"Oh, I was poor and needed help," said Mirah, in a new tone of feeling, "and Mr. Deronda has given me the best friends in the world. That is the only way he came to know anything about me--because he was sorry for me. I had no friends when I came. I was in distress. I owe everything to him."
Poor Gwendolen, who had wanted to be a struggling artist herself, could nevertheless not escape the impression that a mode of inquiry which would have been rather rude toward herself was an amiable condescension to this Jewess who was ready to give her lessons. The only effect on Mirah, as always on any mention of Deronda, was to stir reverential gratitude and anxiety that she should be understood to have the deepest obligation to him.
But both he and Hans, who were noticing the pair from a distance, would have felt rather indignant if they had known that the conversation had led up to Mirah's representation of herself in this light of neediness. In the movement that prompted her, however, there was an exquisite delicacy, which perhaps she could not have stated explicitly--the feeling that she ought not to allow any one to assume in Deronda a relation of more equality or less generous interest toward her than actually existed. Her answer was delightful to Gwendolen: she thought of nothing but the ready compassion which in another form she had trusted in and found herself; and on the signals that Klesmer was about to play she moved away in much content, entirely without presentiment that this Jewish _protg_ would ever make a more important difference in her life than the possible improvement of her singing--if the leisure and spirits of a Mrs. Grandcourt would allow of other lessons than such as the world was giving her at rather a high charge.

"I was poor and needed help," said Mirah, with feeling, "and Mr. Deronda has given me the best friends in the world. That is the only way he came to know me - because he was sorry for me. I had no friends when I came. I was in distress. I owe everything to him."
Poor Gwendolen, who had wanted to be a struggling artist herself, could nevertheless not help feeling that her questions bordered on the rude. The only effect on Mirah, as on any mention of Deronda, was to stir her reverential gratitude towards him.
But both he and Hans, who were noticing the pair from a distance, would have felt rather indignant if they had known that Mirah had been led to represent herself in this light of neediness. However, she was prompted by the delicate feeling, which perhaps she could not have stated explicitly, that she ought not to allow anyone to assume that Deronda had a less generous interest in her than actually existed. Her answer was delightful to Gwendolen, who found Deronda's ready compassion confirmed; and with the signals that Klesmer was about to play she moved away in much content.


With her wonted alternation from resolute care of appearances to some rash indulgence of an impulse, she chose, under the pretext of getting farther from the instrument, not to go again to her former seat, but placed herself on a settee where she could only have one neighbor. She was nearer to Deronda than before: was it surprising that he came up in time to shake hands before the music began--then, that after he had stood a little while by the elbow of the settee at the empty end, the torrent-like confluences of bass and treble seemed, like a convulsion of nature, to cast the conduct of petty mortals into insignificance, and to warrant his sitting down?
But when at the end of Klesmer's playing there came the outburst of talk under which Gwendolen had hoped to speak as she would to Deronda, she observed that Mr. Lush was within hearing, leaning against the wall close by them. She could not help her flush of anger, but she tried to have only an air of polite indifference in saying,
"Miss Lapidoth is everything you described her to be."
"You have been very quick in discovering that," said Deronda, ironically.
"I have not found out all the excellencies you spoke of--I don't mean that," said Gwendolen; "but I think her singing is charming, and herself, too. Her face is lovely--not in the least common; and she is such a complete little person. I should think she will be a great success."

With her usual alternation from resolute care of appearances to the rash indulgence of an impulse, she did not go to her former seat, but placed herself on a settee where she could only have one neighbour. She was near to Deronda: was it surprising that he came up to shake hands before the music began - and that after a little while, he sat down?
But when at the end of Klesmer's playing there came the outburst of talk under which Gwendolen had hoped to speak freely to Deronda, she observed that Mr. Lush was within hearing, leaning against the wall. Despite her flush of anger, she tried to assume an air of polite indifference in saying-
"Miss Lapidoth is everything you described her to be."
"You have been very quick in discovering that," said Deronda, ironically.
"I have not found out all the excellencies you spoke of - I don't mean that," said Gwendolen; "but her singing is charming, and herself, too. Her face is lovely - not in the least common; and she is such a complete little person. I should think she will be a great success."


This speech was grating on Deronda, and he would not answer it, but looked gravely before him. She knew that he was displeased with her, and she was getting so impatient under the neighborhood of Mr. Lush, which prevented her from saying any word she wanted to say, that she meditated some desperate step to get rid of it, and remained silent, too. That constraint seemed to last a long while, neither Gwendolen nor Deronda looking at the other, till Lush slowly relieved the wall of his weight, and joined some one at a distance.
Gwendolen immediately said, "You despise me for talking artificially."
"No," said Deronda, looking at her coolly; "I think that is quite excusable sometimes. But I did not think what you were last saying was altogether artificial."
"There was something in it that displeased you," said Gwendolen. "What was it?"
"It is impossible to explain such things," said Deronda. "One can never communicate niceties of feeling about words and manner."

This speech was grating on Deronda, and he would not answer it, but looked gravely before him. She knew that he was displeased, and she was getting so impatient with the presence of Mr. Lush, which prevented her from saying any word she wanted to say, that she remained silent, too. For a long while, neither Gwendolen nor Deronda looked at the other, till Lush slowly relieved the wall of his weight, and moved away.
Gwendolen immediately said, "You despise me for talking artificially."
"No," said Deronda, looking at her coolly; "I think that is quite excusable sometimes. But I did not think what you were last saying was altogether artificial."
"There was something in it that displeased you," said Gwendolen. "What was it?"
"It is impossible to explain such niceties of word and manner," said Deronda.


