"It's all false!" said Gwendolen, bitterly. "You don't in the least imagine what is in my mind. I have seen enough of the disgrace that comes in that way. And you had better leave me at liberty to speak with any one I like. It will be better for you."
"You will allow me to judge of that," said Grandcourt, rising and moving to a little distance toward the window, but standing there playing with his whiskers as if he were awaiting something.

"It's all false!" said Gwendolen, bitterly. "You don't in the least imagine what is in my mind. You had better leave me at liberty to speak with anyone I like. It will be better for you."
"You will allow me to judge of that," said Grandcourt.


Gwendolen's words had so clear and tremendous a meaning for herself that she thought they must have expressed it to Grandcourt, and had no sooner uttered them than she dreaded their effect. But his soul was garrisoned against presentiments and fears: he had the courage and confidence that belong to domination, and he was at that moment feeling perfectly satisfied that he held his wife with bit and bridle. By the time they had been married a year she would cease to be restive. He continued standing with his air of indifference, till she felt her habitual stifling consciousness of having an immovable obstruction in her life, like the nightmare of beholding a single form that serves to arrest all passage though the wide country lies open.
"What decision have you come to?" he said, presently looking at her. "What orders shall I give?"

Gwendolen's words had so clear and tremendous a meaning for herself that she thought they must have expressed it to Grandcourt, and had no sooner uttered them than she dreaded their effect. But his soul was garrisoned against fears: he had the confidence of domination, and he was perfectly satisfied that he held his wife with bit and bridle. By the time they had been married a year she would cease to be restive. He stood with his air of indifference, till she felt him like an immovable obstruction in her life.
"What decision have you come to?" he said presently.

Book 7 - THE MOTHER AND THE SON | Chapter 54


"Oh, let us go," said Gwendolen. The walls had begun to be an imprisonment, and while there was breath in this man he would have the mastery over her. His words had the power of thumb-screws and the cold touch of the rock. To resist was to act like a stupid animal unable to measure results.
So the boat was ordered. She even went down to the quay again with him to see it before midday. Grandcourt had recovered perfect quietude of temper, and had a scornful satisfaction in the attention given by the nautical groups to the _milord_, owner of the handsome yacht which had just put in for repairs, and who being an Englishman was naturally so at home on the sea that he could manage a sail with the same ease that he could manage a horse. The sort of exultation he had discerned in Gwendolen this morning she now thought that she discerned in him; and it was true that he had set his mind on this boating, and carried out his purpose as something that people might not expect him to do, with the gratified impulse of a strong will which had nothing better to exert itself upon. He had remarkable physical courage, and was proud of it--or rather he had a great contempt for the coarser, bulkier men who generally had less. Moreover, he was ruling that Gwendolen should go with him.

"Oh, let us go," said Gwendolen. The walls had begun to be an imprisonment, and while there was breath in this man he would have the mastery over her. It was stupid to resist.
So the boat was ordered. She even went down to the quay with him to see it before midday. Grandcourt had recovered his temper, and had a scornful satisfaction in the attention given to the milord, who being an Englishman was naturally at home on the sea. The sort of exultation he had discerned in Gwendolen this morning she now discerned in him; and it was true that he had set his mind on this boating with the gratified impulse of a strong will which had nothing better to exert itself upon. He had remarkable physical courage, and was proud of it. Moreover, he was ruling that Gwendolen should go with him.


And when they came down again at five o'clock, equipped for their boating, the scene was as good as a theatrical representation for all beholders. This handsome, fair-skinned English couple, manifesting the usual eccentricity of their nation, both of them proud, pale, and calm, without a smile on their faces, moving like creatures who were fulfilling a supernatural destiny--it was a thing to go out and see, a thing to paint. The husband's chest, back, and arms, showed very well in his close-fitting dress, and the wife was declared to be a statue.
Some suggestions were proffered concerning a possible change in the breeze, and the necessary care in putting about, but Grandcourt's manner made the speakers understand that they were too officious, and that he knew better than they.

And when they came down again at five o'clock, equipped for their boating, beholders admired this handsome, fair-skinned English couple, both of them proud, pale, and calm, without a smile on their faces. The husband's physique showed very well in his close-fitting dress, and the wife was declared to be like a statue.
Some suggestions were proffered concerning a possible change in the breeze, and the necessary care in putting about, but Grandcourt's manner made the speakers understand that they were too officious, and that he knew better than they.


Gwendolen, keeping her impassable air, as they moved away from the strand, felt her imagination obstinately at work. She was not afraid of any outward dangers--she was afraid of her own wishes which were taking shapes possible and impossible, like a cloud of demon-faces. She was afraid of her own hatred, which under the cold iron touch that had compelled her to-day had gathered a fierce intensity. As she sat guiding the tiller under her husband's eyes, doing just what he told her, the strife within her seemed like her own effort to escape from herself. She clung to the thought of Deronda: she persuaded herself that he would not go away while she was there--he knew that she needed help. The sense that he was there would save her from acting out the evil within. And yet quick, quick, came images, plans of evil that would come again and seize her in the night, like furies preparing the deed that they would straightway avenge.

Gwendolen was not afraid of any outward dangers - she was afraid of her own wishes which were taking shapes possible and impossible, like a cloud of demon-faces. She was afraid of her own hatred, which under his cold iron touch today had gathered a fierce intensity. As she sat guiding the tiller under her husband's eyes, doing just what he told her, the strife within her seemed like her own effort to escape from herself.
She clung to the thought of Deronda: he would not go away while she was there - he knew that she needed help. The sense that he was there would save her from doing wrong. And yet quick, quick, came images, plans of evil, like furies preparing the deed that they would straightway avenge.


They were taken out of the port and carried eastward by a gentle breeze. Some clouds tempered the sunlight, and the hour was always deepening toward the supreme beauty of evening. Sails larger and smaller changed their aspect like sensitive things, and made a cheerful companionship, alternately near and far. The grand city shone more vaguely, the mountains looked out above it, and there was stillness as in an island sanctuary. Yet suddenly Gwendolen let her hands fall, and said in a scarcely audible tone, "God help me!"
"What is the matter?" said Grandcourt, not distinguishing the words.
"Oh, nothing," said Gwendolen, rousing herself from her momentary forgetfulness and resuming the ropes.
"Don't you find this pleasant?" said Grandcourt.

They were taken out of the port and carried eastward by a gentle breeze. Some clouds tempered the sunlight, and the supreme beauty of evening was approaching. Sails larger and smaller made a cheerful companionship. The grand city shone, and the mountains looked out above it in stillness. Suddenly Gwendolen let her hands fall, and said in a scarcely audible tone, "God help me!"
"What is the matter?" said Grandcourt.
"Oh, nothing," said Gwendolen, rousing herself and resuming the ropes.
"Don't you find this pleasant?" said Grandcourt.


"Very."
"You admit now we couldn't have done anything better?"
"No--I see nothing better. I think we shall go on always, like the Flying Dutchman," said Gwendolen wildly.
Grandcourt gave her one of his narrow examining glances, and then said, "If you like, we can go to Spezia in the morning, and let them take us up there."
"No; I shall like nothing better than this."
"Very well: we'll do the same to-morrow. But we must be turning in soon. I shall put about."

"Very."
"You admit now we couldn't have done anything better?"
"No - I see nothing better. I think we shall go on always, like the Flying Dutchman," said Gwendolen wildly.
Grandcourt gave her one of his narrow examining glances, and then said, "If you like, we can go to Spezia in the morning."
"No; I shall like nothing better than this."
"Very well: we'll do the same tomorrow. But we must be turning in soon. I shall put about."


Desire has trimmed the sails, and Circumstance Brings but the breeze to fill them.
While Grandcourt on his beautiful black Yarico, the groom behind him on Criterion, was taking the pleasant ride from Diplow to Offendene, Gwendolen was seated before the mirror while her mother gathered up the lengthy mass of light-brown hair which she had been carefully brushing.
"Only gather it up easily and make a coil, mamma," said Gwendolen.
"Let me bring you some ear-rings, Gwen," said Mrs. Davilow, when the hair was adjusted, and they were both looking at the reflection in the glass. It was impossible for them not to notice that the eyes looked brighter than they had done of late, that there seemed to be a shadow lifted from the face, leaving all the lines once more in their placid youthfulness. The mother drew some inference that made her voice rather cheerful. "You do want your earrings?"
"No, mamma; I shall not wear any ornaments, and I shall put on my black silk. Black is the only wear when one is going to refuse an offer," said Gwendolen, with one of her old smiles at her mother, while she rose to throw off her dressing-gown.
"Suppose the offer is not made after all," said Mrs. Davilow, not without a sly intention.

While Grandcourt was riding to Offendene on his beautiful black Yarico, with the groom behind him on Criterion, Gwendolen was seated before the mirror while her mother carefully brushed her light-brown hair.
"Just gather it up easily and make a coil, mamma," said Gwendolen.
"Let me bring you some ear-rings, Gwen," said Mrs. Davilow, when the hair was adjusted, and they were both looking at the reflection in the glass. The eyes looked brighter than they had done of late; there seemed to be a shadow lifted from the face.
"No, mamma; no ornaments, and I shall put on my black silk. Black is the only colour to wear when one is going to refuse an offer," said Gwendolen, with one of her old smiles.
"Suppose the offer is not made?"


"Then that will be because I refuse it beforehand," said Gwendolen. "It comes to the same thing."
There was a proud little toss of the head as she said this; and when she walked down-stairs in her long black robes, there was just that firm poise of head and elasticity of form which had lately been missing, as in a parched plant. Her mother thought, "She is quite herself again. It must be pleasure in his coming. Can her mind be really made up against him?"

"Then that will be because I refuse it beforehand," said Gwendolen. "It comes to the same thing."
There was a proud toss of the head as she said this; and when she walked downstairs in her black robes, there was just that firm poise of head and elasticity of form which had lately been missing, as in a parched plant. Her mother thought, "She is quite herself again. It must be pleasure in his coming. Can her mind be really made up against him?"


