt's offer had not been already made; and in this wonder Grandcourt had a share himself.


When he had told his resolution to Lush he had thought that the affair would be concluded more quickly, and to his own surprise he had repeatedly promised himself in a morning that he would to-day give Gwendolen the opportunity of accepting him, and had found in the evening that the necessary formality was still unaccomplished.

When he had told his resolution to Lush he had thought that the affair would be concluded quickly, and to his own surprise he had repeatedly promised himself in a morning that he would today give Gwendolen the opportunity of accepting him, and found in the evening that it was still unaccomplished.


This remarkable fact served to heighten his determination on another day.


He had never admitted to himself that Gwendolen might refuse him, but--heaven help us all!--we are often unable to act on our certainties; our objection to a contrary issue (were it possible) is so strong that it rises like a spectral illusion between us and our certainty; we are rationally sure that the blind worm can not bite us mortally, but it would be so intolerable to be bitten, and the creature has a biting look--we decline to handle it.

He had never admitted to himself that Gwendolen might refuse him, but we are often unable to act on our assumptions; our objection to a contrary result is so strong that it rises like a spectre between us and our certainty.


He had asked leave to have a beautiful horse of his brought for Gwendolen to ride.

He had arranged to have a beautiful horse of his brought for Gwendolen to ride.


Mrs. Davilow was to accompany her in the carriage, and they were to go to Diplow to lunch, Grandcourt conducting them.

Mrs. Davilow was to accompany her in the carriage, and they were to go to Diplow for lunch.


It was a fine mid-harvest time, not too warm for a noonday ride of five miles to be delightful; the poppies glowed on the borders of the fields, there was enough breeze to move gently like a social spirit among the ears of uncut corn, and to wing the shadow of a cloud across the soft gray downs; here the sheaves were standing, there the horses were straining their muscles under the last load from a wide space of stubble, but everywhere the green pasture made a broader setting for the corn-fields, and the cattle took their rest under wide branches.

It was a fine mid-harvest time; the poppies glowed on the borders of the fields, the breeze moved gently among the ears of uncut corn, and winged the shadow of a cloud across the soft grey downs. The green pasture and the corn-fields made a setting of peace and permanence, where the cattle took their rest under wide branches.


The road lay through a bit of country where the dairy-farms looked much as they did in the days of our forefathers--where peace and permanence seemed to find a home away from the busy change that sent the railway train flying in the distance.


But the spirit of peace and permanence did not penetrate poor Mrs. Davilow's mind so as to overcome her habit of uneasy foreboding.

But the spirit of peace did not overcome Mrs. Davilow's uneasy foreboding.


Gwendolen and Grandcourt cantering in front of her, and then slackening their pace to a conversational walk till the carriage came up with them again, made a gratifying sight; but it served chiefly to keep up the conflict of hopes and fears about her daughter's lot.

Gwendolen and Grandcourt riding together in front of her made a gratifying sight; but it served chiefly to keep up the conflict of hopes and fears about her daughter's lot.


Here was an irresistible opportunity for a lover to speak and put an end to all uncertainties, and Mrs. Davilow could only hope with trembling that Gwendolen's decision would be favorable.

Here was an irresistible opportunity for a lover to speak, and Mrs. Davilow could only hope with trembling that Gwendolen would be favourable.


Certainly if Rex's love had been repugnant to her, Mr. Grandcourt had the advantage of being in complete contrast with Rex; and that he had produced some quite novel impression on her seemed evident in her marked abstinence from satirical observations, nay, her total silence about his characteristics, a silence which Mrs. Davilow did not dare to break.

That Mr. Grandcourt had produced some quite novel impression on her daughter was shown by her marked abstinence from satirical observations, nay, her total silence about him, a silence which Mrs. Davilow did not dare to break.


--was a question that inevitably arose in the mother's mind.


"Well, perhaps as happy as she would be with any one else--or as most other women are"--was the answer with which she tried to quiet herself; for she could not imagine Gwendolen under the influence of any feeling which would make her satisfied in what we traditionally call "mean circumstances."

