"Bless you for your tenderness, my good darling!" said Mrs. Davilow, with tears in her eyes. "Don't despair because there are clouds now. You are so young. There may be great happiness in store for you yet."
"I don't see any reason for expecting it, mamma," said Gwendolen, in a hard tone; and Mrs. Davilow was silent, thinking as she had often thought before--"What did happen between her and Mr. Grandcourt?"

"Bless you, my good darling!" said Mrs. Davilow, with tears in her eyes. "Don't despair. There may be great happiness in store for you yet."
"I don't see any reason for expecting it, mamma," said Gwendolen, in a hard tone; and Mrs. Davilow was silent, thinking as she had often thought before - "What did happen between her and Mr. Grandcourt?"


"I _will_ keep this necklace, mamma," said Gwendolen, laying it apart and then closing the casket. "But do get the other things sold, even if they will not bring much. Ask my uncle what to do with them. I shall certainly not use them again. I am going to take the veil. I wonder if all the poor wretches who have ever taken it felt as I do."
"Don't exaggerate evils, dear."
"How can any one know that I exaggerate, when I am speaking of my own feeling? I did not say what any one else felt."

"I will keep this necklace, mamma," said Gwendolen, laying it aside. "But do get the other things sold, even if they will not bring much."


She took out the torn handkerchief from her pocket again, and wrapped it deliberately round the necklace. Mrs. Davilow observed the action with some surprise, but the tone of her last words discouraged her from asking any question.
The "feeling" Gwendolen spoke of with an air of tragedy was not to be explained by the mere fact that she was going to be a governess: she was possessed by a spirit of general disappointment. It was not simply that she had a distaste for what she was called on to do: the distaste spread itself over the world outside her penitentiary, since she saw nothing very pleasant in it that seemed attainable by her even if she were free. Naturally her grievances did not seem to her smaller than some of her male contemporaries held theirs to be when they felt a profession too narrow for their powers, and had an _ priori_ conviction that it was not worth while to put forth their latent abilities. Because her education had been less expensive than theirs, it did not follow that she should have wider emotions or a keener intellectual vision. Her griefs were feminine; but to her as a woman they were not the less hard to bear, and she felt an equal right to the Promethean tone.

She wrapped the torn handkerchief around the necklace. Mrs. Davilow observed this with surprise, but felt unable to ask any question.
Gwendolen was possessed by a spirit of general disappointment. It was not simply that she had a distaste for what she was called on to do: the distaste spread itself over the world.


But the movement of mind which led her to keep the necklace, to fold it up in the handkerchief, and rise to put it in her _ncessaire_, where she had first placed it when it had been returned to her, was more peculiar, and what would be called less reasonable. It came from that streak of superstition in her which attached itself both to her confidence and her terror--a superstition which lingers in an intense personality even in spite of theory and science; any dread or hope for self being stronger than all reasons for or against it. Why she should suddenly determine not to part with the necklace was not much clearer to her than why she should sometimes have been frightened to find herself in the fields alone: she had a confused state of emotion about Deronda--was it wounded pride and resentment, or a certain awe and exceptional trust? It was something vague and yet mastering, which impelled her to this action about the necklace. There is a great deal of unmapped country within us which would have to be taken into account in an explanation of our gusts and storms.

But the movement of mind which led her to keep the necklace, folded up in the handkerchief, was more peculiar. It came from that streak of superstition in her which attached itself both to her confidence and her terror - a superstition which lingers in an intense personality in spite of science. Why she should suddenly determine not to part with the necklace was not clear to her: she had a confused state of emotion about Deronda. Was it wounded pride and resentment, or a certain awe and trust? It was something vague and yet mastering, which impelled her to this action.


"The pang, the curse with which they died, Had never passed away: I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor lift them up to pray." --COLERIDGE.
Deronda did not take off his clothes that night. Gwendolen, after insisting on seeing him again before she would consent to be undressed, had been perfectly quiet, and had only asked him, with a whispering, repressed eagerness, to promise that he would come to her when she sent for him in the morning. Still, the possibility that a change might come over her, the danger of a supervening feverish condition, and the suspicion that something in the late catastrophe was having an effect which might betray itself in excited words, acted as a foreboding within him. He mentioned to her attendant that he should keep himself ready to be called if there were any alarming change of symptoms, making it understood by all concerned that he was in communication with her friends in England, and felt bound meanwhile to take all care on her behalf--a position which it was the easier for him to assume, because he was well known to Grandcourt's valet, the only old servant who had come on the late voyage.
But when fatigue from the strangely various emotion of the day at last sent Deronda to sleep, he remained undisturbed except by the morning dreams, which came as a tangled web of yesterday's events, and finally waked him, with an image drawn by his pressing anxiety.

Deronda did not take off his clothes that night. Gwendolen, after insisting on seeing him again, had been perfectly quiet, and had only asked him, with a whispering eagerness, to promise to come to her in the morning. Fearing a fever, he told her attendant that he was ready to be called if there were any alarming change of symptoms, making it understood that he was in communication with her friends in England. He felt bound to take care of her - a position which was easy for him to assume, because he was well known to Grandcourt's valet.
When fatigue at last sent Deronda to sleep, his dreams came as a tangled web of yesterday's events, and finally waked him.

Book 7 - THE MOTHER AND THE SON | Chapter 56


Still, it was morning, and there had been no summons--an augury which cheered him while he made his toilet, and reflected that it was too early to send inquiries. Later, he learned that she had passed a too wakeful night, but had shown no violent signs of agitation, and was at last sleeping. He wondered at the force that dwelt in this creature, so alive to dread; for he had an irresistible impression that even under the effects of a severe physical shock she was mastering herself with a determination of concealment. For his own part, he thought that his sensibilities had been blunted by what he had been going through in the meeting with his mother: he seemed to himself now to be only fulfilling claims, and his more passionate sympathy was in abeyance. He had lately been living so keenly in an experience quite apart from Gwendolen's lot, that his present cares for her were like a revisiting of scenes familiar in the past, and there was not yet a complete revival of the inward response to them.
Meanwhile he employed himself in getting a formal, legally recognized statement from the fishermen who had rescued Gwendolen. Few details came to light. The boat in which Grandcourt had gone out had been found drifting with its sail loose, and had been towed in. The fishermen thought it likely that he had been knocked overboard by the flapping of the sail while putting about, and that he had not known how to swim; but, though they were near, their attention had been first arrested by a cry which seemed like that of a man in distress, and while they were hastening with their oars, they heard a shriek from the lady, and saw her jump in.

Still, it was morning, and there had been no summons - an augury which cheered him while he dressed. On sending enquiries, he learned that Gwendolen had passed a wakeful night, but had shown no violent agitation, and was at last sleeping. He wondered at her strength; for he had an impression that even under the effects of a severe physical shock she was mastering herself with a determination of concealment.
For his own part, he thought that his sensibilities had been blunted by his meetings with his mother: his passionate sympathy was lacking. He had lately been living so keenly in his own world that his cares for Gwendolen were like a revisiting of past scenes, and his response to her was not yet revived.
Meanwhile he got a formal, legal statement from the fishermen who had rescued Gwendolen. Few details came to light. Grandcourt's boat had been found drifting with its sail loose, and had been towed in. The fishermen thought it likely that he had been knocked overboard by the sail while putting about, and that he had not known how to swim; but their attention had been first arrested by his cry of distress, and while they were hastening with their oars, they heard a shriek from the lady, and saw her jump in.


On re-entering the hotel, Deronda was told that Gwendolen had risen, and was desiring to see him. He was shown into a room darkened by blinds and curtains, where she was seated with a white shawl wrapped round her, looking toward the opening door like one waiting uneasily. But her long hair was gathered up and coiled carefully, and, through all, the blue stars in her ears had kept their place: as she started impulsively to her full height, sheathed in her white shawl, her face and neck not less white, except for a purple line under her eyes, her lips a little apart with the peculiar expression of one accused and helpless, she looked like the unhappy ghost of that Gwendolen Harleth whom Deronda had seen turning with firm lips and proud self-possession from her losses at the gaming table. The sight pierced him with pity, and the effects of all their past relations began to revive within him.
"I beseech you to rest--not to stand," said Deronda, as he approached her; and she obeyed, falling back into her chair again.
"Will you sit down near me?" she said. "I want to speak very low."
She was in a large arm-chair, and he drew a small one near to her side. The action seemed to touch her peculiarly: turning her pale face full upon his, which was very near, she said, in the lowest audible tone, "You know I am a guilty woman?"

On re-entering the hotel, Deronda was told that Gwendolen had risen, and desired to see him. He was shown into a darkened room, where she was sitting wrapped in a white shawl, her long hair carefully coiled and her little ear-rings still in place. As she stood, he saw a purple line under her eyes. With the expression of one accused and helpless, she looked like the unhappy ghost of that proud Gwendolen Harleth whom he had seen at the gaming table. The sight pierced him with pity, and his sympathy began to revive.
"I beseech you not to stand," he said. She fell back into her chair, and he drew up another chair close by.
She said, in the lowest audible tone, "You know I am a guilty woman?"


Deronda himself turned paler as he said, "I know nothing." He did not dare to say more.
"He is dead." She uttered this with the same undertoned decision.
"Yes," said Deronda, in a mournful suspense which made him reluctant to speak.
"His face will not be seen above the water again," said Gwendolen, in a tone that was not louder, but of a suppressed eagerness, while she held both her hands clenched.
"No."
"Not by any one else--only by me--a dead face--I shall never get away from it."

Deronda turned paler. "I know nothing."
"He is dead." She uttered this in the same undertone.
"Yes," said Deronda, in suspense and reluctant to speak.
"His face will not be seen above the water again," said Gwendolen, clenching her hands.
"No."
"Only by me - a dead face - I shall never get away from it."