Gwendolen would have been rather angry if that thought had been uttered; perhaps all the more because through the last twenty hours, with a brief interruption of sleep, she had been so occupied with perpetually alternating images and arguments for and against the possibility of her marrying Grandcourt, that the conclusion which she had determined on beforehand ceased to have any hold on her consciousness: the alternate dip of counterbalancing thoughts begotten of counterbalancing desires had brought her into a state in which no conclusion could look fixed to her. She would have expressed her resolve as before; but it was a form out of which the blood had been sucked--no more a part of quivering life than the "God's will be done" of one who is eagerly watching chances. She did not mean to accept Grandcourt; from the first moment of receiving his letter she had meant to refuse him; still, that could not but prompt her to look the unwelcome reasons full in the face until she had a little less awe of them, could not hinder her imagination from filling out her knowledge in various ways, some of which seemed to change the aspect of what she knew. By dint of looking at a dubious object with a constructive imagination, one can give it twenty different shapes. Her indistinct grounds of hesitation before the interview at the Whispering Stones, at present counted for nothing; they were all merged in the final repulsion. If it had not been for that day in Cardell Chase, she said to herself now, there would have been no obstacle to her marrying Grandcourt. On that day and after it, she had not reasoned and balanced; she had acted with a force of impulse against which all questioning was no more than a voice against a torrent. The impulse had come--not only from her maidenly pride and jealousy, not only from the shock of another woman's calamity thrust close on her vision, but--from her dread of wrong-doing, which was vague, it was true, and aloof from the daily details of her life, but not the less strong. Whatever was accepted as consistent with being a lady she had no scruple about; but from the dim region of what was called disgraceful, wrong, guilty, she shrunk with mingled pride and terror; and even apart from shame, her feeling would have made her place any deliberate injury of another in the region of guilt.

Gwendolen had been so occupied with perpetually alternating arguments for and against her marrying Grandcourt, that the conclusion which she had determined on ceased to have any hold on her mind. She was in a state in which no conclusion could look fixed to her. She would have expressed her resolve as before; but the blood had been sucked out of it. She did not mean to accept Grandcourt; still, that only prompted her to look the unwelcome reasons full in the face until she had a little less awe of them. By looking at a dubious object with a constructive imagination, one can give it twenty different shapes. Her indistinct hesitation before the interview at the Whispering Stones now counted for nothing; if it had not been for that day in Cardell Chase, she said to herself, there would have been no obstacle to her marrying Grandcourt. On that day, she had acted with an impulse which had come partly from her dread of wrong-doing. She shrank with pride and terror from the dim region of what was called disgraceful, wrong, or guilty.


But now--did she know exactly what was the state of the case with regard to Mrs. Glasher and her children? She had given a sort of promise--had said, "I will not interfere with your wishes." But would another woman who married Grandcourt be in fact the decisive obstacle to her wishes, or be doing her and her boy any real injury? Might it not be just as well, nay better, that Grandcourt should marry? For what could not a woman do when she was married, if she knew how to assert herself? Here all was constructive imagination. Gwendolen had about as accurate a conception of marriage--that is to say, of the mutual influences, demands, duties of man and woman in the state of matrimony--as she had of magnetic currents and the law of storms.
"Mamma managed badly," was her way of summing up what she had seen of her mother's experience: she herself would manage quite differently. And the trials of matrimony were the last theme into which Mrs. Davilow could choose to enter fully with this daughter.

But now - did she know the exact state of the case with regard to Mrs. Glasher? She had given a sort of promise - had said, "I will not interfere with your wishes." But might it not be just as well, nay better, that Grandcourt should marry? For what could not a woman do when she was married, if she knew how to assert herself? Here all was imagination. Gwendolen had about as accurate an idea of marriage - of its mutual influences, demands and duties - as she had of magnetic currents and the law of storms.
"Mamma managed badly," was how she summed up her mother's experience: she herself would manage quite differently.


"I wonder what mamma and my uncle would say if they knew about Mrs. Glasher!" thought Gwendolen in her inward debating; not that she could imagine herself telling them, even if she had not felt bound to silence. "I wonder what anybody would say; or what they would say to Mr. Grandcourt's marrying some one else and having other children!" To consider what "anybody" would say, was to be released from the difficulty of judging where everything was obscure to her when feeling had ceased to be decisive. She had only to collect her memories, which proved to her that "anybody" regarded the illegitimate children as more rightfully to be looked shy on and deprived of social advantages than illegitimate fathers. The verdict of "anybody" seemed to be that she had no reason to concern herself greatly on behalf of Mrs. Glasher and her children.

"I wonder what mamma and my uncle would say if they knew about Mrs. Glasher!" thought Gwendolen. "I wonder what anybody would say!" To consider what "anybody" would say, was to be released from the difficulty of judging: "anybody" would regard illegitimate children as rightfully to be looked down on and deprived of social advantages. The verdict of "anybody" seemed to be that she had no reason to concern herself greatly on behalf of Mrs. Glasher and her children.


But there was another way in which they had caused her concern. What others might think could not do away with a feeling which in the first instance would hardly be too strongly described as indignation and loathing that she should have been expected to unite herself with an outworn life, full of backward secrets which must have been more keenly felt than any association with _her_. True, the question of love on her own part had occupied her scarcely at all in relation to Grandcourt. The desirability of marriage for her had always seemed due to other feeling than love; and to be enamored was the part of the man, on whom the advances depended. Gwendolen had found no objection to Grandcourt's way of being enamored before she had had that glimpse of his past, which she resented as if it had been a deliberate offense against her. His advances to _her_ were deliberate, and she felt a retrospective disgust for them. Perhaps other men's lives were of the same kind--full of secrets which made the ignorant suppositions of the women they wanted to marry a farce at which they were laughing in their sleeves.

But this could not do away with her indignation and loathing that she should have been expected to unite herself with an outworn life, full of past secrets. True, love on her own part had hardly occupied her mind at all in relation to Grandcourt. The desirability of marriage for her had always seemed due to other feelings; and to be enamoured was the part of the man. Gwendolen had found no objection to Grandcourt's way of being enamoured before she had that glimpse of his past, which made her feel disgust for his addresses. Perhaps other men's lives were also full of secrets, and they were laughing up their sleeves at the ignorance of the women they wanted to marry.


These feelings of disgust and indignation had sunk deep; and though other troublous experience in the last weeks had dulled them from passion into remembrance, it was chiefly their reverberating activity which kept her firm to the understanding with herself, that she was not going to accept Grandcourt. She had never meant to form a new determination; she had only been considering what might be thought or said. If anything could have induced her to change, it would have been the prospect of making all things easy for "poor mamma:" that, she admitted, was a temptation. But no! she was going to refuse him. Meanwhile, the thought that he was coming to be refused was inspiriting: she had the white reins in her hands again; there was a new current in her frame, reviving her from the beaten-down consciousness in which she had been left by the interview with Klesmer. She was not now going to crave an opinion of her capabilities; she was going to exercise her power.

These feelings of disgust and indignation had sunk deep, and kept her firm to her decision that she was not going to accept Grandcourt. If anything could have induced her to change, it would have been the prospect of making all things easy for "poor mamma:" that, she admitted, was a temptation. But no! she was going to refuse him.
Meanwhile, the thought that he was coming to be refused was inspiriting: she had the reins in her hands again, and felt herself reviving from the beaten-down state in which she had been left by the interview with Klesmer. She was going to exercise her power.


Was this what made her heart palpitate annoyingly when she heard the horse's footsteps on the gravel?--when Miss Merry, who opened the door to Grandcourt, came to tell her that he was in the drawing-room? The hours of preparation and the triumph of the situation were apparently of no use: she might as well have seen Grandcourt coming suddenly on her in the midst of her despondency. While walking into the drawing-room, she had to concentrate all her energy in that self-control, which made her appear gravely gracious--as she gave her hand to him, and answered his hope that she was quite well in a voice as low and languid as his own. A moment afterward, when they were both of them seated on two of the wreath-painted chairs--Gwendolen upright with downcast eyelids, Grandcourt about two yards distant, leaning one arm over the back of his chair and looking at her, while he held his hat in his left hand--any one seeing them as a picture would have concluded that they were in some stage of love-making suspense. And certainly the love-making had begun: she already felt herself being wooed by this silent man seated at an agreeable distance, with the subtlest atmosphere of attar of roses and an attention bent wholly on her. And he also considered himself to be wooing: he was not a man to suppose that his presence carried no consequences; and he was exactly the man to feel the utmost piquancy in a girl whom he had not found quite calculable.
"I was disappointed not to find you at Leubronn," he began, his usual broken drawl having just a shade of amorous languor in it. "The place was intolerable without you. A mere kennel of a place. Don't you think so?"

Was this what made her heart palpitate annoyingly when she heard the horse's footsteps on the gravel? - when Miss Merry came to tell her that Grandcourt was in the drawing-room? Walking into the drawing-room, she had to concentrate all her energy in self-control, which made her appear gravely gracious as she answered his greeting in a voice as low and languid as his own.
When they were both seated - Gwendolen upright with downcast eyelids, Grandcourt about two yards distant, leaning one arm over the back of his chair while he looked at her - anyone seeing them would have concluded that they were in some stage of love-making suspense. And she already felt herself being wooed by this silent man seated at an agreeable distance, with his attention bent wholly on her. And he also considered himself to be wooing: he felt the utmost piquancy in a girl whom he had not found quite calculable.
"I was disappointed not to find you at Leubronn," he began, his usual broken drawl having just a shade of amorous languor in it. "The place was intolerable without you. A mere kennel of a place. Don't you think so?"


"I can't judge what it would be without myself," said Gwendolen, turning her eyes on him, with some recovered sense of mischief. "_With_ myself I like it well enough to have stayed longer, if I could. But I was obliged to come home on account of family troubles."
"It was very cruel of you to go to Leubronn," said Grandcourt, taking no notice of the troubles, on which Gwendolen--she hardly knew why--wished that there should be a clear understanding at once. "You must have known that it would spoil everything: you knew you were the heart and soul of everything that went on. Are you quite reckless about me?"
It would be impossible to say "yes" in a tone that would be taken seriously; equally impossible to say "no;" but what else could she say? In her difficulty, she turned down her eyelids again and blushed over face and neck. Grandcourt saw her in a new phase, and believed that she was showing her inclination. But he was determined that she should show it more decidedly.