"You think I am shut out from understanding them," said Gwendolen, with a slight tremor in her voice, which she was trying to conquer. "Have I shown myself so very dense to everything you have said?" There was an indescribable look of suppressed tears in her eyes, which were turned on him.
"Not at all," said Deronda, with some softening of voice. "But experience differs for different people. We don't all wince at the same things. I have had plenty of proof that you are not dense." He smiled at her.

"You think I am shut out from understanding them," said Gwendolen, with a slight tremor in her voice, which she tried to conquer. "Have I shown myself so very dense to everything you have said?" There was an indescribable look of suppressed tears in her eyes, which were turned on him.
"Not at all," said Deronda, his voice softening. "I have had plenty of proof that you are not dense." He smiled at her.


"But one may feel things and are not able to do anything better for all that," said Gwendolen, not smiling in return--the distance to which Deronda's words seemed to throw her chilling her too much. "I begin to think we can only get better by having people about us who raise good feelings. You must not be surprised at anything in me. I think it is too late for me to alter. I don't know how to set about being wise, as you told me to be."
"I seldom find I do any good by my preaching. I might as well have kept from meddling," said Deronda, thinking rather sadly that his interference about that unfortunate necklace might end in nothing but an added pain to him in seeing her after all hardened to another sort of gambling than roulette.

"But one may feel things and not be able to do anything better for all that," said Gwendolen, not smiling in return. "I begin to think we can only get better by having people about us who raise good feelings. I think it is too late for me to alter. I don't know how to set about being wise, as you told me to be."
"I seldom find I do any good by my preaching. I should not have meddled," said Deronda.


"Don't say that," said Gwendolen, hurriedly, feeling that this might be her only chance of getting the words uttered, and dreading the increase of her own agitation. "If you despair of me, I shall despair. Your saying that I should not go on being selfish and ignorant has been some strength to me. If you say you wish you had not meddled--that means you despair of me and forsake me. And then you will decide for me that I shall not be good. It is you who will decide; because you might have made me different by keeping as near to me as you could, and believing in me."
She had not been looking at him as she spoke, but at the handle of the fan which she held closed. With the last words she rose and left him, returning to her former place, which had been left vacant; while every one was settling into quietude in expectation of Mirah's voice, which presently, with that wonderful, searching quality of subdued song in which the melody seems simply an effect of the emotion, gave forth, _Per piet non dirmi addio_.

"Don't say that," said Gwendolen, hurriedly, feeling that this might be her only chance of speaking, and dreading the increase of her own agitation. "If you despair of me, I shall despair. Your saying that I should not go on being selfish and ignorant has been some strength to me. If you say you wish you had not meddled - that means you despair of me, and decide for me that I shall not be good. You might have made me different by keeping as near to me as you could, and believing in me."
She had not been looking at him as she spoke, but at the handle of her fan. She rose and left him, returning to her former place, while everyone settled into quiet expectation of Mirah's voice, which presently, with that wonderful, searching quality of subdued song in which the melody seems simply an effect of the emotion, gave forth, Per piet non dirmi addio.


In Deronda's ear the strain was for the moment a continuance of Gwendolen's pleading--a painful urging of something vague and difficult, irreconcilable with pressing conditions, and yet cruel to resist. However strange the mixture in her of a resolute pride and a precocious air of knowing the world, with a precipitate, guileless indiscretion, he was quite sure now that the mixture existed. Sir Hugo's hints had made him alive to dangers that his own disposition might have neglected; but that Gwendolen's reliance on him was unvisited by any dream of his being a man who could misinterpret her was as manifest as morning, and made an appeal which wrestled with his sense of present dangers, and with his foreboding of a growing incompatible claim on him in her mind. There was a foreshadowing of some painful collision: on the one side the grasp of Mordecai's dying hand on him, with all the ideals and prospects it aroused; on the other the fair creature in silk and gems, with her hidden wound and her self-dread, making a trustful effort to lean and find herself sustained. It was as if he had a vision of himself besought with outstretched arms and cries, while he was caught by the waves and compelled to mount the vessel bound for a far-off coast. That was the strain of excited feeling in him that went along with the notes of Mirah's song; but when it ceased he moved from his seat with the reflection that he had been falling into an exaggeration of his own importance, and a ridiculous readiness to accept Gwendolen's view of himself, as if he could really have any decisive power over her.
"What an enviable fellow you are," said Hans to him, "sitting on a sofa with that young duchess, and having an interesting quarrel with her!"
"Quarrel with her?" repeated Deronda, rather uncomfortably.

In Deronda's ear the song was almost a continuance of Gwendolen's pleading: a painful urging of something vague and difficult, and yet cruel to resist. However strange the mixture in her of resolute pride and worldliness with guileless indiscretion, he was quite sure now that the mixture existed. For all Sir Hugo's hints, he knew that Gwendolen did not dream that he might misinterpret her. He dimly foresaw some painful collision: on the one side the grasp of Mordecai's dying hand, with all the ideals and prospects it aroused; on the other the fair creature in silk and gems, with her hidden wound and her self-dread, making a trustful effort to lean on him. It was as if he saw himself besought with outstretched arms and cries, while he was compelled to board a ship bound for a far-off coast. That was the feeling inspired by Mirah's song; but when it ceased he stood up with the reflection that he had been falling into an exaggeration of his own importance, and a ridiculous readiness to accept Gwendolen's view of himself, as if he could really have any decisive power over her.
"What an enviable fellow you are," said Hans to him, "sitting on a sofa with that young duchess, and having an interesting quarrel!"
"Quarrel?" repeated Deronda, rather uncomfortably.