It was with an inward voice of desperate self-repression that she spoke these last words, while she looked away from Deronda toward something at a distance from her on the floor. She was seeing the whole event--her own acts included--through an exaggerating medium of excitement and horror? Was she in a state of delirium into which there entered a sense of concealment and necessity for self-repression? Such thoughts glanced through Deronda as a sort of hope. But imagine the conflict of feeling that kept him silent. She was bent on confession, and he dreaded hearing her confession. Against his better will he shrank from the task that was laid on him: he wished, and yet rebuked the wish as cowardly, that she could bury her secrets in her own bosom. He was not a priest. He dreaded the weight of this woman's soul flung upon his own with imploring dependence. But she spoke again, hurriedly, looking at him,

She spoke these words with quiet, desperate self-repression, looking away from Deronda. Was she exaggerating her own part in the event through horror? Was she in a state of delirium, which made her think some concealment was necessary? Deronda, his feelings torn between hope and fear, kept silent. She was bent on confession, and he dreaded hearing her confess: he wished, and yet rebuked the wish as cowardly, that she could bury her secrets in her own bosom. He was not a priest. But she spoke again, hurriedly-


"You will not say that I ought to tell the world? you will not say that I ought to be disgraced? I could not do it. I could not bear it. I cannot have my mother know. Not if I were dead. I could not have her know. I must tell you; but you will not say that any one else should know."
"I can say nothing in my ignorance," said Deronda, mournfully, "except that I desire to help you."

"You will not say that I ought to tell the world? and be disgraced? I could not bear it. I cannot have my mother know. I must tell you; but you will not say that anyone else should know."
"I can say nothing in my ignorance," said Deronda, mournfully, "except that I desire to help you."


"I told you from the beginning--as soon as I could--I told you I was afraid of myself." There was a piteous pleading in the low murmur in which Deronda turned his ear only. Her face afflicted him too much. "I felt a hatred in me that was always working like an evil spirit--contriving things. Everything I could do to free myself came into my mind; and it got worse--all things got worse. That is why I asked you to come to me in town. I thought then I would tell you the worst about myself. I tried. But I could not tell everything. And _he_ came in."

"I told you from the beginning that I was afraid of myself." There was a piteous pleading in the low murmur. Deronda could not look at her. "I felt hatred like an evil spirit. Every way I could free myself came into my mind; and it got worse. That is why I asked you to come to me in town. I thought then I would tell you, but I could not tell everything. And he came in."


She paused, while a shudder passed through her; but soon went on.
"I will tell you everything now. Do you think a woman who cried, and prayed, and struggled to be saved from herself, could be a murderess?"
"Great God!" said Deronda, in a deep, shaken voice, "don't torture me needlessly. You have not murdered him. You threw yourself into the water with the impulse to save him. Tell me the rest afterward. This death was an accident that you could not have hindered."

She paused, shuddering; but soon went on.
"I will tell you everything now. Do you think a woman who cried, and prayed, and struggled to be saved from herself, could be a murderess?"
"Great God!" said Deronda, in a deep, shaken voice, "don't torture me. You have not murdered him. You threw yourself into the water to save him. This death was an accident that you could not have hindered."


"Don't be impatient with me." The tremor, the childlike beseeching in these words compelled Deronda to turn his head and look at her face. The poor quivering lips went on. "You said--you used to say--you felt more for those who had done something wicked and were miserable; you said they might get better--they might be scourged into something better. If you had not spoken in that way, everything would have been worse. I _did_ remember all you said to me. It came to me always. It came to me at the very last--that was the reason why I--But now, if you cannot bear with me when I tell you everything--if you turn away from me and forsake me, what shall I do? Am I worse than I was when you found me and wanted to make me better? All the wrong I have done was in me then--and more--and more--if you had not come and been patient with me.

"Don't be impatient with me." The childlike beseeching in these words compelled Deronda to look at her face. She went on. "You said you felt for those who had done something wicked and were miserable; you said they might become better. I remembered all you said to me. It came to me at the very last - that was the reason why I - but now, if you turn away and forsake me, what shall I do? Am I worse than I was when you wanted to make me better? All the wrong I have done was in me then - and more - if you had not been patient with me.


And now--will you forsake me?"
Her hands, which had been so tightly clenched some minutes before, were now helplessly relaxed and trembling on the arm of her chair. Her quivering lips remained parted as she ceased speaking. Deronda could not answer; he was obliged to look away. He took one of her hands, and clasped it as if they were going to walk together like two children: it was the only way in which he could answer, "I will not forsake you." And all the while he felt as if he were putting his name to a blank paper which might be filled up terribly. Their attitude, his adverted face with its expression of a suffering which he was solemnly resolved to undergo, might have told half the truth of the situation to a beholder who had suddenly entered.
That grasp was an entirely new experience to Gwendolen: she had never before had from any man a sign of tenderness which her own being had needed, and she interpreted its powerful effect on her into a promise of inexhaustible patience and constancy. The stream of renewed strength made it possible for her to go on as she had begun--with that fitful, wandering confession where the sameness of experience seems to nullify the sense of time or of order in events. She began again in a fragmentary way,

And now - will you forsake me?"
Her hands, which had been so tightly clenched before, were now trembling on the arm of her chair. Deronda took one of them, and clasped it as if they were going to walk together like two children: it was the only way in which he could answer, "I will not forsake you." And all the while he felt as if he were putting his name to a blank paper which might be filled up terribly.
That grasp was an entirely new experience to Gwendolen: she had never before had from any man a sign of tenderness which her own being had needed, and she interpreted it as a promise of inexhaustible patience and constancy. This made it possible for her to go on.


"All sorts of contrivances in my mind--but all so difficult. And I fought against them--I was terrified at them--I saw his dead face"--here her voice sank almost to a whisper close to Deronda's ear--"ever so long ago I saw it and I wished him to be dead. And yet it terrified me. I was like two creatures. I could not speak--I wanted to kill--it was as strong as thirst--and then directly--I felt beforehand I had done something dreadful, unalterable--that would make me like an evil spirit. And it came--it came."
She was silent a moment or two, as if her memory had lost itself in a web where each mesh drew all the rest.

"All sorts of contrivances in my mind - I fought against them - I was terrified at them - I saw his dead face" - her voice sank almost to a whisper - "long ago I saw it and I wished him to be dead. And yet it terrified me. I wanted to kill - it was as strong as thirst - and then directly - I felt beforehand I had done something unalterable - that would make me like an evil spirit. And it came - it came."
She was silent for a moment.


"It had all been in my mind when I first spoke to you--when we were at the Abbey. I had done something then. I could not tell you that. It was the only thing I did toward carrying out my thoughts. They went about over everything; but they all remained like dreadful dreams--all but one. I did one act--and I never undid it--it is there still--as long ago as when we were at Ryelands. There it was--something my fingers longed for among the beautiful toys in the cabinet in my boudoir--small and sharp like a long willow leaf in a silver sheath. I locked it in the drawer of my dressing-case. I was continually haunted with it and how I should use it. I fancied myself putting it under my pillow.

"It had been in my mind when I first spoke to you at the Abbey. I had done something then. It was the only thing I did toward carrying out my thoughts. They remained like dreadful dreams - all but one. I did one act - and I never undid it - when we were at Ryelands. There was something in the cabinet in my boudoir - small and sharp like a long willow leaf in a silver sheath. I locked it in my dressing-case. I was haunted with how I should use it.


But I never did. I never looked at it again. I dared not unlock the drawer: it had a key all to itself; and not long ago, when we were in the yacht, I dropped the key into the deep water. It was my wish to drop it and deliver myself. After that I began to think how I could open the drawer without the key: and when I found we were to stay at Genoa, it came into my mind that I could get it opened privately at the hotel. But then, when we were going up the stairs, I met you; and I thought I should talk to you alone and tell you this--everything I could not tell you in town; and then I was forced to go out in the boat."
A sob had for the first time risen with the last words, and she sank back in her chair. The memory of that acute disappointment seemed for the moment to efface what had come since. Deronda did not look at her, but he said, insistently,

But I never looked at it again. I dared not unlock the drawer: it had a key, and when we were in the yacht, I dropped the key into the deep water, to deliver myself. After that I began to think how I could open the drawer without the key: but when I met you in Genoa, I thought I would talk to you and tell you this - everything I could not tell you in town; and then I was forced to go out in the boat."
A sob rose, and she sank back in her chair. Deronda said, insistently-


"And it has all remained in your imagination. It has gone on only in your thought. To the last the evil temptation has been resisted?"
There was silence. The tears had rolled down her cheeks. She pressed her handkerchief against them and sat upright. She was summoning her resolution; and again, leaning a little toward Deronda's ear, she began in a whisper,

"And it has all remained in your imagination. To the last the evil temptation has been resisted?"
There was silence. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She pressed her handkerchief against them and sat upright, summoning her resolution; and began again in a whisper-


"No, no; I will tell you everything as God knows it. I will tell you no falsehood; I will tell you the exact truth. What should I do else? I used to think I could never be wicked. I thought of wicked people as if they were a long way off me. Since then I have been wicked. I have felt wicked. And everything has been a punishment to me--all the things I used to wish for--it is as if they had been made red-hot. The very daylight has often been a punishment to me. Because--you know--I ought not to have married.

"No, no; I will tell you everything as God knows it. I will tell you no falsehood. I used to think I could never be wicked. I thought of wicked people as if they were a long way off from me. Since then I have felt wicked. And everything has been a punishment - all the things I used to wish for - as if they were red-hot. Because I ought not to have married.


That was the beginning of it. I wronged some one else. I broke my promise. I meant to get pleasure for myself, and it all turned to misery. I wanted to make my gain out of another's loss--you remember?--it was like roulette--and the money burned into me. And I could not complain. It was as if I had prayed that another should lose and I should win. And I had won, I knew it all--I knew I was guilty. When we were on the sea, and I lay awake at night in the cabin, I sometimes felt that everything I had done lay open without excuse--nothing was hidden--how could anything be known to me only?--it was not my own knowledge, it was God's that had entered into me, and even the stillness--everything held a punishment for me--everything but you. I always thought that you would not want me to be punished--you would have tried and helped me to be better.