"I can't judge what it would be without myself," said Gwendolen, with some recovered sense of mischief. "With myself I liked it well enough. But I was obliged to come home on account of family troubles."
"It was very cruel of you to go to Leubronn," said Grandcourt, taking no notice of the troubles, on which Gwendolen - she hardly knew why - wished that there should be a clear understanding at once. "You knew you were the heart and soul of everything that went on. Are you quite reckless about me?"
It was impossible to say "yes"; equally impossible to say "no;" but what else could she say? In her difficulty, she looked down, blushing. Grandcourt believed that she was showing her inclination. But he was determined that she should show it more decidedly.


"Perhaps there is some deeper interest? Some attraction--some engagement--which it would have been only fair to make me aware of? Is there any man who stands between us?"

"Perhaps there is some deeper interest? Some attraction - some engagement? Is there any man who stands between us?"


Inwardly the answer framed itself. "No; but there is a woman." Yet how could she utter this? Even if she had not promised that woman to be silent, it would have been impossible for her to enter on the subject with Grandcourt. But how could she arrest his wooing by beginning to make a formal speech--"I perceive your intention--it is most flattering, etc."? A fish honestly invited to come and be eaten has a clear course in declining, but how if it finds itself swimming against a net? And apart from the network, would she have dared at once to say anything decisive? Gwendolen had not time to be clear on that point. As it was, she felt compelled to silence, and after a pause, Grandcourt said,
"Am I to understand that some one else is preferred?"

Inwardly the answer framed itself. "No; but there is a woman." Yet how could she utter this? Even if she had not promised that woman to be silent, it would have been impossible for her to enter on the subject with Grandcourt. Gwendolen felt compelled to silence, and after a pause, Grandcourt said-
"Am I to understand that some one else is preferred?"


Gwendolen, now impatient of her own embarrassment, determined to rush at the difficulty and free herself. She raised her eyes again and said with something of her former clearness and defiance, "No"--wishing him to understand, "What then? I may not be ready to take _you_." There was nothing that Grandcourt could not understand which he perceived likely to affect his _amour propre_.
"The last thing I would do, is to importune you. I should not hope to win you by making myself a bore. If there were no hope for me, I would ask you to tell me so at once, that I might just ride away to--no matter where."

Gwendolen, now impatient of her own embarrassment, determined to rush at the difficulty and free herself. She raised her eyes again and said with her former clearness and defiance, "No," wishing him to understand that she might not be ready to take him.
"The last thing I would do, is to importune you. I should not hope to win you by making myself a bore. If there were no hope for me, I would ask you to tell me so at once, that I might just ride away to - no matter where."


Almost to her own astonishment, Gwendolen felt a sudden alarm at the image of Grandcourt finally riding away. What would be left her then? Nothing but the former dreariness. She liked him to be there. She snatched at the subject that would defer any decisive answer.
"I fear you are not aware of what has happened to us. I have lately had to think so much of my mamma's troubles, that other subjects have been quite thrown into the background. She has lost all her fortune, and we are going to leave this place. I must ask you to excuse my seeming preoccupied."

Almost to her own astonishment, Gwendolen felt a sudden alarm at the image of Grandcourt finally riding away. What would be left her then? Nothing but the former dreariness. She liked him to be there. She snatched at the subject that would defer any decisive answer.
"I fear you are not aware of what has happened to us. I have lately had to think so much of my mamma's troubles, that other matters have been quite thrown into the background. She has lost all her fortune, and we are going to leave this place. I must ask you to excuse my seeming preoccupied."


In eluding a direct appeal Gwendolen recovered some of her self-possession. She spoke with dignity and looked straight at Grandcourt, whose long, narrow, impenetrable eyes met hers, and mysteriously arrested them: mysteriously; for the subtly-varied drama between man and woman is often such as can hardly be rendered in words put together like dominoes, according to obvious fixed marks. The word of all work, Love, will no more express the myriad modes of mutual attraction, than the word Thought can inform you what is passing through your neighbor's mind. It would be hard to tell on which side--Gwendolen's or Grandcourt's--the influence was more mixed. At that moment his strongest wish was to be completely master of this creature--this piquant combination of maidenliness and mischief: that she knew things which had made her start away from him, spurred him to triumph over that repugnance; and he was believing that he should triumph. And she--ah, piteous equality in the need to dominate!--she was overcome like the thirsty one who is drawn toward the seeming water in the desert, overcome by the suffused sense that here in this man's homage to her lay the rescue from helpless subjection to an oppressive lot.
All the while they were looking at each other; and Grandcourt said, slowly and languidly, as if it were of no importance, other things having been settled,
"You will tell me now, I hope, that Mrs. Davilow's loss of fortune will not trouble you further. You will trust me to prevent it from weighing upon her. You will give me the claim to provide against that."

In eluding a direct appeal Gwendolen recovered some of her self-possession. She spoke with dignity and looked straight at Grandcourt, whose long, narrow, impenetrable eyes met hers, and mysteriously arrested them. It would be hard to tell on which side - Gwendolen's or Grandcourt's - the effect of that look was more mixed. At that moment his strongest wish was to be completely master of this creature - this piquant combination of maidenliness and mischief. The fact that she knew things which had repelled her, spurred him to triumph over that repugnance; and he believed that he should triumph.
And she - ah, piteous equality in the need to dominate! - she was overcome like the thirsty one who is drawn toward the seeming water in the desert, overcome by the sense that this man offered rescue from helpless subjection to an oppressive lot.
All the while they were looking at each other; and Grandcourt said, slowly and languidly, as if it were of no importance,
"You will tell me now, I hope, that Mrs. Davilow's loss of fortune will not trouble you further. You will trust me to prevent it from weighing upon her. You will give me the claim to provide against that."


The little pauses and refined drawlings with which this speech was uttered, gave time for Gwendolen to go through the dream of a life. As the words penetrated her, they had the effect of a draught of wine, which suddenly makes all things easier, desirable things not so wrong, and people in general less disagreeable. She had a momentary phantasmal love for this man who chose his words so well, and who was a mere incarnation of delicate homage. Repugnance, dread, scruples--these were dim as remembered pains, while she was already tasting relief under the immediate pain of hopelessness. She imagined herself already springing to her mother, and being playful again. Yet when Grandcourt had ceased to speak, there was an instant in which she was conscious of being at the turning of the ways.
"You are very generous," she said, not moving her eyes, and speaking with a gentle intonation.
"You accept what will make such things a matter of course?" said Grandcourt, without any new eagerness. "You consent to become my wife?"

The pauses and refined drawlings with which this speech was uttered, gave time for Gwendolen to go through the dream of a life. The words had the effect of a draught of wine, which suddenly makes all things easier. She had a momentary phantasmal love for this man who chose his words so well, and paid her such delicate homage. Repugnance, dread, scruples - these were dim as remembered pains. She imagined herself already springing to her mother. Yet when Grandcourt had ceased to speak, there was an instant in which she was conscious of being at the turning of the ways.
"You are very generous," she said, not moving her eyes, and speaking gently.
"You accept this provision?" said Grandcourt, without any new eagerness. "You consent to become my wife?"


This time Gwendolen remained quite pale. Something made her rise from her seat in spite of herself and walk to a little distance. Then she turned and with her hands folded before her stood in silence.
Grandcourt immediately rose too, resting his hat on the chair, but still keeping hold of it. The evident hesitation of this destitute girl to take his splendid offer stung him into a keenness of interest such as he had not known for years. None the less because he attributed her hesitation entirely to her knowledge about Mrs. Glasher. In that attitude of preparation, he said,
"Do you command me to go?" No familiar spirit could have suggested to him more effective words.

Something made her rise from her seat and walk a little distance. Then she turned and with her hands folded stood in silence.
Grandcourt immediately rose too. The hesitation of this destitute girl to take his splendid offer stung him into a keenness of interest such as he had not known for years; none the less because he attributed her hesitation entirely to her knowledge about Mrs. Glasher.
"Do you command me to go?" he said.


"No," said Gwendolen. She could not let him go: that negative was a clutch. She seemed to herself to be, after all, only drifted toward the tremendous decision--but drifting depends on something besides the currents when the sails have been set beforehand.
"You accept my devotion?" said Grandcourt, holding his hat by his side and looking straight into her eyes, without other movement. Their eyes meeting in that way seemed to allow any length of pause: but wait as long as she would, how could she contradict herself? What had she detained him for? He had shut out any explanation.

"No," said Gwendolen. She could not let him go: that no clutched at his presence. She seemed to herself to be drifting toward the tremendous decision - but drifting depends not only on the currents but on how the sails have been set beforehand.
"You accept my devotion?" said Grandcourt, looking straight into her eyes, without other movement. Their eyes meeting in that way seemed to allow any length of pause: but how could she contradict herself? What had she detained him for? He had shut out any explanation.


"Yes," came as gravely from Gwendolen's lips as if she had been answering to her name in a court of justice. He received it gravely, and they still looked at each other in the same attitude. Was there ever such a way before of accepting the bliss-giving "Yes"? Grandcourt liked better to be at that distance from her, and to feel under a ceremony imposed by an indefinable prohibition that breathed from Gwendolen's bearing.
But he did at length lay down his hat and advance to take her hand, just pressing his lips upon it and letting it go again. She thought his behavior perfect, and gained a sense of freedom which made her almost ready to be mischievous. Her "Yes" entailed so little at this moment that there was nothing to screen the reversal of her gloomy prospects; her vision was filled by her own release from the Momperts, and her mother's release from Sawyer's Cottage. With a happy curl of the lips, she said,
"Will you not see mamma? I will fetch her."

"Yes," came as gravely from Gwendolen's lips as if she had been answering to her name in a court of justice. He received it gravely, and they still looked at each other in the same attitude. Was there ever such a way of accepting the bliss-giving "Yes"? Grandcourt liked better to be at that distance from her, and to feel under a ceremony imposed by an indefinable prohibition that breathed from Gwendolen's bearing.
But he did at length advance to take her hand, just pressing his lips upon it and letting it go again. She thought his behaviour perfect, and gained a sense of freedom which made her almost ready to be mischievous. Her "Yes" entailed so little at this moment that there was nothing to screen the reversal of her gloomy prospects; her vision was filled by her own release from the Momperts, and her mother's release from Sawyer's Cottage. With a happy curl of the lips, she said-
"Will you not see mamma? I will fetch her."