"Oh, about theology, of course; nothing personal. But she told you what you ought to think, and then left you with a grand air which was admirable. Is she an Antinomian--if so, tell her I am an Antinomian painter, and introduce me. I should like to paint her and her husband. He has the sort of handsome _physique_ that the Duke ought to have in _Lucrezia Borgia_--if it could go with a fine baritone, which it can't."
Deronda devoutly hoped that Hans's account of the impression his dialogue with Gwendolen had made on a distant beholder was no more than a bit of fantastic representation, such as was common with him.
And Gwendolen was not without her after-thoughts that her husband's eyes might have been on her, extracting something to reprove--some offence against her dignity as his wife; her consciousness telling her that she had not kept up the perfect air of equability in public which was her own ideal. But Grandcourt made no observation on her behavior. All he said as they were driving home was,

"Oh, about theology, of course; nothing personal. But she told you what you ought to think, and then left you with an admirably grand air. I should like to paint her and her husband."
Deronda devoutly hoped that Hans's impression of his dialogue with Gwendolen was no more than his usual fantasising.
And Gwendolen thought that her husband's eyes might have been on her, extracting something to reprove - some offence against her dignity as his wife; for she was aware that she had not kept the perfect air of equability in public which was her ideal. But all Grandcourt said as they were driving home was-


"Lush will dine with us among the other people to-morrow. You will treat him civilly."
Gwendolen's heart began to beat violently. The words that she wanted to utter, as one wants to return a blow, were. "You are breaking your promise to me--the first promise you made me." But she dared not utter them. She was as frightened at a quarrel as if she had foreseen that it would end with throttling fingers on her neck. After a pause, she said in the tone rather of defeat than resentment,
"I thought you did not intend him to frequent the house again."

"Lush will dine with us tomorrow. You will treat him civilly."
Gwendolen's heart began to beat violently. She wanted to retaliate with the words: "You are breaking your promise to me - your first promise." But she dared not utter them. The prospect of a quarrel frightened her. After a pause, she said in the tone of defeat-
"I thought you did not intend him to visit the house again."


"I want him just now. He is useful to me; and he must be treated civilly."
Silence. There may come a moment when even an excellent husband who has dropped smoking under more or less of a pledge during courtship, for the first time will introduce his cigar-smoke between himself and his wife, with the tacit understanding that she will have to put up with it. Mr. Lush was, so to speak, a very large cigar.
If these are the sort of lovers' vows at which Jove laughs, he must have a merry time of it.

"I want him just now. He is useful to me; and he must be treated civilly."
Silence. There may come a moment when even an excellent husband who has pledged to drop smoking during courtship, for the first time will introduce his cigar-smoke between himself and his wife, with the tacit understanding that she will have to put up with it. Mr. Lush was, so to speak, a very large cigar.
If these are the sort of lovers' vows at which Jove laughs, he must have a merry time of it.


"Let no flower of the spring pass by us; let us crown ourselves with rosebuds before they be withered."--BOOK OF WISDOM.
Pity that Offendene was not the home of Miss Harleth's childhood, or endeared to her by family memories! A human life, I think, should be well rooted in some spot of a native land, where it may get the love of tender kinship for the face of earth, for the labors men go forth to, for the sounds and accents that haunt it, for whatever will give that early home a familiar unmistakable difference amid the future widening of knowledge: a spot where the definiteness of early memories may be inwrought with affection, and--kindly acquaintance with all neighbors, even to the dogs and donkeys, may spread not by sentimental effort and reflection, but as a sweet habit of the blood. At five years old, mortals are not prepared to be citizens of the world, to be stimulated by abstract nouns, to soar above preference into impartiality; and that prejudice in favor of milk with which we blindly begin, is a type of the way body and soul must get nourished at least for a time. The best introduction to astronomy is to think of the nightly heavens as a little lot of stars belonging to one's own homestead.
But this blessed persistence in which affection can take root had been wanting in Gwendolen's life. It was only a year before her recall from Leubronn that Offendene had been chosen as her mamma's home, simply for its nearness to Pennicote Rectory, and that Mrs. Davilow, Gwendolen, and her four half-sisters (the governess and the maid following in another vehicle) had been driven along the avenue for the first time, on a late October afternoon when the rooks were crawing loudly above them, and the yellow elm-leaves were whirling.

Pity that Offendene was not the home of Miss Harleth's childhood, or endeared to her by family memories! A human life, I think, should be well rooted in some spot of a native land; a spot where early memories may be entwined with affection as a sweet habit of the blood. The best introduction to astronomy is to think of the nightly heavens as a little lot of stars belonging to one's own homestead.
But this blessed persistence in which affection can take root had been lacking in Gwendolen's life. Only a year before her recall from Leubronn, Offendene was chosen as her mamma's home simply for its nearness to Pennicote Rectory; and Mrs. Davilow, Gwendolen, and her four half-sisters were driven along the avenue for the first time on a late October afternoon when the rooks were cawing loudly, and the yellow elm-leaves were whirling.

Book 1 - THE SPOILED CHILD | Chapter 3: A Year Previously


The season suited the aspect of the old oblong red-brick house, rather too anxiously ornamented with stone at every line, not excepting the double row of narrow windows and the large square portico. The stone encouraged a greenish lichen, the brick a powdery gray, so that though the building was rigidly rectangular there was no harshness in the physiognomy which it turned to the three avenues cut east, west and south in the hundred yards' breadth of old plantation encircling the immediate grounds. One would have liked the house to have been lifted on a knoll, so as to look beyond its own little domain to the long thatched roofs of the distant villages, the church towers, the scattered homesteads, the gradual rise of surging woods, and the green breadths of undulating park which made the beautiful face of the earth in that part of Wessex. But though standing thus behind a screen amid flat pastures, it had on one side a glimpse of the wider world in the lofty curves of the chalk downs, grand steadfast forms played over by the changing days.