I wronged some one else. I broke my promise. I wanted to make my gain out of another's loss - like roulette - and the money burned into me. And I could not complain. I knew I was guilty. When we were on the sea, and I lay awake at night, I sometimes felt that everything I had done lay open without excuse - everything held a punishment for me - everything but you. I thought that you would not want me punished - you would have helped me to be better.


And only thinking of that helped me. You will not change--you will not want to punish me now?"
Again a sob had risen.
"God forbid!" groaned Deronda. But he sat motionless.
This long wandering with the conscious-stricken one over her past was difficult to bear, but he dared not again urge her with a question. He must let her mind follow its own need. She unconsciously left intervals in her retrospect, not clearly distinguishing between what she said and what she had only an inward vision of. Her next words came after such an interval.

And only thinking of that helped me. You will not want to punish me now?"
Again a sob had risen.
"God forbid!" groaned Deronda. But he sat motionless.
This long wandering over her past was difficult to bear, but he dared not again urge her with a question. After an interval she continued.


"That all made it so hard when I was forced to go in the boat. Because when I saw you it was an unexpected joy, and I thought I could tell you everything--about the locked-up drawer and what I had not told you before. And if I had told you, and knew it was in your mind, it would have less power over me. I hoped and trusted in that. For after all my struggles and my crying, the hatred and rage, the temptation that frightened me, the longing, the thirst for what I dreaded, always came back. And that disappointment--when I was quite shut out from speaking to you, and was driven to go in the boat--brought all the evil back, as if I had been locked in a prison with it and no escape. Oh, it seems so long ago now since I stepped into that boat! I could have given up everything in that moment, to have the forked lightning for a weapon to strike him dead."
Some of the compressed fierceness that she was recalling seemed to find its way into her undertoned utterance. After a little silence she said, with agitated hurry,

"That made it so hard when I was forced to go in the boat. Because when I saw you it was an unexpected joy, and I thought I could tell you everything, and then it would have less power over me. I hoped and trusted in that. For after all my struggles and my crying, the hatred and the temptation and the thirst for what I dreaded, always came back. And that disappointment - when I had to go in the boat - brought the evil back. There was no escape. Oh, it seems so long ago now since I stepped into that boat! I could have given up everything in that moment, for lightning to strike him dead."
She spoke with compressed fierceness.


"If he were here again, what should I do? I cannot wish him here--and yet I cannot bear his dead face. I was a coward. I ought to have borne contempt. I ought to have gone away--gone and wandered like a beggar rather than stay to feel like a fiend. But turn where I would there was something I could not bear. Sometimes I thought he would kill _me_ if I resisted his will. But now--his dead face is there, and I cannot bear it."
Suddenly loosing Deronda's hand, she started up, stretching her arms to their full length upward, and said with a sort of moan,

"If he were here again, what should I do? I cannot wish him here - and yet I cannot bear his dead face. I was a coward. I ought to have gone away and wandered like a beggar rather than stay. Sometimes I thought he would kill me if I resisted his will. But now - his dead face is there, and I cannot bear it."
Suddenly loosing Deronda's hand, she started up, stretching out her arms, and said with a moan-


"I have been a cruel woman! What can _I_ do but cry for help? _I_ am sinking. Die--die--you are forsaken--go down, go down into darkness. Forsaken--no pity--_I_ shall be forsaken."

"I have been a cruel woman! Die, die - you are forsaken - go down, go down into darkness. Forsaken - I shall be forsaken."


She sank in her chair again and broke into sobs. Even Deronda had no place in her consciousness at that moment. He was completely unmanned. Instead of finding, as he had imagined, that his late experience had dulled his susceptibility to fresh emotion, it seemed that the lot of this young creature, whose swift travel from her bright rash girlhood into this agony of remorse he had had to behold in helplessness, pierced him the deeper because it came close upon another sad revelation of spiritual conflict: he was in one of those moments when the very anguish of passionate pity makes us ready to choose that we will know pleasure no more, and live only for the stricken and afflicted. He had risen from his seat while he watched that terrible outburst--which seemed the more awful to him because, even in this supreme agitation, she kept the suppressed voice of one who confesses in secret. At last he felt impelled to turn his back toward her and walk to a distance.

She sank in her chair again and broke into sobs, forgetting even Deronda's presence. He was completely unmanned. This young creature's agony of remorse pierced him with passionate pity. He rose from his seat, impelled to turn his back toward her and walk to a distance.


But presently there was stillness. Her mind had opened to the sense that he had gone away from her. When Deronda turned round to approach her again, he saw her face bent toward him, her eyes dilated, her lips parted. She was an image of timid forlorn beseeching--too timid to entreat in words while he kept himself aloof from her. Was she forsaken by him--now--already? But his eyes met hers sorrowfully--met hers for the first time fully since she had said, "You know I am a guilty woman," and that full glance in its intense mournfulness seemed to say, "I know it, but I shall all the less forsake you." He sat down by her side again in the same attitude--without turning his face toward her and without again taking her hand.
Once more Gwendolen was pierced, as she had been by his face of sorrow at the Abbey, with a compunction less egoistic than that which urged her to confess, and she said, in a tone of loving regret,
"I make you very unhappy."

But presently she was still. When Deronda turned round, he saw her eyes were dilated, her lips parted, in an image of forlorn beseeching - too timid to entreat in words. Was she forsaken by him now, already?
But his eyes met hers sorrowfully, and seemed to say, "I know you are guilty, but I shall not forsake you." He sat down by her side again.
Gwendolen was pierced with compunction, and she said, in a tone of loving regret-
"I make you very unhappy."


Deronda gave an indistinct "Oh," just shrinking together and changing his attitude a little. Then he had gathered resolution enough to say clearly, "There is no question of being happy or unhappy. What I most desire at this moment is what will most help you. Tell me all you feel it a relief to tell."
Devoted as these words were, they widened his spiritual distance from her, and she felt it more difficult to speak: she had a vague need of getting nearer to that compassion which seemed to be regarding her from a halo of superiority, and the need turned into an impulse to humble herself more. She was ready to throw herself on her knees before him; but no--her wonderfully mixed consciousness held checks on that impulse, and she was kept silent and motionless by the pressure of opposing needs. Her stillness made Deronda at last say,
"Perhaps you are too weary. Shall I go away, and come again whenever you wish it?"

Deronda gave an indistinct "Oh." Then, gathering resolution, he said, "There is no question of being happy or unhappy. What I most desire is what will most help you. Tell me all you feel it a relief to tell."
Devoted as these words were, they widened his spiritual distance from her, and made it more difficult for her to speak: she felt an impulse to humble herself before him. But she stayed silent, until her stillness made Deronda say-
"Perhaps you are too weary. Shall I go away, and come again whenever you wish it?"


"No, no," said Gwendolen--the dread of his leaving her bringing back her power of speech. She went on with her low-toned eagerness, "I want to tell you what it was that came over me in that boat. I was full of rage at being obliged to go--full of rage--and I could do nothing but sit there like a galley slave. And then we got away--out of the port--into the deep--and everything was still--and we never looked at each other, only he spoke to order me--and the very light about me seemed to hold me a prisoner and force me to sit as I did. It came over me that when I was a child I used to fancy sailing away into a world where people were not forced to live with any one they did not like--I did not like my father-in-law to come home. And now, I thought, just the opposite had come to me. I had stepped into a boat, and my life was a sailing and sailing away--gliding on and no help--always into solitude with _him_, away from deliverance. And because I felt more helpless than ever, my thoughts went out over worse things--I longed for worse things--I had cruel wishes--I fancied impossible ways of--I did not want to die myself; I was afraid of our being drowned together. If it had been any use I should have prayed--I should have prayed that something might befall him. I should have prayed that he might sink out of my sight and leave me alone.

"No, no," said Gwendolen, the dread of his leaving her bringing back her power of speech. "I want to tell you what came over me in that boat. I was full of rage - and I could do nothing but sit there like a galley slave. And then we went out of the port - into the deep - and everything was still - he only spoke to order me - and the very light about me seemed to hold me prisoner. When I was a child I used to fancy sailing away into a world where there would be nobody I did not like, such as my step-father. And now just the opposite had come to me. I had stepped into a boat, and my life was sailing away into solitude with him, away from deliverance. And because I felt more helpless than ever, I had cruel wishes - I fancied impossible ways of - I did not want to die myself; I was afraid of our being drowned together. If it had been any use, I should have prayed that something might befall him; that he might sink out of my sight and leave me alone.


I knew no way of killing him there, but I did, I did kill him in my thoughts."
She sank into silence for a minute, submerged by the weight of memory which no words could represent.
"But yet, all the while I felt that I was getting more wicked. And what had been with me so much, came to me just then--what you once said--about dreading to increase my wrong-doing and my remorse--I should hope for nothing then. It was all like a writing of fire within me. Getting wicked was misery--being shut out forever from knowing what you--what better lives were. That had always been coming back to me then--but yet with a despair--a feeling that it was no use--evil wishes were too strong. I remember then letting go the tiller and saying 'God help me!' But then I was forced to take it again and go on; and the evil longings, the evil prayers came again and blotted everything else dim, till, in the midst of them--I don't know how it was--he was turning the sail--there was a gust--he was struck--I know nothing--I only know that I saw my wish outside me."
She began to speak more hurriedly, and in more of a whisper.