"Let us wait a little," said Grandcourt, in his favorite attitude, having his left forefinger and thumb in his waist-coat pocket, and with his right hand caressing his whisker, while he stood near Gwendolen and looked at her--not unlike a gentleman who has a felicitous introduction at an evening party.
"Have you anything else to say to me?" said Gwendolen, playfully.
"Yes--I know having things said to you is a great bore," said Grandcourt, rather sympathetically.
"Not when they are things I like to hear."
"Will it bother you to be asked how soon we can be married?"
"I think it will, to-day," said Gwendolen, putting up her chin saucily.
"Not to-day, then, but to-morrow. Think of it before I come to-morrow. In a fortnight--or three weeks--as soon as possible."

"Let us wait a little," said Grandcourt, in his favourite attitude, having his left forefinger and thumb in his waist-coat pocket, and with his right hand caressing his whisker, while he looked at Gwendolen.
"Have you anything else to say to me?" she said, playfully.
"I know having things said to you is a great bore," said Grandcourt, rather sympathetically.
"Not when they are things I like to hear."
"Will it bother you to be asked how soon we can be married?"
"I think it will, today," said Gwendolen, putting up her chin saucily.
"Not today, then, but tomorrow. Think of it before I come tomorrow. In a fortnight - or three weeks - as soon as possible."


"Ah, you think you will be tired of my company," said Gwendolen. "I notice when people are married the husband is not so much with his wife as when they are engaged. But perhaps I shall like that better, too."
She laughed charmingly.
"You shall have whatever you like," said Grandcourt.
"And nothing that I don't like?--please say that; because I think I dislike what I don't like more than I like what I like," said Gwendolen, finding herself in the woman's paradise, where all her nonsense is adorable.
Grandcourt paused; these were subtilties in which he had much experience of his own. "I don't know--this is such a brute of a world, things are always turning up that one doesn't like. I can't always hinder your being bored. If you like to ride Criterion, I can't hinder his coming down by some chance or other."

"Ah, you think you will be tired of my company," said Gwendolen. "I notice when people are married the husband is not so much with his wife as when they are engaged. But perhaps I shall like that better, too."
She laughed charmingly.
"You shall have whatever you like," said Grandcourt.
"And nothing that I don't like - please say that; because I think I dislike what I don't like more than I like what I like," said Gwendolen, finding herself in the woman's paradise, where all her nonsense is adorable.
Grandcourt paused; these were subtleties in which he had much experience of his own. "I don't know. This is such a brute of a world, things are always turning up that one doesn't like. If you like to ride Criterion, I can't prevent his coming down by some chance or other."


"Ah, my friend Criterion, how is he?"
"He is outside: I made the groom ride him, that you might see him. He had the side-saddle on for an hour or two yesterday. Come to the window and look at him."
They could see the two horses being taken slowly round the sweep, and the beautiful creatures, in their fine grooming, sent a thrill of exultation through Gwendolen. They were the symbols of command and luxury, in delightful contrast with the ugliness of poverty and humiliation at which she had lately been looking close.
"Will you ride Criterion to-morrow?" said Grandcourt. "If you will, everything shall be arranged."

"Ah, my friend Criterion, how is he?"
"He is outside: I made the groom ride him, that you might see him. Come to the window and look at him."
They could see the two horses being taken slowly round the sweep, and the beautiful creatures sent a thrill of exultation through Gwendolen. They were symbols of command and luxury, in delightful contrast with the ugliness of poverty and humiliation at which she had lately been looking.
"Will you ride Criterion tomorrow?" said Grandcourt. "If you will, everything shall be arranged."


"I should like it of all things," said Gwendolen. "I want to lose myself in a gallop again. But now I must go and fetch mamma."
"Take my arm to the door, then," said Grandcourt, and she accepted. Their faces were very near each other, being almost on a level, and he was looking at her. She thought his manners as a lover more agreeable than any she had seen described. She had no alarm lest he meant to kiss her, and was so much at her ease, that she suddenly paused in the middle of the room and said half archly, half earnestly,
"Oh, while I think of it--there is something I dislike that you can save me from. I do _not_ like Mr. Lush's company."

"I should like it of all things," said Gwendolen. "I want to lose myself in a gallop again. But now I must go and fetch mamma."
"Take my arm to the door, then," said Grandcourt, and she accepted. Their faces were very near each other, almost on a level. She thought his manners as a lover more agreeable than any she had seen described. She had no alarm lest he meant to kiss her, and was so much at her ease, that she suddenly paused and said half archly, half earnestly-
"Oh, while I think of it, there is something I dislike that you can save me from. I do not like Mr. Lush's company."


"You shall not have it. I'll get rid of him."
"You are not fond of him yourself?"
"Not in the least. I let him hang on me because he has always been a poor devil," said Grandcourt, in an _adagio_ of utter indifference. "They got him to travel with me when I was a lad. He was always that coarse-haired kind of brute--sort of cross between a hog and a _dilettante_."

"You shall not have it. I'll get rid of him."
"You are not fond of him yourself?"
"Not in the least. I let him hang on me because he has always been a poor devil," said Grandcourt, in utter indifference. "A coarse-haired kind of brute - sort of cross between a hog and a dilettante."


Gwendolen laughed. All that seemed kind and natural enough: Grandcourt's fastidiousness enhanced the kindness. And when they reached the door, his way of opening it for her was the perfection of easy homage. Really, she thought, he was likely to be the least disagreeable of husbands.
Mrs. Davilow was waiting anxiously in her bed-room when Gwendolen entered, stepped toward her quickly, and kissing her on both cheeks said in a low tone, "Come down, mamma, and see Mr. Grandcourt. I am engaged to him."
"My darling child," said Mrs. Davilow, with a surprise that was rather solemn than glad.

Gwendolen laughed. When they reached the door, his way of opening it for her was the perfection of easy homage. Really, she thought, he was likely to be the least disagreeable of husbands.
Mrs. Davilow was waiting anxiously in her bedroom when Gwendolen entered, and kissing her, said, "Come down, mamma, and see Mr. Grandcourt. I am engaged to him."
"My darling child," said Mrs. Davilow, with surprise.


"Yes," said Gwendolen, in the same tone, and with a quickness which implied that it was needless to ask questions. "Everything is settled. You are not going to Sawyer's Cottage, I am not going to be inspected by Mrs. Mompert, and everything is to be as I like. So come down with me immediately."

"Yes," said Gwendolen. "Everything is settled. You are not going to Sawyer's Cottage, I am not going to be inspected by Mrs. Mompert, and everything is to be as I like. So come down with me immediately."


I will not clothe myself in wreck--wear gems Sawed from cramped finger-bones of women drowned; Feel chilly vaporous hands of ireful ghosts Clutching my necklace: trick my maiden breast With orphans' heritage. Let your dead love Marry its dead.
Gwendolen looked lovely and vigorous as a tall, newly-opened lily the next morning: there was a reaction of young energy in her, and yesterday's self-distrust seemed no more than the transient shiver on the surface of a full stream. The roving archery match in Cardell Chase was a delightful prospect for the sport's sake: she felt herself beforehand moving about like a wood-nymph under the beeches (in appreciative company), and the imagined scene lent a charm to further advances on the part of Grandcourt--not an impassioned lyrical Daphnis for the wood-nymph, certainly: but so much the better. To-day Gwendolen foresaw him making slow conversational approaches to a declaration, and foresaw herself awaiting and encouraging it according to the rational conclusion which she had expressed to her uncle.
When she came down to breakfast (after every one had left the table except Mrs. Davilow) there were letters on her plate. One of them she read with a gathering smile, and then handed it to her mamma, who, on returning it, smiled also, finding new cheerfulness in the good spirits her daughter had shown ever since waking, and said,
"You don't feel inclined to go a thousand miles away?"
"Not exactly so far."

Gwendolen looked as lovely and vigorous as a tall, newly-opened lily the next morning: yesterday's self-distrust seemed no more than the transient shiver on the surface of a full stream. The roving archery match in Cardell Chase was a delightful prospect: she imagined herself moving like a wood-nymph under the beeches (in appreciative company), and the scene lent a charm to any further advances by Grandcourt. Gwendolen foresaw him making slow conversational approaches to a declaration, and foresaw herself encouraging it.
When she came down to breakfast there were letters on her plate. One of them she read with a gathering smile, and then handed it to her mamma, who, on returning it, said-
"You don't feel inclined to go a thousand miles away?"
"Not exactly so far."


"It was a sad omission not to have written again before this. Can't you write now--before we set out this morning?"
"It is not so pressing. To-morrow will do. You see they leave town to-day. I must write to Dover. They will be there till Monday."
"Shall I write for you, dear--if it teases you?"
Gwendolen did not speak immediately, but after sipping her coffee, answered brusquely, "Oh no, let it be; I will write to-morrow." Then, feeling a touch of compunction, she looked up and said with playful tenderness, "Dear, old, beautiful mamma!"

"It was a sad omission not to have answered their invitation before this. Can't you write this morning?"
"It is not so pressing. Tomorrow will do. They leave town today; I will write to Dover. They will be there till Monday."
"Shall I write for you, dear - if it teases you?"
Gwendolen did not speak immediately, but after sipping her coffee, answered brusquely, "No, I will write tomorrow." Then, feeling compunction, she said with playful tenderness, "Dear, old, beautiful mamma!"


"Old, child, truly."
"Please don't, mamma! I meant old for darling. You are hardly twenty-five years older than I am. When you talk in that way my life shrivels up before me."
"One can have a great deal of happiness in twenty-five years, my dear."
"I must lose no time in beginning," said Gwendolen, merrily. "The sooner I get my palaces and coaches the better."
"And a good husband who adores you, Gwen," said Mrs. Davilow, encouragingly.
Gwendolen put out her lips saucily and said nothing.

"Old, child, truly."
"Please don't, mamma! You are hardly twenty-five years older than I am. When you talk in that way my life shrivels up before me."
"One can have a great deal of happiness in twenty-five years, my dear."
"I must lose no time," said Gwendolen, merrily. "The sooner I get my palaces and coaches the better."
"And a good husband who adores you, Gwen," said Mrs. Davilow, encouragingly.
Gwendolen put out her lips saucily and said nothing.