The season suited the aspect of the old oblong red-brick house, rather too anxiously ornamented with stone at every line. The building was softened with green and grey lichen, so that there was no harshness in the face which it turned to the three avenues that cut through the grounds. One would have liked the house to have been lifted on a hill, so as to look over to the long thatched roofs of the distant villages, the church towers, the scattered homesteads and the gradual rise of surging woods in that beautiful part of Wessex.


The house was but just large enough to be called a mansion, and was moderately rented, having no manor attached to it, and being rather difficult to let with its sombre furniture and faded upholstery. But inside and outside it was what no beholder could suppose to be inhabited by retired trades-people: a certainty which was worth many conveniences to tenants who not only had the taste that shrinks from new finery, but also were in that border-territory of rank where annexation is a burning topic: and to take up her abode in a house which had once sufficed for dowager countesses gave a perceptible tinge to Mrs. Davilow's satisfaction in having an establishment of her own. This, rather mysteriously to Gwendolen, appeared suddenly possible on the death of her step-father, Captain Davilow, who had for the last nine years joined his family only in a brief and fitful manner, enough to reconcile them to his long absences; but she cared much more for the fact than for the explanation. All her prospects had become more agreeable in consequence. She had disliked their former way of life, roving from one foreign watering-place or Parisian apartment to another, always feeling new antipathies to new suites of hired furniture, and meeting new people under conditions which made her appear of little importance; and the variation of having passed two years at a showy school, where, on all occasions of display, she had been put foremost, had only deepened her sense that so exceptional a person as herself could hardly remain in ordinary circumstances or in a social position less than advantageous. Any fear of this latter evil was banished now that her mamma was to have an establishment; for on the point of birth Gwendolen was quite easy. She had no notion how her maternal grandfather got the fortune inherited by his two daughters; but he had been a West Indian--which seemed to exclude further question; and she knew that her father's family was so high as to take no notice of her mamma, who nevertheless preserved with much pride the miniature of a Lady Molly in that connection. She would probably have known much more about her father but for a little incident which happened when she was twelve years old. Mrs. Davilow had brought out, as she did only at wide intervals, various memorials of her first husband, and while showing his miniature to Gwendolen recalled with a fervor which seemed to count on a peculiar filial sympathy, the fact that dear papa had died when his little daughter was in long clothes. Gwendolen, immediately thinking of the unlovable step-father whom she had been acquainted with the greater part of her life while her frocks were short, said,

The house was just large enough to be called a mansion, and had been let with sombre furniture and faded upholstery. But nobody could suppose it to be inhabited by trades-people: and to live in a house which had once sufficed for dowager countesses added to Mrs. Davilow's satisfaction in having her own establishment. This was suddenly possible on the death of Gwendolen's step-father, Captain Davilow, who had for the last nine years joined his family only in a brief and fitful manner; but Gwendolen cared not why, only that her prospects had become more agreeable in consequence.
She had disliked their former way of life, roving from one foreign watering-place to another, always feeling new dislike for new suites of hired furniture, and meeting new people under conditions which made her appear of little importance. The two years she had passed at a showy school, where she had been put in a foremost position, had only deepened her sense of herself as an exceptional person who could not remain in ordinary circumstances. Any fear of this evil was banished now that her mamma was to have an establishment.
She would probably have known more about her father but for an incident which happened when she was twelve years old. Mrs. Davilow had brought out, as she did only at wide intervals, mementos of her first husband, and while showing his miniature to Gwendolen recalled the fact that dear papa had died when his little daughter was in baby-clothes. Gwendolen, immediately thinking of the unlovable step-father whom she had known while she was in short frocks, said-


"Why did you marry again, mamma? It would have been nicer if you had not."
Mrs. Davilow colored deeply, a slight convulsive movement passed over her face, and straightway shutting up the memorials she said, with a violence quite unusual in her,
"You have no feeling, child!"
Gwendolen, who was fond of her mamma, felt hurt and ashamed, and had never since dared to ask a question about her father.

"Why did you marry again, mamma? It would have been nicer if you had not."
Mrs. Davilow coloured deeply, a slight convulsive movement passed over her face, and she said, with a violence quite unusual in her-
"You have no feeling, child!"
Gwendolen, who was fond of her mamma, felt hurt and ashamed, and had never since dared to ask a question about her father.


This was not the only instance in which she had brought on herself the pain of some filial compunction. It was always arranged, when possible, that she should have a small bed in her mamma's room; for Mrs. Davilow's motherly tenderness clung chiefly to her eldest girl, who had been born in her happier time. One night under an attack of pain she found that the specific regularly placed by her bedside had been forgotten, and begged Gwendolen to get out of bed and reach it for her. That healthy young lady, snug and warm as a rosy infant in her little couch, objected to step out into the cold, and lying perfectly still, grumbling a refusal. Mrs. Davilow went without the medicine and never reproached her daughter; but the next day Gwendolen was keenly conscious of what must be in her mamma's mind, and tried to make amends by caresses which cost her no effort. Having always been the pet and pride of the household, waited on by mother, sisters, governess and maids, as if she had been a princess in exile, she naturally found it difficult to think her own pleasure less important than others made it, and when it was positively thwarted felt an astonished resentment apt, in her cruder days, to vent itself in one of those passionate acts which look like a contradiction of habitual tendencies. Though never even as a child thoughtlessly cruel, nay delighting to rescue drowning insects and watch their recovery, there was a disagreeable silent remembrance of her having strangled her sister's canary-bird in a final fit of exasperation at its shrill singing which had again and again jarringly interrupted her own. She had taken pains to buy a white mouse for her sister in retribution, and though inwardly excusing herself on the ground of a peculiar sensitiveness which was a mark of her general superiority, the thought of that infelonious murder had always made her wince. Gwendolen's nature was not remorseless, but she liked to make her penances easy, and now that she was twenty and more, some of her native force had turned into a self-control by which she guarded herself from penitential humiliation. There was more show of fire and will in her than ever, but there was more calculation underneath it.