I knew no way of killing him there, but I did, I did kill him in my thoughts."
She sank into silence for a minute, submerged by the weight of memory.
"But all the while I felt that I was getting more wicked. And it came to me just then - what you once said - about dreading to increase my wrong-doing and my remorse. It was like a writing of fire within me. Getting wicked was misery - being shut out forever from better lives. I felt despair that it was no use - evil wishes were too strong. I remember then letting go the tiller and saying 'God help me!' But then I was forced to take it again and go on; and the evil prayers came again and blotted out everything else, till, in the midst of them - I don't know how it was - he was turning the sail - there was a gust - he was struck - I know nothing - I only know that I saw my wish outside me."
She began to whisper hurriedly.


"I saw him sink, and my heart gave a leap as if it were going out of me. I think I did not move. I kept my hands tight. It was long enough for me to be glad, and yet to think it was no use--he would come up again. And he _was_ come--farther off--the boat had moved. It was all like lightning. 'The rope!' he called out in a voice--not his own--I hear it now--and I stooped for the rope--I felt I must--I felt sure he could swim, and he would come back whether or not, and I dreaded him. That was in my mind--he would come back. But he was gone down again, and I had the rope in my hand--no, there he was again--his face above the water--and he cried again--and I held my hand, and my heart said, 'Die!'

"I saw him sink, and my heart gave a leap. I think I did not move. I kept my hands tight. It was long enough for me to be glad, and yet to think he would come up again. And he did come up - farther off - the boat had moved. 'The rope!' he called out, in a voice not his own - I hear it now - and I stooped for the rope - I felt I must - I felt sure he could swim, and he would come back whether or not, and I dreaded him. But he was gone down again, and I had the rope in my hand - no, there he was again - his face above the water - and he cried again - and my heart said, 'Die!'


--and he sank; and I felt 'It is done--I am wicked, I am lost!--and I had the rope in my hand--I don't know what I thought--I was leaping away from myself--I would have saved him then. I was leaping from my crime, and there it was--close to me as I fell--there was the dead face--dead, dead. It can never be altered. That was what happened. That was what I did. You know it all. It can never be altered."

- and he sank; and I felt 'I am wicked, I am lost! - and I had the rope in my hand - I don't know what I thought - I was leaping away from myself - I would have saved him then. I was leaping from my crime, and there it was - close to me as I fell - there was the dead face - dead, dead. It can never be altered. That was what happened. You know it all."


She sank back in her chair, exhausted with the agitation of memory and speech. Deronda felt the burden on his spirit less heavy than the foregoing dread. The word "guilty" had held a possibility of interpretations worse than the fact; and Gwendolen's confession, for the very reason that her conscience made her dwell on the determining power of her evil thoughts, convinced him the more that there had been throughout a counterbalancing struggle of her better will. It seemed almost certain that her murderous thought had had no outward effect--that, quite apart from it, the death was inevitable. Still, a question as to the outward effectiveness of a criminal desire dominant enough to impel even a momentary act, cannot alter our judgment of the desire; and Deronda shrank from putting that question forward in the first instance. He held it likely that Gwendolen's remorse aggravated her inward guilt, and that she gave the character of decisive action to what had been an inappreciably instantaneous glance of desire. But her remorse was the precious sign of a recoverable nature; it was the culmination of that self-disapproval which had been the awakening of a new life within her; it marked her off from the criminals whose only regret is failure in securing their evil wish. Deronda could not utter one word to diminish that sacred aversion to her worst self--that thorn-pressure which must come with the crowning of the sorrowful better, suffering because of the worse. All this mingled thought and feeling kept him silent; speech was too momentous to be ventured on rashly. There were no words of comfort that did not carry some sacrilege.

She sank back in her chair, exhausted. Deronda felt the burden on his spirit lighten. The word "guilty" had held possibilities worse than the fact; and Gwendolen's confession convinced him that there had been throughout a counterbalancing struggle of her better will. It seemed almost certain that her murderous thought had had no outward effect - that, quite apart from it, the death was inevitable. He held it likely that Gwendolen's remorse aggravated her inward guilt, and that she gave the character of decisive action to what had been an instantaneous desire. But her remorse was the precious sign of a recoverable nature, and the awakening of a new life within her; it marked her off from the criminals whose only regret is failure in securing their evil wish. Deronda could not utter one word to diminish that sacred aversion to her worst self.
All this mingled thought and feeling kept him silent.


If he had opened his lips to speak, he could only have echoed, "It can never be altered--it remains unaltered, to alter other things." But he was silent and motionless--he did not know how long--before he turned to look at her, and saw her sunk back with closed eyes, like a lost, weary, storm-beaten white doe, unable to rise and pursue its unguided way. He rose and stood before her. The movement touched her consciousness, and she opened her eyes with a slight quivering that seemed like fear.
"You must rest now. Try to rest: try to sleep. And may I see you again this evening--to-morrow--when you have had some rest? Let us say no more now."
The tears came, and she could not answer except by a slight movement of the head. Deronda rang for attendance, spoke urgently of the necessity that she should be got to rest, and then left her.

He did not know how long it was before he turned to look at her, and saw her sunk back with closed eyes, like a lost, weary, storm-beaten white doe. He rose, and she opened her eyes with a slight quivering that seemed like fear.
"You must rest now. Try to sleep. And may I see you again when you have rested? Let us say no more now."
The tears came, and she could not answer except by a slight movement of the head. Deronda urged her again to rest, and left her.


"Philistia, be thou glad of me!"
Grandcourt having made up his mind to marry Miss Harleth, showed a power of adapting means to ends. During the next fortnight there was hardly a day on which by some arrangement or other he did not see her, or prove by emphatic attentions that she occupied his thoughts. His cousin, Mrs. Torrington, was now doing the honors of his house, so that Mrs. Davilow and Gwendolen could be invited to a large party at Diplow in which there were many witnesses how the host distinguished the dowerless beauty, and showed no solicitude about the heiress. The world--I mean Mr. Gascoigne and all the families worth speaking of within visiting distance of Pennicote--felt an assurance on the subject which in the rector's mind converted itself into a resolution to do his duty by his niece and see that the settlements were adequate. Indeed the wonder to him and Mrs. Davilow was that the offer for which so many suitable occasions presented themselves had not been already made; and in this wonder Grandcourt himself was not without a share. When he had told his resolution to Lush he had thought that the affair would be concluded more quickly, and to his own surprise he had repeatedly promised himself in a morning that he would to-day give Gwendolen the opportunity of accepting him, and had found in the evening that the necessary formality was still unaccomplished. This remarkable fact served to heighten his determination on another day. He had never admitted to himself that Gwendolen might refuse him, but--heaven help us all!--we are often unable to act on our certainties; our objection to a contrary issue (were it possible) is so strong that it rises like a spectral illusion between us and our certainty; we are rationally sure that the blind worm can not bite us mortally, but it would be so intolerable to be bitten, and the creature has a biting look--we decline to handle it.

Grandcourt, having made up his mind to marry Miss Harleth, let hardly a day go by in the next fortnight without seeing her by some arrangement or other. Mrs. Davilow and Gwendolen were invited to a large party at Diplow where many witnessed how the host distinguished the dowerless beauty, and showed no care for the heiress.
Indeed the wonder to Mr. Gascoigne and Mrs. Davilow was that Grandcourt's offer had not been already made; and in this wonder Grandcourt had a share himself. When he had told his resolution to Lush he had thought that the affair would be concluded quickly, and to his own surprise he had repeatedly promised himself in a morning that he would today give Gwendolen the opportunity of accepting him, and found in the evening that it was still unaccomplished. He had never admitted to himself that Gwendolen might refuse him, but we are often unable to act on our assumptions; our objection to a contrary result is so strong that it rises like a spectre between us and our certainty.


He had asked leave to have a beautiful horse of his brought for Gwendolen to ride. Mrs. Davilow was to accompany her in the carriage, and they were to go to Diplow to lunch, Grandcourt conducting them. It was a fine mid-harvest time, not too warm for a noonday ride of five miles to be delightful; the poppies glowed on the borders of the fields, there was enough breeze to move gently like a social spirit among the ears of uncut corn, and to wing the shadow of a cloud across the soft gray downs; here the sheaves were standing, there the horses were straining their muscles under the last load from a wide space of stubble, but everywhere the green pasture made a broader setting for the corn-fields, and the cattle took their rest under wide branches. The road lay through a bit of country where the dairy-farms looked much as they did in the days of our forefathers--where peace and permanence seemed to find a home away from the busy change that sent the railway train flying in the distance.

He had arranged to have a beautiful horse of his brought for Gwendolen to ride. Mrs. Davilow was to accompany her in the carriage, and they were to go to Diplow for lunch. It was a fine mid-harvest time; the poppies glowed on the borders of the fields, the breeze moved gently among the ears of uncut corn, and winged the shadow of a cloud across the soft grey downs. The green pasture and the corn-fields made a setting of peace and permanence, where the cattle took their rest under wide branches.


But the spirit of peace and permanence did not penetrate poor Mrs. Davilow's mind so as to overcome her habit of uneasy foreboding. Gwendolen and Grandcourt cantering in front of her, and then slackening their pace to a conversational walk till the carriage came up with them again, made a gratifying sight; but it served chiefly to keep up the conflict of hopes and fears about her daughter's lot. Here was an irresistible opportunity for a lover to speak and put an end to all uncertainties, and Mrs. Davilow could only hope with trembling that Gwendolen's decision would be favorable. Certainly if Rex's love had been repugnant to her, Mr. Grandcourt had the advantage of being in complete contrast with Rex; and that he had produced some quite novel impression on her seemed evident in her marked abstinence from satirical observations, nay, her total silence about his characteristics, a silence which Mrs. Davilow did not dare to break. "Is he a man she would be happy with?"--was a question that inevitably arose in the mother's mind. "Well, perhaps as happy as she would be with any one else--or as most other women are"--was the answer with which she tried to quiet herself; for she could not imagine Gwendolen under the influence of any feeling which would make her satisfied in what we traditionally call "mean circumstances."
Grandcourt's own thought was looking in the same direction: he wanted to have done with the uncertainty that belonged to his not having spoken. As to any further uncertainty--well, it was something without any reasonable basis, some quality in the air which acted as an irritant to his wishes.