"Well, perhaps as happy as she would be with anyone, or as most women are," was the answer with which she tried to quiet herself.


Grandcourt's own thought was looking in the same direction: he wanted to have done with the uncertainty that belonged to his not having spoken.

Grandcourt too wanted an end to the uncertainty that came from his not having spoken.


As to any further uncertainty--well, it was something without any reasonable basis, some quality in the air which acted as an irritant to his wishes.

As to any uncertainty about her answer - well, it was without any reasonable basis.


Gwendolen enjoyed the riding, but her pleasure did not break forth in girlish unpremeditated chat and laughter as it did on that morning with Rex.

Gwendolen enjoyed the riding, but her pleasure did not break forth in chat and laughter as it had with Rex.


She spoke a little, and even laughed, but with a lightness as of a far-off echo: for her too there was some peculiar quality in the air--not, she was sure, any subjugation of her will by Mr. Grandcourt, and the splendid prospects he meant to offer her; for Gwendolen desired every one, that dignified gentleman himself included, to understand that she was going to do just as she liked, and that they had better not calculate on her pleasing them.

She spoke a little, and even laughed, but with a lightness as of a far-off echo: for her too there was some peculiar quality in the air - not due to any subjugation of her will by Mr. Grandcourt, for Gwendolen desired everyone to understand that she was going to do just as she liked.


If she chose to take this husband, she would have him know that she was not going to renounce her freedom, or according to her favorite formula, "not going to do as other women did."

If she chose to take this husband, she was not going to renounce her freedom: "she would not do as other women did."


Grandcourt's speeches this morning were, as usual, all of that brief sort which never fails to make a conversational figure when the speaker is held important in his circle. Stopping so soon, they give signs of a suppressed and formidable ability so say more, and have also the meritorious quality of allowing lengthiness to others.

Grandcourt's speeches this morning were of his usual brief sort, always giving signs of a suppressed and formidable ability to say more.


he said, after they had entered the park and were slacking from a canter to a walk.

he said, after they had entered the park.


I should like to have a leap with him, if it would not frighten mamma.


There was a good wide channel we passed five minutes ago.


I should like to have a gallop back and take it."


Mamma is so timid--if she saw me it might make her ill."
"Let me go and explain. Criterion would take it without fail."
"No--indeed--you are very kind--but it would alarm her too much.

Mamma is so timid - it would alarm her too much.


I dare take any leap when she is not by; but I do it and don't tell her about it."

I dare take any leap when she is not near; but I do it and don't tell her about it."


"We can let the carriage pass and then set off."


"No, no, pray don't think of it any more: I spoke quite randomly," said Gwendolen; she began to feel a new objection to carrying out her own proposition.


"But Mrs. Davilow knows I shall take care of you."


"Yes, but she would think of you as having to take care of my broken neck."


There was a considerable pause before Grandcourt said, looking toward her, "I should like to have the right always to take care of you."


Gwendolen did not turn her eyes on him; it seemed to her a long while that she was first blushing, and then turning pale, but to Grandcourt's rate of judgment she answered soon enough, with the lightest flute-tone and a careless movement of the head, "Oh, I am not sure that I want to be taken care of: if I chose to risk breaking my neck, I should like to be at liberty to do it."

Gwendolen did not turn her eyes on him; it seemed to her a long while that she was first blushing, and then turning pale, before she answered, with the lightest flute-tone and a careless movement of the head, "Oh, I am not sure that I want to be taken care of: if I chose to risk breaking my neck, I should like to be free to do it."


She checked her horse as she spoke, and turned in her saddle, looking toward the advancing carriage.

She slowed her horse as she spoke, looking toward the advancing carriage.


Her eyes swept across Grandcourt as she made this movement, but there was no language in them to correct the carelessness of her reply.


At that very moment she was aware that she was risking something--not her neck, but the possibility of finally checking Grandcourt's advances, and she did not feel contented with the possibility.

She was aware that she was risking something - not her neck, but the possibility of finally stopping Grandcourt's advances, and she did not feel contented with the possibility.


thought Grandcourt, as he too checked his horse.