This was not the only time she had felt a painful guilt towards her mother. It was always arranged, when possible, that she should have a small bed in her mamma's room; for Mrs. Davilow's motherly tenderness clung chiefly to her eldest girl. One night under an attack of pain she found that the medicine regularly placed by her bedside had been forgotten, and begged Gwendolen to get out of bed and reach it for her. That healthy young lady, snug and warm as a rosy infant, objected to step out into the cold, and lying perfectly still, grumbled a refusal. Mrs. Davilow went without the medicine and never reproached her daughter; but the next day Gwendolen was keenly conscious of what must be in her mamma's mind, and tried to make amends by caresses which cost her no effort.
Having always been the pet and pride of the household, waited on by all, she naturally found it difficult to think her own pleasure unimportant, and when it was thwarted felt an astonished and passionate resentment. Though never as a child thoughtlessly cruel, nay delighting to rescue drowning insects, there was a disagreeable silent remembrance of her having strangled her sister's canary-bird in a fit of exasperation at its shrill singing which had again and again jarringly interrupted her own. She had bought a white mouse for her sister in retribution, and though inwardly excusing herself on the grounds of a peculiar sensitivity which was a mark of her superiority, the thought of that understandable murder had always made her wince.
Gwendolen was not without remorse, but she liked to make her penances easy, and now that she was twenty, she guarded herself from the humiliation of penance. There was more show of fire and will in her than ever, but there was more calculation underneath it.


On this day of arrival at Offendene, which not even Mrs. Davilow had seen before--the place having been taken for her by her brother-in-law, Mr. Gascoigne--when all had got down from the carriage, and were standing under the porch in front of the open door, so that they could have a general view of the place and a glimpse of the stone hall and staircase hung with sombre pictures, but enlivened by a bright wood fire, no one spoke; mamma, the four sisters and the governess all looked at Gwendolen, as if their feelings depended entirely on her decision. Of the girls, from Alice in her sixteenth year to Isabel in her tenth, hardly anything could be said on a first view, but that they were girlish, and that their black dresses were getting shabby. Miss Merry was elderly and altogether neutral in expression. Mrs. Davilow's worn beauty seemed the more pathetic for the look of entire appeal which she cast at Gwendolen, who was glancing round at the house, the landscape and the entrance hall with an air of rapid judgment. Imagine a young race-horse in the paddock among untrimmed ponies and patient hacks.
"Well, dear, what do you think of the place," said Mrs. Davilow at last, in a gentle, deprecatory tone.
"I think it is charming," said Gwendolen, quickly. "A romantic place; anything delightful may happen in it; it would be a good background for anything. No one need be ashamed of living here."
"There is certainly nothing common about it."

On this day of arrival at Offendene, a place which not even Mrs. Davilow had seen before, her brother-in-law Mr. Gascoigne having rented it for her - all four got down from the carriage, and were standing in front of the open door, to have a general view of the place and a glimpse of the stone hall and staircase hung with sombre pictures. No one spoke; mamma, the four sisters and the governess all looked at Gwendolen, as if their feelings depended entirely on her decision.
Of the girls, from Alice in her sixteenth year to Isabel in her tenth, hardly anything could be said but that they were girlish, and that their black dresses were getting shabby. Miss Merry, the elderly governess, was altogether neutral in expression. Mrs. Davilow's worn beauty seemed the more pathetic for the look of appeal which she cast at Gwendolen, who was glancing round at her surroundings with an air of rapid judgment. Imagine a young race-horse in the paddock among ponies and patient hacks.
"Well, dear, what do you think of the place?" said Mrs. Davilow.
"I think it is charming," said Gwendolen, quickly. "A romantic place; anything delightful may happen in it. No one need be ashamed of living here."
"There is certainly nothing common about it."


"Oh, it would do for fallen royalty or any sort of grand poverty. We ought properly to have been living in splendor, and have come down to this. It would have been as romantic as could be. But I thought my uncle and aunt Gascoigne would be here to meet us, and my cousin Anna," added Gwendolen, her tone changed to sharp surprise.
"We are early," said Mrs. Davilow, and entering the hall, she said to the housekeeper who came forward, "You expect Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne?"
"Yes, madam; they were here yesterday to give particular orders about the fires and the dinner. But as to fires, I've had 'em in all the rooms for the last week, and everything is well aired. I could wish some of the furniture paid better for all the cleaning it's had, but I _think_ you'll see the brasses have been done justice to. I _think_ when Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne come, they'll tell you nothing has been neglected. They'll be here at five, for certain."

"Oh, it would do for fallen royalty. But I thought my uncle and aunt Gascoigne would be here to meet us, and my cousin Anna," added Gwendolen, her tone changed to sharp surprise.
"We are early," said Mrs. Davilow, and entering the hall, she said to the housekeeper, "You expect Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne?"
"Yes, madam; they were here yesterday to give orders about the fires and the dinner. Everything is well aired and cleaned. When Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne come, they'll tell you nothing has been neglected. They'll be here at five, for certain."


This satisfied Gwendolen, who was not prepared to have their arrival treated with indifference; and after tripping a little way up the matted stone staircase to take a survey there, she tripped down again, and followed by all the girls looked into each of the rooms opening from the hall--the dining-room all dark oak and worn red satin damask, with a copy of snarling, worrying dogs from Snyders over the side-board, and a Christ breaking bread over the mantel-piece; the library with a general aspect and smell of old brown-leather; and lastly, the drawing-room, which was entered through a small antechamber crowded with venerable knick-knacks.
"Mamma, mamma, pray come here!" said Gwendolen, Mrs. Davilow having followed slowly in talk with the housekeeper. "Here is an organ. I will be Saint Cecilia: some one shall paint me as Saint Cecilia. Jocosa (this was her name for Miss Merry), let down my hair. See, mamma?"
She had thrown off her hat and gloves, and seated herself before the organ in an admirable pose, looking upward; while the submissive and sad Jocosa took out the one comb which fastened the coil of hair, and then shook out the mass till it fell in a smooth light-brown stream far below its owner's slim waist.