But the spirit of peace did not overcome Mrs. Davilow's uneasy foreboding. Gwendolen and Grandcourt riding together in front of her made a gratifying sight; but it served chiefly to keep up the conflict of hopes and fears about her daughter's lot. Here was an irresistible opportunity for a lover to speak, and Mrs. Davilow could only hope with trembling that Gwendolen would be favourable. That Mr. Grandcourt had produced some quite novel impression on her daughter was shown by her marked abstinence from satirical observations, nay, her total silence about him, a silence which Mrs. Davilow did not dare to break.
"Would she be happy with him?" was a question that inevitably arose in the mother's mind. "Well, perhaps as happy as she would be with anyone, or as most women are," was the answer with which she tried to quiet herself.
Grandcourt too wanted an end to the uncertainty that came from his not having spoken. As to any uncertainty about her answer - well, it was without any reasonable basis.


Gwendolen enjoyed the riding, but her pleasure did not break forth in girlish unpremeditated chat and laughter as it did on that morning with Rex. She spoke a little, and even laughed, but with a lightness as of a far-off echo: for her too there was some peculiar quality in the air--not, she was sure, any subjugation of her will by Mr. Grandcourt, and the splendid prospects he meant to offer her; for Gwendolen desired every one, that dignified gentleman himself included, to understand that she was going to do just as she liked, and that they had better not calculate on her pleasing them. If she chose to take this husband, she would have him know that she was not going to renounce her freedom, or according to her favorite formula, "not going to do as other women did."
Grandcourt's speeches this morning were, as usual, all of that brief sort which never fails to make a conversational figure when the speaker is held important in his circle. Stopping so soon, they give signs of a suppressed and formidable ability so say more, and have also the meritorious quality of allowing lengthiness to others.
"How do you like Criterion's paces?" he said, after they had entered the park and were slacking from a canter to a walk.

Gwendolen enjoyed the riding, but her pleasure did not break forth in chat and laughter as it had with Rex. She spoke a little, and even laughed, but with a lightness as of a far-off echo: for her too there was some peculiar quality in the air - not due to any subjugation of her will by Mr. Grandcourt, for Gwendolen desired everyone to understand that she was going to do just as she liked. If she chose to take this husband, she was not going to renounce her freedom: "she would not do as other women did."
Grandcourt's speeches this morning were of his usual brief sort, always giving signs of a suppressed and formidable ability to say more.
"How do you like Criterion's paces?" he said, after they had entered the park.


"He is delightful to ride. I should like to have a leap with him, if it would not frighten mamma. There was a good wide channel we passed five minutes ago. I should like to have a gallop back and take it."
"Pray do. We can take it together."
"No, thanks. Mamma is so timid--if she saw me it might make her ill."
"Let me go and explain. Criterion would take it without fail."


"No--indeed--you are very kind--but it would alarm her too much. I dare take any leap when she is not by; but I do it and don't tell her about it."
"We can let the carriage pass and then set off."
"No, no, pray don't think of it any more: I spoke quite randomly," said Gwendolen; she began to feel a new objection to carrying out her own proposition.
"But Mrs. Davilow knows I shall take care of you."
"Yes, but she would think of you as having to take care of my broken neck."
There was a considerable pause before Grandcourt said, looking toward her, "I should like to have the right always to take care of you."
Gwendolen did not turn her eyes on him; it seemed to her a long while that she was first blushing, and then turning pale, but to Grandcourt's rate of judgment she answered soon enough, with the lightest flute-tone and a careless movement of the head, "Oh, I am not sure that I want to be taken care of: if I chose to risk breaking my neck, I should like to be at liberty to do it."

 - it would alarm her too much. I dare take any leap when she is not near; but I do it and don't tell her about it."
"We can let the carriage pass and then set off."
"No, no, pray don't think of it any more: I spoke quite randomly," said Gwendolen; she began to feel a new objection to carrying out her own proposition.
"But Mrs. Davilow knows I shall take care of you."
"Yes, but she would think of you as having to take care of my broken neck."
There was a considerable pause before Grandcourt said, looking toward her, "I should like to have the right always to take care of you."
Gwendolen did not turn her eyes on him; it seemed to her a long while that she was first blushing, and then turning pale, before she answered, with the lightest flute-tone and a careless movement of the head, "Oh, I am not sure that I want to be taken care of: if I chose to risk breaking my neck, I should like to be free to do it."


She checked her horse as she spoke, and turned in her saddle, looking toward the advancing carriage. Her eyes swept across Grandcourt as she made this movement, but there was no language in them to correct the carelessness of her reply. At that very moment she was aware that she was risking something--not her neck, but the possibility of finally checking Grandcourt's advances, and she did not feel contented with the possibility.

She slowed her horse as she spoke, looking toward the advancing carriage. She was aware that she was risking something - not her neck, but the possibility of finally stopping Grandcourt's advances, and she did not feel contented with the possibility.


"Damn her!" thought Grandcourt, as he too checked his horse. He was not a wordy thinker, and this explosive phrase stood for mixed impressions which eloquent interpreters might have expanded into some sentences full of an irritated sense that he was being mystified, and a determination that this girl should not make a fool of him. Did she want him to throw himself at her feet and declare that he was dying for her? It was not by that gate that she could enter on the privileges he could give her. Or did she expect him to write his proposals? Equally a delusion. He would not make his offer in any way that could place him definitely in the position of being rejected. But as to her accepting him, she had done it already in accepting his marked attentions: and anything which happened to break them off would be understood to her disadvantage. She was merely coquetting, then?

"Damn her!" thought Grandcourt, as he too checked his horse. He was not a wordy thinker, and this explosive phrase stood for mixed impressions: that he was being mystified, and was determined that this girl should not make a fool of him. Did she want him to throw himself at her feet and declare that he was dying for her? That would not happen. Or did she expect him to write his proposals? Equally a delusion. He would not make his offer in any way that could place him definitely in the position of being rejected. But as to her accepting him, she had done it already in accepting his marked attentions. She was merely coquetting, then?


However, the carriage came up, and no further _tete--tete_ could well occur before their arrival at the house, where there was abundant company, to whom Gwendolen, clad in riding-dress, with her hat laid aside, clad also in the repute of being chosen by Mr. Grandcourt, was naturally a centre of observation; and since the objectionable Mr. Lush was not there to look at her, this stimulus of admiring attention heightened her spirits, and dispersed, for the time, the uneasy consciousness of divided impulses which threatened her with repentance of her own acts. Whether Grandcourt had been offended or not there was no judging: his manners were unchanged, but Gwendolen's acuteness had not gone deeper than to discern that his manners were no clue for her, and because these were unchanged she was not the less afraid of him.
She had not been at Diplow before except to dine; and since certain points of view from the windows and the garden were worth showing, Lady Flora Hollis proposed after luncheon, when some of the guests had dispersed, and the sun was sloping toward four o'clock, that the remaining party should make a little exploration. Here came frequent opportunities when Grandcourt might have retained Gwendolen apart, and have spoken to her unheard. But no! He indeed spoke to no one else, but what he said was nothing more eager or intimate than it had been in their first interview. He looked at her not less than usual; and some of her defiant spirit having come back, she looked full at him in return, not caring--rather preferring--that his eyes had no expression in them.
But at last it seemed as if he entertained some contrivance. After they had nearly made the tour of the grounds, the whole party stopped by the pool to be amused with Fetch's accomplishment of bringing a water lily to the bank like Cowper's spaniel Beau, and having been disappointed in his first attempt insisted on his trying again.
Here Grandcourt, who stood with Gwendolen outside the group, turned deliberately, and fixing his eyes on a knoll planted with American shrubs, and having a winding path up it, said languidly,

However, the carriage came up, and no further tte--tte could occur before their arrival at the house, where there was abundant company, to whom Gwendolen was naturally a centre of observation. Since the objectionable Mr. Lush was not there to look at her, this admiring attention heightened her spirits, and dispersed some of her uneasiness at her own indecision. Grandcourt's manners were unchanged, but Gwendolen had learnt that his manners were no clue for her, and she was not the less afraid of him.
She had not been at Diplow before except to dine; and since certain views from the windows and the garden were worth showing, it was proposed after luncheon that the party should make a little exploration. Here came frequent opportunities when Grandcourt might have kept Gwendolen apart, and have spoken to her unheard. But no! He indeed spoke to no one else, but his words were no more eager or intimate than in their first interview. He looked at her as much as usual; and some of her defiance returning, she looked full at him, not caring - rather preferring - that his eyes had no expression in them.
But at last it seemed he planned to speak. After the tour of the grounds, the whole party stopped by the pool to be amused by Fetch's bringing a water lily to the bank.
Here Grandcourt, who stood with Gwendolen outside the group, turned deliberately, and fixing his eyes on a knoll with a winding path up it, said languidly-


"This is a bore. Shall we go up there?"
"Oh, certainly--since we are exploring," said Gwendolen. She was rather pleased, and yet afraid.
The path was too narrow for him to offer his arm, and they walked up in silence. When they were on the bit of platform at the summit, Grandcourt said,
"There is nothing to be seen here: the thing was not worth climbing."
How was it that Gwendolen did not laugh? She was perfectly silent, holding up the folds of her robe like a statue, and giving a harder grasp to the handle of her whip, which she had snatched up automatically with her hat when they had first set off.

"This is a bore. Shall we go up there?"
"Oh, certainly - since we are exploring," said Gwendolen. She was rather pleased, and yet afraid.
The path was too narrow for him to offer his arm, and they walked up in silence. When they were at the summit, Grandcourt said-
"There is nothing to be seen here: the thing was not worth climbing."
How was it that Gwendolen did not laugh? She was perfectly silent, holding up her robe like a statue, and grasping the handle of her whip, which she had snatched up automatically when they had first set off.