It was a slight drawback on her pleasure in starting that the rector was detained by magistrate's business, and would probably not be able to get to Cardell Chase at all that day. She cared little that Mrs. Gascoigne and Anna chose not to go without him, but her uncle's presence would have seemed to make it a matter of course that the decision taken would be acted on. For decision in itself began to be formidable. Having come close to accepting Grandcourt, Gwendolen felt this lot of unhoped-for fullness rounding itself too definitely. When we take to wishing a great deal for ourselves, whatever we get soon turns into mere limitation and exclusion. Still there was the reassuring thought that marriage would be the gate into a larger freedom.

Today's decision began to be formidable. Still, there was the reassuring thought that marriage would be the gate into a larger freedom.


The place of meeting was a grassy spot called Green Arbor, where a bit of hanging wood made a sheltering amphitheatre. It was here that the coachful of servants with provisions had to prepare the picnic meal; and the warden of the Chase was to guide the roving archers so as to keep them within the due distance from this centre, and hinder them from wandering beyond the limit which had been fixed on--a curve that might be drawn through certain well-known points, such as the double Oak, the Whispering Stones, and the High Cross. The plan was to take only a preliminary stroll before luncheon, keeping the main roving expedition for the more exquisite lights of the afternoon. The muster was rapid enough to save every one from dull moments of waiting, and when the groups began to scatter themselves through the light and shadow made here by closely neighboring beeches and there by rarer oaks, one may suppose that a painter would have been glad to look on. This roving archery was far prettier than the stationary game, but success in shooting at variable marks were less favored by practice, and the hits were distributed among the volunteer archers otherwise than they would have been in target-shooting. From this cause, perhaps, as well as from the twofold distraction of being preoccupied and wishing not to betray her preoccupation, Gwendolen did not greatly distinguish herself in these first experiments, unless it were by the lively grace with which she took her comparative failure. She was in white and green as on the day of the former meeting, when it made an epoch for her that she was introduced to Grandcourt; he was continually by her side now, yet it would have been hard to tell from mere looks and manners that their relation to each other had at all changed since their first conversation. Still there were other grounds that made most persons conclude them to be, if not engaged already, on the eve of being so. And she believed this herself. As they were all returning toward Green Arbor in divergent groups, not thinking at all of taking aim but merely chattering, words passed which seemed really the beginning of that end--the beginning of her acceptance.

The meeting place was a grassy spot called Green Arbour. It was here that the servants would prepare the picnic meal; while the warden of the Chase would guide the roving archers so as to keep them from wandering too far. The plan was to take only a stroll before luncheon, keeping the main roving expedition for the afternoon. When the groups began to scatter themselves through the light and shadow made by beeches and oaks, a painter would have been glad to look on.
This roving archery was far prettier than the stationary game, but more difficult. Gwendolen did not distinguish herself in her first experiments, except by her lively grace. Grandcourt was continually by her side, yet it would have been hard to tell from mere looks and manners that their relation to each other had changed at all since their first conversation. Still most persons concluded them to be, if not engaged already, on the eve of being so. And she believed this herself.
As the groups returned toward Green Arbour,


Grandcourt said, "Do you know how long it is since I first saw you in this dress?"
"The archery meeting was on the 25th, and this is the 13th," said Gwendolen, laughingly. "I am not good at calculating, but I will venture to say that it must be nearly three weeks."
A little pause, and then he said, "That is a great loss of time."
"That your knowing me has caused you? Pray don't be uncomplimentary; I don't like it."
Pause again. "It is because of the gain that I feel the loss."

 Grandcourt said, "Do you know how long it is since I first saw you in this dress?"
"The archery meeting was on the 25th, and this is the 13th," said Gwendolen, laughingly. "Nearly three weeks."
A little pause, and then he said, "That is a great loss of time."
"That your knowing me has caused you? Pray don't be uncomplimentary."
Pause again. "It is because of the gain that I feel the loss."


Here Gwendolen herself left a pause. She was thinking, "He is really very ingenious. He never speaks stupidly." Her silence was so unusual that it seemed the strongest of favorable answers, and he continued:
"The gain of knowing you makes me feel the time I lose in uncertainty. Do _you_ like uncertainty?"
"I think I do, rather," said Gwendolen, suddenly beaming on him with a playful smile. "There is more in it."
Grandcourt met her laughing eyes with a slow, steady look right into them, which seemed like vision in the abstract, and then said, "Do you mean more torment for me?"

Here Gwendolen herself paused, thinking, "He is really very ingenious. He never speaks stupidly."
He continued: "The gain of knowing you makes me feel the time I lose in uncertainty. Do you like uncertainty?"
"I think I do, rather," said Gwendolen, with a playful smile. "There is more in it."
Grandcourt met her laughing eyes with a slow, steady look right into them, and said, "Do you mean more torment for me?"


There was something so strange to Gwendolen in this moment that she was quite shaken out of her usual self-consciousness. Blushing and turning away her eyes, she said, "No, that would make me sorry."
Grandcourt would have followed up this answer, which the change in her manner made apparently decisive of her favorable intention; but he was not in any way overcome so as to be unaware that they were now, within sight of everybody, descending the space into Green Arbor, and descending it at an ill-chosen point where it began to be inconveniently steep. This was a reason for offering his hand in the literal sense to help her; she took it, and they came down in silence, much observed by those already on the level--among others by Mrs. Arrowpoint, who happened to be standing with Mrs. Davilow. That lady had now made up her mind that Grandcourt's merits were not such as would have induced Catherine to accept him, Catherine having so high a standard as to have refused Lord Slogan. Hence she looked at the tenant of Diplow with dispassionate eyes.
"Mr. Grandcourt is not equal as a man to his uncle, Sir Hugo Mallinger--too languid. To be sure, Mr. Grandcourt is a much younger man, but I shouldn't wonder if Sir Hugo were to outlive him, notwithstanding the difference of years. It is ill calculating on successions," concluded Mrs. Arrowpoint, rather too loudly.
"It is indeed," said Mrs. Davilow, able to assent with quiet cheerfulness, for she was so well satisfied with the actual situation of affairs that her habitual melancholy in their general unsatisfactoriness was altogether in abeyance.

There was something so strange to Gwendolen in this moment that she was quite shaken. Blushing and looking away, she said, "No, that would make me sorry."
Grandcourt would have followed up this favourable answer; but he was aware that they were now within sight of everybody, descending a steep slope into Green Arbour. He offered his hand to help her, and they came down in silence, observed by many.


I am not concerned to tell of the food that was eaten in that green refectory, or even to dwell on the stories of the forest scenery that spread themselves out beyond the level front of the hollow; being just now bound to tell a story of life at a stage when the blissful beauty of earth and sky entered only by narrow and oblique inlets into the consciousness, which was busy with a small social drama almost as little penetrated by a feeling of wider relations as if it had been a puppet-show. It will be understood that the food and champagne were of the best--the talk and laughter too, in the sense of belonging to the best society, where no one makes an invidious display of anything in particular, and the advantages of the world are taken with that high-bred depreciation which follows from being accustomed to them. Some of the gentlemen strolled a little and indulged in a cigar, there being a sufficient interval before four o'clock--the time for beginning to rove again. Among these, strange to say, was Grandcourt; but not Mr. Lush, who seemed to be taking his pleasure quite generously to-day by making himself particularly serviceable, ordering everything for everybody, and by this activity becoming more than ever a blot on the scene to Gwendolen, though he kept himself amiably aloof from her, and never even looked at her obviously. When there was a general move to prepare for starting, it appeared that the bows had all been put under the charge of Lord Brackenshaw's valet, and Mr. Lush was concerned to save ladies the trouble of fetching theirs from the carriage where they were propped. He did not intend to bring Gwendolen's, but she, fearful lest he should do so, hurried to fetch it herself. The valet, seeing her approach, met her with it, and in giving it into her hand gave also a letter addressed to her. She asked no question about it, perceived at a glance that the address was in a lady's handwriting (of the delicate kind which used to be esteemed feminine before the present uncial period), and moving away with her bow in her hand, saw Mr. Lush coming to fetch other bows. To avoid meeting him she turned aside and walked with her back toward the stand of carriages, opening the letter. It contained these words,

I am not concerned to tell of the food that was eaten in that green refectory: it will be understood that it was of the best - the talk and laughter too, in the sense of belonging to the best society. Some of the gentlemen strolled and indulged in a cigar, there being an interval before four o'clock - the time to rove again. Among these, strange to say, was Grandcourt; but not Mr. Lush, who was making himself serviceable to everybody, and becoming more than ever a blot on the scene to Gwendolen, though he kept himself amiably aloof from her.
When there was a general move to start, Mr. Lush offered to fetch the ladies' bows from the charge of Mr Brackenshaw's valet; but Gwendolen hurried to fetch hers herself. The valet, on her approach, gave her the bow and also a letter addressed to her.
She perceived at a glance that the address was in a lady's handwriting. Mr. Lush was coming to fetch other bows: to avoid meeting him she walked away, opening the letter. It contained these words-


If Miss Harleth is in doubt whether she should accept Mr. Grandcourt, let her break from her party after they have passed the Whispering Stones and return to that spot. She will then hear something to decide her; but she can only hear it by keeping this letter a strict secret from every one. If she does not act according to this letter, she will repent, as the woman who writes it has repented. The secrecy Miss Harleth will feel herself bound in honor to guard.
Gwendolen felt an inward shock, but her immediate thought was, "It is come in time." It lay in her youthfulness that she was absorbed by the idea of the revelation to be made, and had not even a momentary suspicion of contrivance that could justify her in showing the letter. Her mind gathered itself up at once into the resolution, that she would manage to go unobserved to the Whispering Stones; and thrusting the letter into her pocket she turned back to rejoin the company, with that sense of having something to conceal which to her nature had a bracing quality and helped her to be mistress of herself.