This satisfied Gwendolen; and after tripping a little way up the stone staircase to take a survey there, she tripped down again, and followed by all the girls looked into each of the rooms opening from the hall - the dining-room all dark oak and worn red satin damask, the library with a smell of old brown-leather; and lastly the drawing-room.
"Mamma, mamma, pray come here!" said Gwendolen. "Here is an organ. I will be Saint Cecilia: some one shall paint me as Saint Cecilia. Jocosa (this was her name for Miss Merry), let down my hair. See, mamma?"
She had thrown off her hat and gloves, and seated herself before the organ in an admirable pose, looking upward; while the submissive Jocosa took out the comb which fastened her hair, till it fell in a smooth light-brown stream far below its owner's slim waist.


Mrs. Davilow smiled and said, "A charming picture, my dear!" not indifferent to the display of her pet, even in the presence of a housekeeper. Gwendolen rose and laughed with delight. All this seemed quite to the purpose on entering a new house which was so excellent a background.
"What a queer, quaint, picturesque room!" she went on, looking about her. "I like these old embroidered chairs, and the garlands on the wainscot, and the pictures that may be anything. That one with the ribs--nothing but ribs and darkness--I should think that is Spanish, mamma."
"Oh, Gwendolen!" said the small Isabel, in a tone of astonishment, while she held open a hinged panel of the wainscot at the other end of the room.

Mrs. Davilow smiled and said, "A charming picture, my dear!" Gwendolen rose and laughed with delight.
"What a queer, quaint, picturesque room!" she said. "I like these old embroidered chairs, and the garlands on the wainscot, and the pictures that may be anything."
"Oh, Gwendolen!" said the small Isabel, in a tone of astonishment, while she held open a hinged panel of the wainscot at the other end of the room.


Every one, Gwendolen first, went to look. The opened panel had disclosed the picture of an upturned dead face, from which an obscure figure seemed to be fleeing with outstretched arms. "How horrible!" said Mrs. Davilow, with a look of mere disgust; but Gwendolen shuddered silently, and Isabel, a plain and altogether inconvenient child with an alarming memory, said,
"You will never stay in this room by yourself, Gwendolen."
"How dare you open things which were meant to be shut up, you perverse little creature?" said Gwendolen, in her angriest tone. Then snatching the panel out of the hand of the culprit, she closed it hastily, saying, "There is a lock--where is the key? Let the key be found, or else let one be made, and let nobody open it again; or rather, let the key be brought to me."
At this command to everybody in general Gwendolen turned with a face which was flushed in reaction from her chill shudder, and said, "Let us go up to our own room, mamma."

Everyone went to look. The opened wall-panel had disclosed the picture of an upturned dead face, from which a figure seemed to be fleeing with outstretched arms.
"How horrible!" said Mrs. Davilow; but Gwendolen shuddered silently, and Isabel, a plain and inconvenient child with an alarming memory, said,
"You will never stay in this room by yourself, Gwendolen."
"How dare you open things which were meant to be shut up, you perverse little creature?" said Gwendolen angrily. She closed the panel hastily, saying, "There is a lock - where is the key? Let nobody open this again; and bring the key to me."
Then turning with a flushed face, she said, "Let us go to our own room, mamma."


The housekeeper on searching found the key in the drawer of the cabinet close by the panel, and presently handed it to Bugle, the lady's-maid, telling her significantly to give it to her Royal Highness.
"I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Startin," said Bugle, who had been busy up-stairs during the scene in the drawing-room, and was rather offended at this irony in a new servant.
"I mean the young lady that's to command us all--and well worthy for looks and figure," replied Mrs. Startin in propitiation. "She'll know what key it is."
"If you have laid out what we want, go and see to the others, Bugle," Gwendolen had said, when she and Mrs. Davilow entered their black and yellow bedroom, where a pretty little white couch was prepared by the side of the black and yellow catafalque known as the best bed. "I will help mamma."
But her first movement was to go to the tall mirror between the windows, which reflected herself and the room completely, while her mamma sat down and also looked at the reflection.
"That is a becoming glass, Gwendolen; or is it the black and gold color that sets you off?" said Mrs. Davilow, as Gwendolen stood obliquely with her three-quarter face turned toward the mirror, and her left hand brushing back the stream of hair.

The housekeeper found the key in the drawer of a cabinet, and later handed it to Bugle, the lady's-maid, telling her significantly to give it to her Royal Highness.
"I don't know who you mean, Mrs. Startin," said Bugle, rather offended at this irony in a new servant.
"I mean the young lady that's to command us all," replied Mrs. Startin.
When Gwendolen and Mrs. Davilow entered their black and yellow bedroom, where a pretty little white couch sat by the side of the bed, Gwendolen's first movement was to go to the tall mirror, while her mamma sat down and looked at the reflection of her daughter and the room.
"That is a becoming glass, Gwendolen; or is it the black and gold colour that sets you off?" said Mrs. Davilow, as Gwendolen stood brushing back her hair.