"What sort of a place do you prefer?" said Grandcourt.
"Different places are agreeable in their way. On the whole, I think, I prefer places that are open and cheerful. I am not fond of anything sombre."
"Your place of Offendene is too sombre....".
"It is, rather."
"You will not remain there long, I hope."
"Oh, yes, I think so. Mamma likes to be near her sister."

"What sort of a place do you prefer?" said Grandcourt.
"I think I prefer places that are open and cheerful. I am not fond of anything sombre."
"Your place at Offendene is too sombre."
"It is, rather."
"You will not remain there long, I hope."
"Oh, yes, I think so. Mamma likes to be near her sister."


Silence for a short space.
"It is not to be supposed that _you_ will always live there, though Mrs. Davilow may."
"I don't know. We women can't go in search of adventures--to find out the North-West Passage or the source of the Nile, or to hunt tigers in the East. We must stay where we grow, or where the gardeners like to transplant us. We are brought up like the flowers, to look as pretty as we can, and be dull without complaining. That is my notion about the plants; they are often bored, and that is the reason why some of them have got poisonous. What do you think?" Gwendolen had run on rather nervously, lightly whipping the rhododendron bush in front of her.

Silence for a short space.
"It is not to be supposed that you will always live there, though Mrs. Davilow may."
"I don't know. We women can't go in search of adventures - to find the North-West Passage or the source of the Nile, or hunt tigers in the East. We must stay where we grow, like flowers, brought up to look pretty, and be dull without complaining. That is my notion about plants; they are often bored, and that is why some of them become poisonous. What do you think?" Gwendolen had run on rather nervously, lightly whipping the rhododendron bush in front of her.


"I quite agree. Most things are bores," said Grandcourt, his mind having been pushed into an easy current, away from its intended track. But, after a moment's pause, he continued in his broken, refined drawl,
"But a woman can be married."
"Some women can."
"You, certainly, unless you are obstinately cruel."
"I am not sure that I am not both cruel and obstinate." Here Gwendolen suddenly turned her head and looked full at Grandcourt, whose eyes she had felt to be upon her throughout their conversation. She was wondering what the effect of looking at him would be on herself rather than on him.

"I quite agree. Most things are bores," said Grandcourt. After a moment's pause, he continued in his refined drawl-
"But a woman can be married."
"Some women can."
"You, certainly, unless you are obstinately cruel."
"I am not sure that I am not both cruel and obstinate." Here Gwendolen suddenly turned her head and looked full at Grandcourt. She was wondering what the effect of looking at him would be on herself, rather than on him.


He stood perfectly still, half a yard or more away from her; and it flashed through her mind what a sort of lotus-eater's stupor had begun in him and was taking possession of her. Then he said,
"Are you as uncertain about yourself as you make others about you?"
"I am quite uncertain about myself; I don't know how uncertain others may be."
"And you wish them to understand that you don't care?" said Grandcourt, with a touch of new hardness in his tone.
"I did not say that," Gwendolen replied, hesitatingly, and turning her eyes away whipped the rhododendron bush again. She wished she were on horseback that she might set off on a canter. It was impossible to set off running down the knoll.
"You do care, then," said Grandcourt, not more quickly, but with a softened drawl.

He stood perfectly still; and it flashed through her mind what a sort of lotos-eater's stupor had begun in him and was taking possession of her. Then he said-
"Are you as uncertain about yourself as you make others about you?"
"I am quite uncertain about myself; I don't know how uncertain others may be."
"And you wish them to understand that you don't care?" said Grandcourt, with a new hardness in his tone.
"I did not say that," Gwendolen replied hesitatingly, and turning her eyes away whipped the rhododendron bush again. She wished she were on horseback that she might set off on a canter. It was impossible to set off running down the knoll.
"You do care, then," said Grandcourt, with a softened drawl.


"Ha! my whip!" said Gwendolen, in a little scream of distress. She had let it go--what could be more natural in a slight agitation?--and--but this seemed less natural in a gold-handled whip which had been left altogether to itself--it had gone with some force over the immediate shrubs, and had lodged itself in the branches of an azalea half-way down the knoll. She could run down now, laughing prettily, and Grandcourt was obliged to follow; but she was beforehand with him in rescuing the whip, and continued on her way to the level ground, when she paused and looked at Grandcourt with an exasperating brightness in her glance and a heightened color, as if she had carried a triumph, and these indications were still noticeable to Mrs. Davilow when Gwendolen and Grandcourt joined the rest of the party.
"It is all coquetting," thought Grandcourt; "the next time I beckon she will come down."
It seemed to him likely that this final beckoning might happen the very next day, when there was to be a picnic archery meeting in Cardell Chase, according to the plan projected on the evening of the ball.

"Ha! my whip!" said Gwendolen, in a little scream of distress. She had let it go - what could be more natural in a slight agitation? - and it had gone with some force over the immediate shrubs, and had lodged itself in some branches half-way down the knoll. She could run down now, laughing prettily, and Grandcourt was obliged to follow; but rescuing the whip, she continued on her way to level ground, where she paused and looked at him with an exasperating brightness in her glance and a heightened, triumphant colour, which Mrs. Davilow noticed when they rejoined the party.
"It is all coquetting," thought Grandcourt; "the next time I beckon she will come down."
He thought that this final beckoning might happen the very next day, when there was to be a picnic archery meeting in Cardell Chase, according to the plan suggested on the day of the ball.


Even in Gwendolen's mind that result was one of two likelihoods that presented themselves alternately, one of two decisions toward which she was being precipitated, as if they were two sides of a boundary-line, and she did not know on which she should fall. This subjection to a possible self, a self not to be absolutely predicted about, caused her some astonishment and terror; her favorite key of life--doing as she liked--seemed to fail her, and she could not foresee what at a given moment she might like to do. The prospect of marrying Grandcourt really seemed more attractive to her than she had believed beforehand that any marriage could be: the dignities, the luxuries, the power of doing a great deal of what she liked to do, which had now come close to her, and within her choice to secure or to lose, took hold of her nature as if it had been the strong odor of what she had only imagined and longed for before. And Grandcourt himself? He seemed as little of a flaw in his fortunes as a lover and husband could possibly be. Gwendolen wished to mount the chariot and drive the plunging horses herself, with a spouse by her side who would fold his arms and give her his countenance without looking ridiculous. Certainly, with all her perspicacity, and all the reading which seemed to her mamma dangerously instructive, her judgment was consciously a little at fault before Grandcourt. He was adorably quiet and free from absurdities--he would be a husband to suit with the best appearance a woman could make. But what else was he? He had been everywhere, and seen everything.

Gwendolen felt herself being hurried towards two alternative likelihoods; two decisions, like two sides of a boundary-line, and she did not know on which side she should fall. This powerlessness to predict her own behaviour caused her some astonishment and terror; her favourite idea of doing as she liked seemed to fail her, and she could not foresee what she might choose to do. The prospect of marrying Grandcourt really seemed attractive to her: the dignities, the luxuries, which had now come within her reach, took hold of her nature.
And Grandcourt himself? He seemed to have as little flaw as a lover and husband could. Gwendolen wished to mount the chariot and drive the plunging horses herself, with a spouse by her side who would fold his arms and give her his countenance without looking ridiculous. Grandcourt was adorably quiet and free from absurdities.
But what else was he? He had been everywhere, and seen everything.


_That_ was desirable, and especially gratifying as a preamble to his supreme preference for Gwendolen Harleth. He did not appear to enjoy anything much. That was not necessary: and the less he had of particular tastes, or desires, the more freedom his wife was likely to have in following hers. Gwendolen conceived that after marriage she would most probably be able to manage him thoroughly.

That was desirable, and a gratifying preamble to his supreme preference for Gwendolen Harleth. He did not appear to enjoy anything much. That was not necessary: the less he had of particular desires, the more freedom his wife was likely to have in following hers. Gwendolen conceived that after marriage she would most probably be able to manage him thoroughly.


How was it that he caused her unusual constraint now?--that she was less daring and playful in her talk with him than with any other admirer she had known? That absence of demonstrativeness which she was glad of, acted as a charm in more senses than one, and was slightly benumbing. Grandcourt after all was formidable--a handsome lizard of a hitherto unknown species, not of the lively, darting kind. But Gwendolen knew hardly anything about lizards, and ignorance gives one a large range of probabilities. This splendid specimen was probably gentle, suitable as a boudoir pet: what may not a lizard be, if you know nothing to the contrary? Her acquaintance with Grandcourt was such that no accomplishment suddenly revealed in him would have surprised her. And he was so little suggestive of drama, that it hardly occurred to her to think with any detail how his life of thirty-six years had been passed: in general, she imagined him always cold and dignified, not likely ever to have committed himself. He had hunted the tiger--had he ever been in love or made love? The one experience and the other seemed alike remote in Gwendolen's fancy from the Mr. Grandcourt who had come to Diplow in order apparently to make a chief epoch in her destiny--perhaps by introducing her to that state of marriage which she had resolved to make a state of greater freedom than her girlhood. And on the whole she wished to marry him; he suited her purpose; her prevailing, deliberate intention was, to accept him.

How was it that he caused her unusual constraint now? - that she was less daring and playful in her talk with him than with any other admirer she had known? His lack of demonstrativeness acted as a charm in more senses than one, and was slightly benumbing. Grandcourt after all was formidable: a handsome lizard of a hitherto unknown species, not the lively, darting kind. But Gwendolen knew hardly anything about lizards. This splendid specimen was probably gentle, suitable as a boudoir pet: what may not a lizard be, if you know nothing to the contrary?
It hardly occurred to her to think how his life of thirty-six years had been passed: she imagined him always cold and dignified, not likely ever to have committed himself. He had hunted the tiger - had he ever been in love? Both experiences seemed remote from the Mr. Grandcourt who had come to Diplow in order to change her destiny. On the whole she wished to marry him; he suited her purpose; her prevailing, deliberate intention was to accept him.