'If Miss Harleth is in doubt whether to accept Mr. Grandcourt, let her leave her party after they have passed the Whispering Stones and return to that spot. She will then hear something to decide her; but only by keeping this letter a strict secret from everyone. If she does not act according to this letter, she will repent, as the woman who writes it has repented. The secrecy Miss Harleth will feel herself bound in honour to guard.'
Gwendolen felt an inward shock; but her immediate thought was, "It is come in time." Her youthfulness meant that she was absorbed by the idea of the revelation to be made, and did not even think of showing the letter to anyone. She at once resolved that she would manage to go unobserved to the Whispering Stones; and thrusting the letter into her pocket she turned back to rejoin the company.


It was a surprise to every one that Grandcourt was not, like the other smokers, on the spot in time to set out roving with the rest. "We shall alight on him by-and-by," said Lord Brackenshaw; "he can't be gone far." At any rate, no man could be waited for. This apparent forgetfulness might be taken for the distraction of a lover so absorbed in thinking of the beloved object as to forget an appointment which would bring him into her actual presence. And the good-natured Earl gave Gwendolen a distant jocose hint to that effect, which she took with suitable quietude. But the thought in her mind was "Can he too be starting away from a decision?" It was not exactly a pleasant thought to her; but it was near the truth. "Starting away," however, was not the right expression for the languor of intention that came over Grandcourt, like a fit of diseased numbness, when an end seemed within easy reach: to desist then, when all expectation was to the contrary, became another gratification of mere will, sublimely independent of definite motive. At that moment he had begun a second large cigar in a vague, hazy obstinacy which, if Lush or any other mortal who might be insulted with impunity had interrupted by overtaking him with a request for his return, would have expressed itself by a slow removal of his cigar, to say in an undertone, "You'll be kind enough to go to the devil, will you?"

It was a surprise to everyone that Grandcourt was not there in time to set out roving with the rest. "We shall find him by-and-by," said Lord Brackenshaw. No man could be waited for. This apparent forgetfulness might be taken for the distraction of a lover so absorbed in thinking of his beloved as to forget an appointment which would bring him into her actual presence. But Gwendolen thought, "Can he too be starting away from a decision?"
It was not exactly a pleasant thought; but it was near the truth. "Starting away," however, was not the right expression for the languor that came over Grandcourt, like a fit of diseased numbness, when an end seemed within easy reach. At that moment he had begun a second large cigar in a vague, hazy obstinacy; if anyone had interrupted him to request his return, he would have said in a slow undertone, "You'll be kind enough to go to the devil, will you?"


But he was not interrupted, and the rovers set off without any visible depression of spirits, leaving behind only a few of the less vigorous ladies, including Mrs. Davilow, who preferred a quiet stroll free from obligation to keep up with others. The enjoyment of the day was soon at its highest pitch, the archery getting more spirited and the changing scenes of the forest from roofed grove to open glade growing lovelier with the lengthening shadows, and the deeply-felt but undefinable gradations of the mellowing afternoon. It was agreed that they were playing an extemporized _As you like it_; and when a pretty compliment had been turned to Gwendolen about her having the part of Rosalind, she felt the more compelled to be surpassing in loveliness. This was not very difficult to her, for the effect of what had happened to-day was an excitement which needed a vent--a sense of adventure rather than alarm, and a straining toward the management of her retreat, so as not to be impeded.
The roving had been lasting nearly an hour before the arrival at the Whispering Stones, two tall conical blocks that leaned toward each other like gigantic gray-mantled figures. They were soon surveyed and passed by with the remark that they would be good ghosts on a starlit night. But a soft sunlight was on them now, and Gwendolen felt daring. The stones were near a fine grove of beeches, where the archers found plenty of marks.
"How far are we from Green Arbor now?" said Gwendolen, having got in front by the side of the warden.

But he was not interrupted, and the rovers set off, leaving behind only a few ladies, including Mrs. Davilow, who preferred a quiet stroll. The enjoyment of the day was soon at its highest pitch, the archery getting more spirited and the changing scenes of the forest growing lovelier with the lengthening shadows of the mellowing afternoon. Gwendolen felt an excitement - a sense of adventure rather than alarm.
The roving had lasted nearly an hour before the arrival at the Whispering Stones, two tall blocks that leaned toward each other like gigantic grey-mantled figures. They were soon passed by, on the way to a fine grove of beeches, where the archers found plenty of marks.


"Oh, not more than half a mile, taking along the avenue we're going to cross up there: but I shall take round a couple of miles, by the High Cross."
She was falling back among the rest, when suddenly they seemed all to be hurrying obliquely forward under the guidance of Mr. Lush, and lingering a little where she was, she perceived her opportunity of slipping away. Soon she was out of sight, and without running she seemed to herself to fly along the ground and count the moments nothing till she found herself back again at the Whispering Stones. They turned their blank gray sides to her: what was there on the other side? If there were nothing after all? That was her only dread now--to have to turn back again in mystification; and walking round the right-hand stone without pause, she found herself in front of some one whose large dark eyes met hers at a foot's distance. In spite of expectation, she was startled and shrank bank, but in doing so she could take in the whole figure of this stranger and perceive that she was unmistakably a lady, and one who must have been exceedingly handsome. She perceived, also, that a few yards from her were two children seated on the grass.
"Miss Harleth?" said the lady.

Suddenly the group seemed to be hurrying forward under the guidance of Mr. Lush, and Gwendolen perceived her opportunity of slipping away. Soon she was out of sight, and without running she seemed to fly along the ground till she was back at the Whispering Stones. They turned their blank grey sides to her: what was on the other side?
Walking round the right-hand stone, she found herself in front of some one whose large dark eyes met hers. Startled, she shrank bank, but at the same time perceived that the stranger was a lady, and one who must have been exceedingly handsome. She perceived, also, that a few yards away were two children seated on the grass.
"Miss Harleth?" said the lady.


"Yes." All Gwendolen's consciousness was wonder.
"Have you accepted Mr. Grandcourt?"
"No."
"I have promised to tell you something. And you will promise to keep my secret. However you may decide you will not tell Mr. Grandcourt, or any one else, that you have seen me?"
"I promise."

"Yes." All Gwendolen's consciousness was wonder.
"Have you accepted Mr. Grandcourt?"
"No."
"I have promised to tell you something. And you will promise to keep my secret. You will not tell Mr. Grandcourt, or anyone else, that you have seen me?"
"I promise."


"My name is Lydia Glasher. Mr. Grandcourt ought not to marry any one but me. I left my husband and child for him nine years ago. Those two children are his, and we have two others--girls--who are older. My husband is dead now, and Mr. Grandcourt ought to marry me. He ought to make that boy his heir."
She looked at the boy as she spoke, and Gwendolen's eyes followed hers. The handsome little fellow was puffing out his cheeks in trying to blow a tiny trumpet which remained dumb. His hat hung backward by a string, and his brown curls caught the sun-rays. He was a cherub.

"My name is Lydia Glasher. Mr. Grandcourt ought not to marry anyone but me. I left my husband and child for him nine years ago. Those two children are his, and we have two more, older girls. My husband is dead, and Mr. Grandcourt ought to marry me. He ought to make that boy his heir."
Gwendolen's eyes followed hers to the boy. The handsome, curly-haired little fellow was puffing out his cheeks in trying to blow a tiny trumpet. He was a cherub.


The two women's eyes met again, and Gwendolen said proudly, "I will not interfere with your wishes." She looked as if she were shivering, and her lips were pale.
"You are very attractive, Miss Harleth. But when he first knew me, I too was young. Since then my life has been broken up and embittered. It is not fair that he should be happy and I miserable, and my boy thrust out of sight for another."
These words were uttered with a biting accent, but with a determined abstinence from anything violent in tone or manner. Gwendolen, watching Mrs. Glasher's face while she spoke, felt a sort of terror: it was as if some ghastly vision had come to her in a dream and said, "I am a woman's life."

The two women's eyes met again, and Gwendolen said proudly, "I will not interfere with your wishes." She was shivering, and her lips were pale.
"You are very attractive, Miss Harleth. But when he first knew me, I too was young. Since then my life has been broken and embittered. It is not fair that he should be happy and I miserable, and my boy thrust out of sight for another."
These words were uttered bitingly. Gwendolen felt a sort of terror, as if some ghastly vision had come to her in a dream and said, "I am a woman's life."


"Have you anything more to say to me?" she asked in a low tone, but still proud and coldly. The revulsion within her was not tending to soften her. Everyone seemed hateful.
"Nothing. You know what I wished you to know. You can inquire about me if you like. My husband was Colonel Glasher."
"Then I will go," said Gwendolen, moving away with a ceremonious inclination, which was returned with equal grace.

"Have you anything more to say to me?" she asked, still proudly and coldly. The revulsion within her did not soften her. Everyone seemed hateful.
"Nothing. You know what I wished you to know. You can inquire about me if you like. My husband was Colonel Glasher."
"Then I will go," said Gwendolen, moving away ceremoniously.


In a few minutes Gwendolen was in the beech grove again but her party had gone out of sight and apparently had not sent in search of her, for all was solitude till she had reached the avenue pointed out by the warden. She determined to take this way back to Green Arbor, which she reached quickly; rapid movements seeming to her just now a means of suspending the thoughts which might prevent her from behaving with due calm. She had already made up her mind what step she would take.
Mrs. Davilow was of course astonished to see Gwendolen returning alone, and was not without some uneasiness which the presence of other ladies hindered her from showing. In answer to her words of surprise Gwendolen said,
"Oh, I have been rather silly. I lingered behind to look at the Whispering Stones, and the rest hurried on after something, so I lost sight of them. I thought it best to come home by the short way--the avenue that the warden had told me of. I'm not sorry after all. I had had enough walking."

In a few minutes she was in the beech grove again, but her party had gone out of sight. All was solitude till she reached the avenue to Green Arbour, walking rapidly as a means of suspending her thoughts. She had already made up her mind what to do.
Mrs. Davilow was astonished to see Gwendolen returning. To her look of surprise Gwendolen said-
"Oh, I have been rather silly. I lingered behind to look at the Whispering Stones, and I lost sight of the others. I thought it best to come home by the short way. I had had enough walking."