But was she going to fulfill her deliberate intention? She began to be afraid of herself, and to find out a certain difficulty in doing as she liked. Already her assertion of independence in evading his advances had been carried farther than was necessary, and she was thinking with some anxiety what she might do on the next occasion.
Seated according to her habit with her back to the horses on their drive homeward, she was completely under the observation of her mamma, who took the excitement and changefulness in the expression of her eyes, her unwonted absence of mind and total silence, as unmistakable signs that something unprecedented had occurred between her and Grandcourt. Mrs. Davilow's uneasiness determined her to risk some speech on the subject: the Gascoignes were to dine at Offendene, and in what had occurred this morning there might be some reason for consulting the rector; not that she expected him anymore than herself to influence Gwendolen, but that her anxious mind wanted to be disburdened.
"Something has happened, dear?" she began, in a tender tone of question.
Gwendolen looked round, and seeming to be roused to the consciousness of her physical self, took off her gloves and then her hat, that the soft breeze might blow on her head. They were in a retired bit of the road, where the long afternoon shadows from the bordering trees fell across it and no observers were within sight. Her eyes continued to meet her mother's, but she did not speak.

But was she going to fulfil her deliberate intention? She began to be afraid of herself. Already her assertion of independence in evading his advances had been carried farther than was necessary, and she was thinking with some anxiety of what she might do on the next occasion.
On their drive homeward, she was observed by her mamma, who took the excitement in her eyes and her total silence as signs that something had occurred between her and Grandcourt. Mrs. Davilow's uneasiness determined her to risk a question.
"Something has happened, dear?" she began.
Gwendolen looked round, roused to consciousness of herself. She took off her gloves and then her hat, so that the soft breeze might blow on her head, but did not speak.


"Mr. Grandcourt has been saying something?--Tell me, dear." The last words were uttered beseechingly.
"What am I to tell you, mamma?" was the perverse answer.
"I am sure something has agitated you. You ought to confide in me, Gwen. You ought not to leave me in doubt and anxiety." Mrs. Davilow's eyes filled with tears.

"Mr. Grandcourt has been saying something?- Tell me, dear."
"What am I to tell you, mamma?" was the perverse answer.
"I am sure something has agitated you. You ought to confide in me, Gwen. You ought not to leave me in doubt and anxiety." Mrs. Davilow's eyes filled with tears.


"Mamma, dear, please don't be miserable," said Gwendolen, with pettish remonstrance. "It only makes me more so. I am in doubt myself."
"About Mr. Grandcourt's intentions?" said Mrs. Davilow, gathering determination from her alarms.
"No; not at all," said Gwendolen, with some curtness, and a pretty little toss of the head as she put on her hat again.
"About whether you will accept him, then?"
"Precisely."
"Have you given him a doubtful answer?"
"I have given him no answer at all."

"Mamma, dear, please don't be miserable," said Gwendolen, with pettish remonstrance. "It only makes me more so. I am in doubt myself."
"About Mr. Grandcourt's intentions?"
"No; not at all," said Gwendolen, with a pretty toss of the head.
"About whether you will accept him, then?"
"Precisely."
"Have you given him a doubtful answer?"
"I have given him no answer at all."


"He _has_ spoken so that you could not misunderstand him?"
"As far as I would let him speak."
"You expect him to persevere?" Mrs. Davilow put this question rather anxiously, and receiving no answer, asked another: "You don't consider that you have discouraged him?"
"I dare say not."
"I thought you liked him, dear," said Mrs. Davilow, timidly.
"So I do, mamma, as liking goes. There is less to dislike about him than about most men. He is quiet and _distingu_." Gwendolen so far spoke with a pouting sort of gravity; but suddenly she recovered some of her mischievousness, and her face broke into a smile as she added--"Indeed he has all the qualities that would make a husband tolerable--battlement, veranda, stable, etc., no grins and no glass in his eye."

"He has spoken so that you could not misunderstand him?"
"As far as I would let him speak."
"You expect him to persevere?" Mrs. Davilow put this question rather anxiously. "You don't consider that you have discouraged him?"
"I dare say not."
"I thought you liked him, dear," said Mrs. Davilow, timidly.
"So I do, mamma, as liking goes. There is less to dislike about him than about most men. He is quiet and distinguished." Gwendolen spoke with gravity; but suddenly added with a smile- "Indeed he has all the qualities that would make a husband tolerable - battlement, veranda, stable, etc., and no glass in his eye."


"Do be serious with me for a moment, dear. Am I to understand that you mean to accept him?"
"Oh, pray, mamma, leave me to myself," said Gwendolen, with a pettish distress in her voice.
And Mrs. Davilow said no more.
When they got home Gwendolen declared that she would not dine. She was tired, and would come down in the evening after she had taken some rest. The probability that her uncle would hear what had passed did not trouble her. She was convinced that whatever he might say would be on the side of her accepting Grandcourt, and she wished to accept him if she could. At this moment she would willingly have had weights hung on her own caprice.

"Do be serious, dear. Am I to understand that you mean to accept him?"
"Oh, pray, mamma, leave me to myself," said Gwendolen, with pettish distress. Mrs. Davilow said no more.
When they got home Gwendolen declared that she would not dine: she was tired, and would come down in the evening to see her uncle.


Mr. Gascoigne did hear--not Gwendolen's answers repeated verbatim, but a softened generalized account of them. The mother conveyed as vaguely as the keen rector's questions would let her the impression that Gwendolen was in some uncertainty about her own mind, but inclined on the whole to acceptance. The result was that the uncle felt himself called on to interfere; he did not conceive that he should do his duty in witholding direction from his niece in a momentous crisis of this kind. Mrs. Davilow ventured a hesitating opinion that perhaps it would be safer to say nothing--Gwendolen was so sensitive (she did not like to say willful). But the rector's was a firm mind, grasping its first judgments tenaciously and acting on them promptly, whence counter-judgments were no more for him than shadows fleeting across the solid ground to which he adjusted himself.

Mr. Gascoigne heard a softened account of this conversation. The mother hinted that Gwendolen was in some uncertainty about her own mind, but inclined to acceptance. The result was that the uncle felt himself called on to interfere; his duty was to guide his niece in a momentous crisis of this kind.


This match with Grandcourt presented itself to him as a sort of public affair; perhaps there were ways in which it might even strengthen the establishment. To the rector, whose father (nobody would have suspected it, and nobody was told) had risen to be a provincial corn-dealer, aristocratic heirship resembled regal heirship in excepting its possessor from the ordinary standard of moral judgments, Grandcourt, the almost certain baronet, the probable peer, was to be ranged with public personages, and was a match to be accepted on broad general grounds national and ecclesiastical. Such public personages, it is true, are often in the nature of giants which an ancient community may have felt pride and safety in possessing, though, regarded privately, these born eminences must often have been inconvenient and even noisome. But of the future husband personally Mr. Gascoigne was disposed to think the best. Gossip is a sort of smoke that comes from the dirty tobacco-pipes of those who diffuse it: it proves nothing but the bad taste of the smoker. But if Grandcourt had really made any deeper or more unfortunate experiments in folly than were common in young men of high prospects, he was of an age to have finished them. All accounts can be suitably wound up when a man has not ruined himself, and the expense may be taken as an insurance against future error. This was the view of practical wisdom; with reference to higher views, repentance had a supreme moral and religious value. There was every reason to believe that a woman of well-regulated mind would be happy with Grandcourt.

To the rector, aristocratic heirship excused its possessor from ordinary moral standards. Grandcourt, the almost certain baronet, the probable peer, was the sort of public personage an ancient community may feel proud of; though privately these great persons must often be inconvenient and even unpleasant. But Mr. Gascoigne was disposed to think the best, and set aside the gossip he had heard. If Grandcourt had really made any deeper experiments in folly than were common in young men of high prospects, he was of an age to have finished them. All accounts can be suitably wound up when a man has not ruined himself, and the expense may be taken as an insurance against future error. There was every reason to believe that a woman of well-regulated mind would be happy with Grandcourt.


It was no surprise to Gwendolen on coming down to tea to be told that her uncle wished to see her in the dining-room. He threw aside the paper as she entered and greeted her with his usual kindness. As his wife had remarked, he always "made much" of Gwendolen, and her importance had risen of late. "My dear," he said, in a fatherly way, moving a chair for her as he held her hand, "I want to speak to you on a subject which is more momentous than any other with regard to your welfare. You will guess what I mean. But I shall speak to you with perfect directness: in such matters I consider myself bound to act as your father. You have no objection, I hope?"

When Gwendolen came down to tea, her uncle greeted her with his usual kindness.
"My dear," he said, in a fatherly way, "I want to speak to you on a momentous subject. You will guess what I mean. In such matters I consider myself bound to act as your father. You have no objection, I hope?"


"Oh dear, no, uncle. You have always been very kind to me," said Gwendolen, frankly. This evening she was willing, if it were possible, to be a little fortified against her troublesome self, and her resistant temper was in abeyance. The rector's mode of speech always conveyed a thrill of authority, as of a word of command: it seemed to take for granted that there could be no wavering in the audience, and that every one was going to be rationally obedient.
"It is naturally a satisfaction to me that the prospect of a marriage for you--advantageous in the highest degree--has presented itself so early. I do not know exactly what has passed between you and Mr. Grandcourt, but I presume there can be little doubt, from the way in which he has distinguished you, that he desires to make you his wife."
Gwendolen did not speak immediately, and her uncle said with more emphasis,
"Have you any doubt of that yourself, my dear?"
"I suppose that is what he has been thinking of. But he may have changed his mind to-morrow," said Gwendolen.