"Your party did not meet Mr. Grandcourt, I presume," said Mrs. Arrowpoint, not without intention.
"No," said Gwendolen, with a little flash of defiance, and a light laugh. "And we didn't see any carvings on the trees, either. Where can he be? I should think he has fallen into the pool or had an apoplectic fit."
With all Gwendolen's resolve not to betray any agitation, she could not help it that her tone was unusually high and hard, and her mother felt sure that something unpropitious had happened.
Mrs. Arrowpoint thought that the self-confident young lady was much piqued, and that Mr. Grandcourt was probably seeing reason to change his mind.
"If you have no objection, mamma, I will order the carriage," said Gwendolen. "I am tired. And every one will be going soon."

"Your party did not meet Mr. Grandcourt, I presume," said Mrs. Arrowpoint.
"No," said Gwendolen, with a light laugh. "Where can he be? I should think he has fallen into the pool."
Despite Gwendolen's resolve not to betray any agitation, her tone was unusually high and hard. Mrs. Arrowpoint thought that the young lady was much piqued, and that Mr. Grandcourt was probably seeing reason to change his mind.
"If you have no objection, mamma, I will order the carriage," said Gwendolen.


Mrs. Davilow assented; but by the time the carriage was announced as ready--the horses having to be fetched from the stables on the warden's premises--the roving party reappeared, and with them Mr. Grandcourt.
"Ah, there you are!" said Lord Brackenshaw, going up to Gwendolen, who was arranging her mamma's shawl for the drive. "We thought at first you had alighted on Grandcourt and he had taken you home. Lush said so. But after that we met Grandcourt. However, we didn't suppose you could be in any danger. The warden said he had told you a near way back."

By the time the carriage was ready, the roving party reappeared, and with them Mr. Grandcourt.
"Ah, there you are!" said Lord Brackenshaw to Gwendolen. "We thought at first you had met Grandcourt and he had taken you home. Lush said so. But after that we met Grandcourt."


"You are going?" said Grandcourt, coming up with his usual air, as if he did not conceive that there had been any omission on his part. Lord Brackenshaw gave place to him and moved away.
"Yes, we are going," said Gwendolen, looking busily at her scarf, which she was arranging across her shoulders Scotch fashion.
"May I call at Offendene to-morrow?"
"Oh yes, if you like," said Gwendolen, sweeping him from a distance with her eyelashes. Her voice was light and sharp as the first touch of frost.
Mrs. Davilow accepted his arm to lead her to the carriage; but while that was happening, Gwendolen with incredible swiftness had got in advance of them, and had sprung into the carriage.
"I got in, mamma, because I wished to be on this side," she said, apologetically. But she had avoided Grandcourt's touch: he only lifted his hat and walked away--with the not unsatisfactory impression that she meant to show herself offended by his neglect.

"You are going?" said Grandcourt, coming up with his usual air.
"Yes," said Gwendolen, busily arranging her scarf across her shoulders.
"May I call at Offendene tomorrow?"
"Oh yes, if you like," said Gwendolen, her voice as light and sharp as the first touch of frost.
Before he could lead them to the carriage, she swiftly sprang into it on her own.
"I wished to be on this side, mamma," she said, apologetically. But she had avoided Grandcourt's touch: he lifted his hat and walked away, with the not unsatisfactory impression that she was offended by his neglect.


The mother and daughter drove for five minutes in silence. Then Gwendolen said, "I intend to join the Langens at Dover, mamma. I shall pack up immediately on getting home, and set off by the early train. I shall be at Dover almost as soon as they are; we can let them know by telegraph."
"Good heavens, child! what can be your reason for saying so?"
"My reason for saying it, mamma, is that I mean to do it."
"But why do you mean to do it?"
"I wish to go away."
"Is it because you are offended with Mr. Grandcourt's odd behavior in walking off to-day?"

The mother and daughter drove for five minutes in silence. Then Gwendolen said, "I intend to join the Langens at Dover, mamma. I shall pack immediately on getting home, and set off by the early train. We can let them know by telegraph."
"Good heavens, child! what can be your reason for saying so?"
"My reason for saying it, mamma, is that I mean to do it."
"But why do you mean to do it?"
"I wish to go away."
"Is it because you are offended with Mr. Grandcourt's odd behaviour in walking off to-day?"


"It is useless to enter into such questions. I am not going in any case to marry Mr. Grandcourt. Don't interest yourself further about it."
"What can I say to your uncle, Gwendolen? Consider the position you place me in. You led him to believe only last night that you had made up your mind in favor of Mr. Grandcourt."

"It is useless to ask. I am not going to marry Mr. Grandcourt."
"What can I tell your uncle, Gwendolen? You led him to believe last night that you had made up your mind in favour of Mr. Grandcourt."


"I am very sorry to cause you annoyance, mamma, dear, but I can't help it," said Gwendolen, with still harder resistance in her tone. "Whatever you or my uncle may think or do, I shall not alter my resolve, and I shall not tell my reason. I don't care what comes of it. I don't care if I never marry any one. There is nothing worth caring for. I believe all men are bad, and I hate them."
"But need you set off in this way, Gwendolen?" said Mrs. Davilow, miserable and helpless.

"I am very sorry, mamma, dear, but I can't help it," said Gwendolen, with still harder resistance in her tone. "Whatever you or my uncle think, I shall not alter my resolve, and I shall not tell my reason. I don't care if I never marry anyone. All men are bad, and I hate them.


"Now mamma, don't interfere with me. If you have ever had any trouble in your own life, remember it and don't interfere with me. If I am to be miserable, let it be by my own choice."
The mother was reduced to trembling silence. She began to see that the difficulty would be lessened if Gwendolen went away.

Don't interfere with me. If I am to be miserable, let it be by my own choice."
The helpless mother was reduced to trembling silence. She began to see that the difficulty would be lessened if Gwendolen went away.


And she did go. The packing was all carefully done that evening, and not long after dawn the next day Mrs. Davilow accompanied her daughter to the railway station. The sweet dews of morning, the cows and horses looking over the hedges without any particular reason, the early travelers on foot with their bundles, seemed all very melancholy and purposeless to them both. The dingy torpor of the railway station, before the ticket could be taken, was still worse. Gwendolen had certainly hardened in the last twenty-four hours: her mother's trouble evidently counted for little in her present state of mind, which did not essentially differ from the mood that makes men take to worse conduct when their belief in persons or things is upset. Gwendolen's uncontrolled reading, though consisting chiefly in what are called pictures of life, had somehow not prepared her for this encounter with reality. Is that surprising? It is to be believed that attendance at the _opra bouffe_ in the present day would not leave men's minds entirely without shock, if the manners observed there with some applause were suddenly to start up in their own families. Perspective, as its inventor remarked, is a beautiful thing. What horrors of damp huts, where human beings languish, may not become picturesque through aerial distance!

And she did go. The packing was done that evening, and early the next day Mrs. Davilow accompanied her daughter to the railway station, whose dingy torpor seemed very melancholy. Gwendolen had hardened in the last twenty-four hours: her reading had somehow not prepared her for this encounter with reality.


What hymning of cancerous vices may we not languish over as sublimest art in the safe remoteness of a strange language and artificial phrase! Yet we keep a repugnance to rheumatism and other painful effects when presented in our personal experience.
Mrs. Davilow felt Gwendolen's new phase of indifference keenly, and as she drove back alone, the brightening morning was sadder to her than before.
Mr. Grandcourt called that day at Offendene, but nobody was at home.

Mrs. Davilow felt Gwendolen's indifference keenly, and as she drove back alone, the brightening morning was sadder to her than before.
Mr. Grandcourt called that day at Offendene, but nobody was at home.


"Within the gentle heart Love shelters him, As birds within the green shade of the grove. Before the gentle heart, in Nature's scheme, Love was not, nor the gentle heart ere Love." --GUIDO GUINICELLI (_Rossetti's Translation_).
There was another house besides the white house at Pennicote, another breast besides Rex Gascoigne's, in which the news of Grandcourt's death caused both strong agitation and the effort to repress it.
It was Hans Meyrick's habit to send or bring in the _Times_ for his mother's reading. She was a great reader of news, from the widest-reaching politics to the list of marriages; the latter, she said, giving her the pleasant sense of finishing the fashionable novels without having read them, and seeing the heroes and heroines happy without knowing what poor creatures they were. On a Wednesday, there were reasons why Hans always chose to bring the paper, and to do so about the time that Mirah had nearly ended giving Mab her weekly lesson, avowing that he came then because he wanted to hear Mirah sing. But on the particular Wednesday now in question, after entering the house as quietly as usual with his latch-key, he appeared in the parlor, shaking the _Times_ aloft with a crackling noise, in remorseless interruption of Mab's attempt to render _Lascia ch'io pianga_ with a remote imitation of her teacher. Piano and song ceased immediately; Mirah, who had been playing the accompaniment, involuntarily started up and turned round, the crackling sound, after the occasional trick of sounds, having seemed to her something thunderous; and Mab said,

There was another breast besides Rex's, in which the news of Grandcourt's death caused both strong agitation and the effort to repress it.
It was Hans Meyrick's habit to bring the Times for his mother. On a Wednesday, he always chose to bring the paper at about the time Mirah finished giving Mab her weekly lesson. But on this particular Wednesday he appeared in the parlour, shaking the Times aloft with a crackling which interrupted Mab's singing. Mirah, who had been playing the accompaniment, started up and turned round; and Mab said-


"O-o-o, Hans! why do you bring a more horrible noise than my singing?"
"What on earth is the wonderful news?" said Mrs. Meyrick, who was the only other person in the room. "Anything about Italy--anything about the Austrians giving up Venice?"
"Nothing about Italy, but something from Italy," said Hans, with a peculiarity in his tone and manner which set his mother interpreting. Imagine how some of us feel and behave when an event, not disagreeable seems to be confirming and carrying out our private constructions. We say, "What do you think?" in a pregnant tone to some innocent person who has not embarked his wisdom in the same boat with ours, and finds our information flat.

"Oh, Hans! why do you bring a more horrible noise than my singing?"
"What on earth is the wonderful news?" said Mrs. Meyrick, who was the only other person in the room.
"Something from Italy," said Hans, with a peculiar tone and manner.


"Nothing bad?" said Mrs. Meyrick anxiously, thinking immediately of Deronda; and Mirah's heart had been already clutched by the same thought.
"Not bad for anybody we care much about," said Hans, quickly; "rather uncommonly lucky, I think. I never knew anybody die conveniently before. Considering what a dear gazelle I am, I am constantly wondering to find myself alive."
"Oh me, Hans!" said Mab, impatiently, "if you must talk of yourself, let it be behind your own back. What _is_ it that has happened?"

"Nothing bad?" said Mrs. Meyrick anxiously, thinking immediately of Deronda; and Mirah's heart had been already clutched by the same thought.
"Not bad for anybody we care about," said Hans, quickly; "rather uncommonly lucky, I think. I never knew anybody die conveniently before."
"Oh, Hans!" said Mab, impatiently, "What has happened?"


"Duke Alfonso is drowned, and the Duchess is alive, that's all," said Hans, putting the paper before Mrs. Meyrick, with his finger against a paragraph. "But more than all is--Deronda was at Genoa in the same hotel with them, and he saw her brought in by the fishermen who had got her out of the water time enough to save her from any harm. It seems they saw her jump in after her husband, which was a less judicious action than I should have expected of the Duchess. However Deronda is a lucky fellow in being there to take care of her."
Mirah had sunk on the music stool again, with her eyelids down and her hands tightly clasped; and Mrs. Meyrick, giving up the paper to Mab, said,
"Poor thing! she must have been fond of her husband to jump in after him."

"Duke Alfonso is drowned, and the Duchess is alive, that's all," said Hans, putting the paper before Mrs. Meyrick. "But Deronda was at Genoa in the same hotel, and he saw her brought in by the fishermen who had got her out of the water. They saw her jump in after her husband, which was a less judicious action than I should have expected of the Duchess. However, Deronda is a lucky fellow in being there to take care of her."
Mirah had sunk on the music stool again, with her eyelids down and her hands tightly clasped. Mrs. Meyrick said-
"Poor thing! she must have been fond of her husband to jump in after him."


"It was an inadvertence--a little absence of mind," said Hans, creasing his face roguishly, and throwing himself into a chair not far from Mirah. "Who can be fond of a jealous baritone, with freezing glances, always singing asides?--that was the husband's _rle_, depend upon it. Nothing can be neater than his getting drowned. The Duchess is at liberty now to marry a man with a fine head of hair, and glances that will melt instead of freezing her. And I shall be invited to the wedding."
Here Mirah started from her sitting posture, and fixing her eyes on Hans, with an angry gleam in them, she said, in a deeply-shaken voice of indignation,

"It was a little absence of mind," said Hans roguishly, throwing himself into a chair. "The Duchess is at liberty now to marry a man with a fine head of hair, and glances that will melt instead of freezing her. And I shall be invited to the wedding."
Here Mirah started up, and fixing her eyes angrily on Hans, she said, in a deeply-shaken voice of indignation-


"Mr. Hans, you ought not to speak in that way. Mr. Deronda would not like you to speak so. Why will you say he is lucky--why will you use words of that sort about life and death--when what is life to one is death to another? How do you know it would be lucky if he loved Mrs. Grandcourt? It might be a great evil to him. She would take him away from my brother--I know she would. Mr. Deronda would not call that lucky to pierce my brother's heart."
All three were struck with the sudden transformation. Mirah's face, with a look of anger that might have suited Ithuriel, pale, even to the lips that were usually so rich of tint, was not far from poor Hans, who sat transfixed, blushing under it as if he had been a girl, while he said, nervously,

"Mr. Hans, you ought not to speak in that way. Why will you say he is lucky - when what is life to one is death to another? How do you know it would be lucky if he loved Mrs. Grandcourt? It might be a great evil to him. She would take him away from my brother. Mr. Deronda would not call that lucky to pierce my brother's heart."
All three were struck with the sudden transformation. Poor Hans sat transfixed, blushing, and said, nervously-


"I am a fool and a brute, and I withdraw every word. I'll go and hang myself like Judas--if it's allowable to mention him." Even in Hans's sorrowful moments, his improvised words had inevitably some drollery.
But Mirah's anger was not appeased: how could it be? She had burst into indignant speech as creatures in intense pain bite and make their teeth meet even through their own flesh, by way of making their agony bearable. She said no more, but, seating herself at the piano, pressed the sheet of music before her, as if she thought of beginning to play again.
It was Mab who spoke, while Mrs. Meyrick's face seemed to reflect some of Hans' discomfort.

"I am a fool and a brute, and I withdraw every word."
But Mirah's anger was not appeased: how could it be? She had burst into indignant speech as creatures in intense pain bite even through their own flesh, by way of making their agony bearable. She said no more, but, seating herself at the piano, pressed the sheet of music before her, as if she thought of beginning to play again.
Both Hans and his mother were silent. It was Mab who spoke,


"Mirah is quite right to scold you, Hans. You are always taking Mr. Deronda's name in vain. And it is horrible, joking in that way about his marrying Mrs. Grandcourt. Men's minds must be very black, I think," ended Mab, with much scorn.
"Quite true, my dear," said Hans, in a low tone, rising and turning on his heel to walk toward the back window.
"We had better go on, Mab; you have not given your full time to the lesson," said Mirah, in a higher tone than usual. "Will you sing this again, or shall I sing it to you?"
"Oh, please sing it to me," said Mab, rejoiced to take no more notice of what had happened.

 saying, "Mirah is quite right to scold you, Hans. You are always taking Mr. Deronda's name in vain. And it is horrible, joking in that way about his marrying Mrs. Grandcourt. Men's minds must be very black, I think."
"Quite true, my dear," said Hans, rising and walking toward the window.
"We had better go on with your lesson, Mab," said Mirah, in a higher tone than usual. "Will you sing this again, or shall I sing it to you?"
"Oh, please sing it to me," said Mab, rejoiced to take no more notice of what had happened.


And Mirah immediately sang _Lascia ch'io pianga_, giving forth its melodious sobs and cries with new fullness and energy. Hans paused in his walk and leaned against the mantel-piece, keeping his eyes carefully away from his mother's. When Mirah had sung her last note and touched the last chord, she rose and said, "I must go home now. Ezra expects me."
She gave her hand silently to Mrs. Meyrick and hung back a little, not daring to look at her, instead of kissing her, as usual. But the little mother drew Mirah's face down to hers, and said, soothingly, "God bless you, my dear." Mirah felt that she had committed an offense against Mrs. Meyrick by angrily rebuking Hans, and mixed with the rest of her suffering was the sense that she had shown something like a proud ingratitude, an unbecoming assertion of superiority. And her friend had divined this compunction.
Meanwhile Hans had seized his wide-awake, and was ready to open the door.

Mirah immediately sang with new fullness and energy. Hans leaned against the mantelpiece, keeping his eyes carefully away from his mother's. When Mirah had sung her last note, she rose and said, "I must go home now. Ezra expects me."
She gave her hand silently to Mrs. Meyrick, instead of kissing her as usual. She feared that she had offended Mrs. Meyrick by angrily rebuking Hans; but the little mother sensed this, and drew Mirah's face to hers, saying soothingly, "God bless you, my dear."


"Now, Hans," said Mab, with what was really a sister's tenderness cunningly disguised, "you are not going to walk home with Mirah. I am sure she would rather not. You are so dreadfully disagreeable to-day."
"I shall go to take care of her, if she does not forbid me," said Hans, opening the door.
Mirah said nothing, and when he had opened the outer door for her and closed it behind him, he walked by her side unforbidden. She had not the courage to begin speaking to him again--conscious that she had perhaps been unbecomingly severe in her words to him, yet finding only severer words behind them in her heart. Besides, she was pressed upon by a crowd of thoughts thrusting themselves forward as interpreters of that consciousness which still remained unaltered to herself.

"Now, Hans," said Mab, "you are not going to walk home with Mirah. I am sure she would rather not. You are so dreadfully disagreeable to-day."
"I shall go to take care of her, if she does not forbid me," said Hans, opening the door.
Mirah said nothing, and when he had closed the door behind them, he walked by her side unforbidden. She had not the courage to begin speaking to him again, and she was pressed upon by a crowd of thoughts thrusting themselves forward.


Hans, on his side, had a mind equally busy. Mirah's anger had waked in him a new perception, and with it the unpleasant sense that he was a dolt not to have had it before. Suppose Mirah's heart were entirely preoccupied with Deronda in another character than that of her own and her brother's benefactor; the supposition was attended in Hans's mind with anxieties which, to do him justice, were not altogether selfish. He had a strong persuasion, which only direct evidence to the contrary could have dissipated, and that was that there was a serious attachment between Deronda and Mrs. Grandcourt; he had pieced together many fragments of observation, and gradually gathered knowledge, completed by what his sisters had heard from Anna Gascoigne, which convinced him not only that Mrs. Grandcourt had a passion for Deronda, but also, notwithstanding his friend's austere self-repression, that Deronda's susceptibility about her was the sign of concealed love. Some men, having such a conviction, would have avoided allusions that could have roused that susceptibility; but Hans's talk naturally fluttered toward mischief, and he was given to a form of experiment on live animals which consisted in irritating his friends playfully. His experiments had ended in satisfying him that what he thought likely was true.
On the other hand, any susceptibility Deronda had manifested about a lover's attentions being shown to Mirah, Hans took to be sufficiently accounted for by the alleged reason, namely, her dependent position; for he credited his friend with all possible unselfish anxiety for those whom he could rescue and protect. And Deronda's insistence that Mirah would never marry one who was not a Jew necessarily seemed to exclude himself, since Hans shared the ordinary opinion, which he knew nothing to disturb, that Deronda was the son of Sir Hugo Mallinger.

Hans, on his side, had a mind equally busy. Mirah's anger had waked in him a new perception, and with it the unpleasant sense that he was a dolt not to have had it before. Suppose Mirah's heart were entirely preoccupied with Deronda in another character than that of her benefactor? He believed that there was a serious attachment between Deronda and Mrs. Grandcourt; he had pieced together many fragments of observation, which convinced him not only that Mrs. Grandcourt had a passion for Deronda, but also that his austere self-repression concealed love for her.
As for Deronda's annoyance at his aspiring to love Mirah, Hans took this to be accounted for by her dependent position; for he credited his friend with all possible unselfish anxiety for those whom he could rescue and protect. And Deronda's insistence that Mirah would never marry one who was not a Jew seemed to exclude himself, since Hans shared the general opinion that Deronda was Sir Hugo's son.