"Oh dear, no, uncle. You have always been very kind to me," said Gwendolen frankly. This evening she was willing to be fortified against her troublesome self. The rector always conveyed authority: he seemed to take for granted that his audience was going to be rationally obedient.
"It is naturally a satisfaction to me that the prospect of an advantageous marriage for you has presented itself so early. I do not know exactly what has passed between you and Mr. Grandcourt, but I presume there can be little doubt, from the way in which he has distinguished you, that he desires to make you his wife. Have you any doubt of that yourself, my dear?"
"I suppose that is what he has been thinking of. But he may have changed his mind tomorrow," said Gwendolen.


"Why to-morrow? Has he made advances which you have discouraged?"
"I think he meant--he began to make advances--but I did not encourage them. I turned the conversation."
"Will you confide in me so far as to tell me your reasons?"
"I am not sure that I had any reasons, uncle." Gwendolen laughed rather artificially.

"Why? Has he made advances which you have discouraged?"
"I think he meant - he began to make advances - but I did not encourage them."
"Will you confide in me so far as to tell me your reasons?"
"I am not sure that I had any reasons, uncle." Gwendolen laughed rather artificially.


"You are quite capable of reflecting, Gwendolen. You are aware that this is not a trivial occasion, and it concerns your establishment for life under circumstances which may not occur again. You have a duty here both to yourself and your family. I wish to understand whether you have any ground for hesitating as to your acceptance of Mr. Grandcourt."
"I suppose I hesitate without grounds." Gwendolen spoke rather poutingly, and her uncle grew suspicious.
"Is he disagreeable to you personally?"
"No."
"Have you heard anything of him which has affected you disagreeably?" The rector thought it impossible that Gwendolen could have heard the gossip he had heard, but in any case he must endeavor to put all things in the right light for her.

"You are aware that this is not a trivial occasion, Gwendolen. It concerns your establishment for life under circumstances which may not occur again. You have a duty here both to yourself and your family. Have you any ground for hesitating as to your acceptance of Mr. Grandcourt?"
"I suppose I hesitate without grounds."
"Is he disagreeable to you personally?"
"No."
"Have you heard anything of him which has affected you disagreeably?" The rector thought it impossible that Gwendolen could be aware of the gossip he had heard, but in any case he must endeavour to put things in the right light for her.


"I have heard nothing about him except that he is a great match," said Gwendolen, with some sauciness; "and that affects me very agreeably."
"Then, my dear Gwendolen, I have nothing further to say than this: you hold your fortune in your own hands--a fortune such as rarely happens to a girl in your circumstances--a fortune in fact which almost takes the question out of the range of mere personal feeling, and makes your acceptance of it a duty. If Providence offers you power and position--especially when unclogged by any conditions that are repugnant to you--your course is one of responsibility, into which caprice must not enter. A man does not like to have his attachment trifled with: he may not be at once repelled--these things are matters of individual disposition. But the trifling may be carried too far. And I must point out to you that in case Mr. Grandcourt were repelled without your having refused him--without your having intended ultimately to refuse him, your situation would be a humiliating and painful one. I, for my part, should regard you with severe disapprobation, as the victim of nothing else than your own coquetry and folly."

"I have heard nothing about him except that he is a great match," said Gwendolen, with some sauciness; "and that affects me very agreeably."
"Then, my dear Gwendolen, I have nothing further to say than this: you hold your fortune in your own hands - a fortune such as rarely happens to a girl in your circumstances, and which makes your acceptance a duty. Your course is one of responsibility, into which caprice must not enter. A man does not like to have his attachment trifled with: he may not be at once repelled, but the trifling may be carried too far. And I must point out to you that if Mr. Grandcourt were repelled without your having intended to refuse him, your situation would be a humiliating and painful one."


Gwendolen became pallid as she listened to this admonitory speech. The ideas it raised had the force of sensations. Her resistant courage would not help her here, because her uncle was not urging her against her own resolve; he was pressing upon her the motives of dread which she already felt; he was making her more conscious of the risks that lay within herself. She was silent, and the rector observed that he had produced some strong effect.
"I mean this in kindness, my dear." His tone had softened.

Gwendolen became pale as she listened to this warning, which made her more conscious of the risks that lay within herself. She was silent.
"I mean this in kindness, my dear," said the rector, his tone softening.


"I am aware of that, uncle," said Gwendolen, rising and shaking her head back, as if to rouse herself out of painful passivity. "I am not foolish. I know that I must be married some time--before it is too late. And I don't see how I could do better than marry Mr. Grandcourt. I mean to accept him, if possible." She felt as if she were reinforcing herself by speaking with this decisiveness to her uncle.
But the rector was a little startled by so bare a version of his own meaning from those young lips. He wished that in her mind his advice should be taken in an infusion of sentiments proper to a girl, and such as are presupposed in the advice of a clergyman, although he may not consider them always appropriate to be put forward. He wished his niece parks, carriages, a title--everything that would make this world a pleasant abode; but he wished her not to be cynical--to be, on the contrary, religiously dutiful, and have warm domestic affections.

"I know that, uncle," said Gwendolen, rising. "I am not foolish. I know that I must be married some time - before it is too late; and I don't see how I could do better than marry Mr. Grandcourt. I mean to accept him, if possible." She felt as if she were reinforcing herself by speaking with this decisiveness to her uncle.
But the rector was a little startled by so bare a version of his own meaning from those young lips. He wished his niece parks, carriages, and a title, but he also wished her not to be cynical: on the contrary, to be religiously dutiful, with warm domestic affections.


"My dear Gwendolen," he said, rising also, and speaking with benignant gravity, "I trust that you will find in marriage a new fountain of duty and affection. Marriage is the only true and satisfactory sphere of a woman, and if your marriage with Mr. Grandcourt should be happily decided upon, you will have, probably, an increasing power, both of rank and wealth, which may be used for the benefit of others. These considerations are something higher than romance! You are fitted by natural gifts for a position which, considering your birth and early prospects, could hardly be looked forward to as in the ordinary course of things; and I trust that you will grace it, not only by those personal gifts, but by a good and consistent life."
"I hope mamma will be the happier," said Gwendolen, in a more cheerful way, lifting her hands backward to her neck and moving toward the door. She wanted to waive those higher considerations.
Mr. Gascoigne felt that he had come to a satisfactory understanding with his niece, and had furthered her happy settlement in life by furthering her engagement to Grandcourt. Meanwhile there was another person to whom the contemplation of that issue had been a motive for some activity, and who believed that he, too, on this particular day had done something toward bringing about a favorable decision in _his_ sense--which happened to be the reverse of the rector's.

"My dear Gwendolen," he said with benign gravity, "I trust that you will find in marriage a new fountain of duty and affection. Marriage is the only true and satisfactory sphere of a woman, and if you marry Mr. Grandcourt, you will have an increasing power of rank and wealth, which may be used for the benefit of others. I trust that you will grace your position, not only by your natural personal gifts, but by a good and consistent life."
"I hope mamma will be happier," said Gwendolen, more cheerfully, moving toward the door. Mr. Gascoigne felt that he had come to a satisfactory understanding with his niece.
Meanwhile there was another person who believed that he, too, had done something toward bringing about a favourable decision in his sense - which happened to be the reverse of the rector's.


Mr. Lush's absence from Diplow during Gwendolen's visit had been due, not to any fear on his part of meeting that supercilious young lady, or of being abashed by her frank dislike, but to an engagement from which he expected important consequences. He was gone, in fact, to the Wanchester station to meet a lady, accompanied by a maid and two children, whom he put into a fly, and afterward followed to the hotel of the Golden Keys, in that town. An impressive woman, whom many would turn to look at again in passing; her figure was slim and sufficiently tall, her face rather emaciated, so that its sculpturesque beauty was the more pronounced, her crisp hair perfectly black, and her large, anxious eyes what we call black. Her dress was soberly correct, her age, perhaps, physically more advanced than the number of years would imply, but hardly less than seven-and-thirty. An uneasy-looking woman: her glance seemed to presuppose that the people and things were going to be unfavorable to her, while she was, nevertheless, ready to meet them with resolution. The children were lovely--a dark-haired girl of six or more, a fairer boy of five. When Lush incautiously expressed some surprise at her having brought the children, she said, with a sharp-toned intonation,
"Did you suppose I should come wandering about here by myself? Why should I not bring all four if I liked?"
"Oh, certainly," said Lush, with his usual fluent _nonchalance_.

Mr. Lush's absence from Diplow during Gwendolen's visit had been due, not to any fear of meeting that supercilious young lady, but to an engagement from which he expected important consequences.
He was gone, in fact, to the station to meet a lady, with a maid and two children, whom he took to a hotel. She was an impressive woman, who would turn heads; her figure was slim and tall, her face rather emaciated, so that its sculpturesque beauty was the more pronounced; her crisp hair was perfectly black, as were the large, anxious eyes that looked around uneasily. Her dress was soberly correct, her age about seven-and-thirty. The children were lovely - a dark-haired girl of six or more, a fairer boy of five. When Lush expressed surprise at their presence, she said sharply-
"Why should I not bring all four if I liked?"
"Oh, certainly," said Lush, with nonchalance.


He stayed an hour or so in conference with her, and rode back to Diplow in a state of mind that was at once hopeful and busily anxious as to the execution of the little plan on which his hopefulness was based. Grandcourt's marriage to Gwendolen Harleth would not, he believed, be much of a good to either of them, and it would plainly be fraught with disagreeables to himself. But now he felt confident enough to say inwardly, "I will take, nay, I will lay odds that the marriage will never happen."

He stayed an hour or so in talk with her, and then rode back to Diplow, hopeful as to the execution of his little plan. Grandcourt's marriage to Gwendolen Harleth would not, he believed, be good for either of them, and it would plainly be disagreeable to himself. But now he felt confident enough to lay odds that the marriage would never happen.