"I should make a tolerable St. Cecilia with some white roses on my head," said Gwendolen,--"only how about my nose, mamma? I think saint's noses never in the least turn up. I wish you had given me your perfectly straight nose; it would have done for any sort of character--a nose of all work. Mine is only a happy nose; it would not do so well for tragedy."
"Oh, my dear, any nose will do to be miserable with in this world," said Mrs. Davilow, with a deep, weary sigh, throwing her black bonnet on the table, and resting her elbow near it.
"Now, mamma," said Gwendolen, in a strongly remonstrant tone, turning away from the glass with an air of vexation, "don't begin to be dull here. It spoils all my pleasure, and everything may be so happy now. What have you to be gloomy about _now_?"
"Nothing, dear," said Mrs. Davilow, seeming to rouse herself, and beginning to take off her dress. "It is always enough for me to see you happy."

"I should make a tolerable St. Cecilia with some white roses on my head," said Gwendolen, "only how about my nose, mamma? Saints' noses never turn up. I wish you had given me your straight nose. Now, mamma," she said,


"But you should be happy yourself," said Gwendolen, still discontentedly, though going to help her mamma with caressing touches. "Can nobody be happy after they are quite young? You have made me feel sometimes as if nothing were of any use. With the girls so troublesome, and Jocosa so dreadfully wooden and ugly, and everything make-shift about us, and you looking so dull--what was the use of my being anything? But now you _might_ be happy."
"So I shall, dear," said Mrs. Davilow, patting the cheek that was bending near her.
"Yes, but really. Not with a sort of make-believe," said Gwendolen, with resolute perseverance. "See what a hand and arm!--much more beautiful than mine. Any one can see you were altogether more beautiful."

 going to help her mamma undress with caressing touches, "you should be happy. Can nobody be happy after they are quite young? You have made me feel sometimes as if nothing were of any use. But now you might be happy."
"So I shall, dear," said Mrs. Davilow, patting her cheek.
"Yes, but really. Not with a sort of make-believe," said Gwendolen resolutely. "See your hand and arm!- much more beautiful than mine. Anyone can see you were more beautiful."


"No, no, dear; I was always heavier. Never half so charming as you are."
"Well, but what is the use of my being charming, if it is to end in my being dull and not minding anything? Is that what marriage always comes to?"
"No, child, certainly not. Marriage is the only happy state for a woman, as I trust you will prove."
"I will not put up with it if it is not a happy state. I am determined to be happy--at least not to go on muddling away my life as other people do, being and doing nothing remarkable. I have made up my mind not to let other people interfere with me as they have done. Here is some warm water ready for you, mamma," Gwendolen ended, proceeding to take off her own dress and then waiting to have her hair wound up by her mamma.

"No, dear; I was always heavier. Never half so charming as you are."
"Well, what is the use of my being charming, if it is to end in my being dull and not minding anything? Is that what marriage always comes to?"
"No, child, certainly not. Marriage is the only happy state for a woman, as I trust you will prove."
"I will not put up with it if it is not a happy state. I am determined to be happy - at least not to muddle away my life as other people do, being nothing remarkable. I shall not let other people interfere with me as they have done." Gwendolen proceeded to take off her own dress, waiting to have her hair wound up by her mamma.


There was silence for a minute or two, till Mrs. Davilow said, while coiling the daughter's hair, "I am sure I have never crossed you, Gwendolen."
"You often want me to do what I don't like."
"You mean, to give Alice lessons?"
"Yes. And I have done it because you asked me. But I don't see why I should, else. It bores me to death, she is so slow. She has no ear for music, or language, or anything else. It would be much better for her to be ignorant, mamma: it is her _rle_, she would do it well."
"That is a hard thing to say of your poor sister, Gwendolen, who is so good to you, and waits on you hand and foot."

There was silence for a minute, till Mrs. Davilow, coiling up her daughter's hair, said, "I am sure I have never crossed you, Gwendolen."
"You often want me to do what I don't like."
"You mean, giving Alice lessons?"
"Yes. I have done it because you asked me. But I don't see why I should. It bores me to death, she is so slow. It would be much better for her to be ignorant, mamma; she would do it well."
"That is a hard thing to say of your poor sister, Gwendolen, who is so good to you, and waits on you hand and foot."


"I don't see why it is hard to call things by their right names, and put them in their proper places. The hardship is for me to have to waste my time on her. Now let me fasten up your hair, mamma."
"We must make haste; your uncle and aunt will be here soon. For heaven's sake, don't be scornful to _them_, my dear child! or to your cousin Anna, whom you will always be going out with. Do promise me, Gwendolen. You know, you can't expect Anna to be equal to you."
"I don't want her to be equal," said Gwendolen, with a toss of her head and a smile, and the discussion ended there.

"I don't see why it is hard to call things by their right names, and put them in their proper places. The hardship is for me to have to waste my time on her. Now let me do your hair, mamma."
"Make haste; your uncle and aunt will be here soon. For heaven's sake, don't be scornful to them, my dear child! or to your cousin Anna. Do promise me, Gwendolen. You can't expect Anna to be equal to you."
"I don't want her to be equal," said Gwendolen, with a toss of her head and a smile.


When Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne and their daughter came, Gwendolen, far from being scornful, behaved as prettily as possible to them. She was introducing herself anew to relatives who had not seen her since the comparatively unfinished age of sixteen, and she was anxious--no, not anxious, but resolved that they should admire her.
Mrs. Gascoigne bore a family likeness to her sister. But she was darker and slighter, her face was unworn by grief, her movements were less languid, her expression more alert and critical as that of a rector's wife bound to exert a beneficent authority. Their closest resemblance lay in a non-resistant disposition, inclined to imitation and obedience; but this, owing to the difference in their circumstances, had led them to very different issues. The younger sister had been indiscreet, or at least unfortunate in her marriages; the elder believed herself the most enviable of wives, and her pliancy had ended in her sometimes taking shapes of surprising definiteness. Many of her opinions, such as those on church government and the character of Archbishop Laud, seemed too decided under every alteration to have been arrived at otherwise than by a wifely receptiveness. And there was much to encourage trust in her husband's authority. He had some agreeable virtues, some striking advantages, and the failings that were imputed to him all leaned toward the side of success.

When Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne and their daughter came, Gwendolen, far from being scornful, behaved as prettily as possible. Her relatives had not seen her since she was sixteen, and she was anxious - no, not anxious, but resolved that they should admire her.
Mrs. Gascoigne bore a family likeness to her younger sister. But she was darker and slighter than Gwendolen's mother, her face was unworn by grief, her movements were less languid, her expression more alert and critical, as suited a rector's wife. They both had natures inclined to obedience; but had ended up in very different places. The younger sister had been unfortunate in her marriages; the elder believed herself the most enviable of wives, and based her decided opinions on her husband's authority. And there was much to encourage trust there. Mr Gascoigne had agreeable virtues, some striking advantages, and his failings leaned toward the side of success.


One of his advantages was a fine person, which perhaps was even more impressive at fifty-seven than it had been earlier in life. There were no distinctively clerical lines in the face, no tricks of starchiness or of affected ease: in his Inverness cape he could not have been identified except as a gentleman with handsome dark features, a nose which began with an intention to be aquiline but suddenly became straight, and iron-gray hair. Perhaps he owed this freedom from the sort of professional make-up which penetrates skin, tones and gestures and defies all drapery, to the fact that he had once been Captain Gaskin, having taken orders and a diphthong but shortly before his engagement to Miss Armyn. If any one had objected that his preparation for the clerical function was inadequate, his friends might have asked who made a better figure in it, who preached better or had more authority in his parish? He had a native gift for administration, being tolerant both of opinions and conduct, because he felt himself able to overrule them, and was free from the irritations of conscious feebleness. He smiled pleasantly at the foible of a taste which he did not share--at floriculture or antiquarianism for example, which were much in vogue among his fellow-clergyman in the diocese: for himself, he preferred following the history of a campaign, or divining from his knowledge of Nesselrode's motives what would have been his conduct if our cabinet had taken a different course. Mr. Gascoigne's tone of thinking after some long-quieted fluctuations had become ecclesiastical rather than theological; not the modern Anglican, but what he would have called sound English, free from nonsense; such as became a man who looked at a national religion by daylight, and saw it in its relation to other things. No clerical magistrate had greater weight at sessions, or less of mischievous impracticableness in relation to worldly affairs. Indeed, the worst imputation thrown out against him was worldliness: it could not be proved that he forsook the less fortunate, but it was not to be denied that the friendships he cultivated were of a kind likely to be useful to the father of six sons and two daughters; and bitter observers--for in Wessex, say ten years ago, there were persons whose bitterness may now seem incredible--remarked that the color of his opinions had changed in consistency with this principle of action. But cheerful, successful worldliness has a false air of being more selfish than the acrid, unsuccessful kind, whose secret history is summed up in the terrible words, "Sold, but not paid for."

One of his advantages was a fine appearance, even more impressive at fifty-seven than it had been earlier in life. He looked a gentleman with his handsome dark features and iron-grey hair. Perhaps he owed this unclerical aspect to the fact that he had once been Captain Gaskin, having taken orders and a diphthong only shortly before his engagement. He had authority in his parish, and a gift for administration, being a tolerant man. He smiled pleasantly at the flower-growing interests of his fellow-clergyman: for himself, he preferred following the history of a campaign. Mr. Gascoigne would have thought of himself as free from nonsense, a man who looked at religion by daylight, and saw it in its relation to other things. Indeed, the worst criticism of him was worldliness: not that he did not care for the poor, but it was not to be denied that the friendships he cultivated were of a kind likely to be useful to the father of six sons and two daughters.


Gwendolen wondered that she had not better remembered how very fine a man her uncle was; but at the age of sixteen she was a less capable and more indifferent judge. At present it was a matter of extreme interest to her that she was to have the near countenance of a dignified male relative, and that the family life would cease to be entirely, insipidly feminine. She did not intend that her uncle should control her, but she saw at once that it would be altogether agreeable to her that he should be proud of introducing her as his niece. And there was every sign of his being likely to feel that pride. He certainly looked at her with admiration as he said,
"You have outgrown Anna, my dear," putting his arm tenderly round his daughter, whose shy face was a tiny copy of his own, and drawing her forward. "She is not so old as you by a year, but her growing days are certainly over. I hope you will be excellent companions."

Gwendolen wondered that she had not remembered how very fine a man her uncle was. It was a matter of extreme interest to her that she should have a dignified male relative nearby, and that her family life would cease to be entirely, insipidly feminine. She did not intend that her uncle should control her, but she saw at once that she would like him to be proud of introducing her as his niece. And he appeared likely to feel that pride. He certainly looked at her with admiration as he said-
"You have outgrown Anna, my dear," putting his arm tenderly round his daughter, whose shy face was a tiny copy of his own. "She is a year younger than you, but her growing days are certainly over. I hope you will be excellent companions."


He did give a comparing glance at his daughter, but if he saw her inferiority, he might also see that Anna's timid appearance and miniature figure must appeal to a different taste from that which was attracted by Gwendolen, and that the girls could hardly be rivals. Gwendolen at least, was aware of this, and kissed her cousin with real cordiality as well as grace, saying, "A companion is just what I want. I am so glad we are come to live here. And mamma will be much happier now she is near you, aunt."
The aunt trusted indeed that it would be so, and felt it a blessing that a suitable home had been vacant in their uncle's parish. Then, of course, notice had to be taken of the four other girls, whom Gwendolen had always felt to be superfluous: all of a girlish average that made four units utterly unimportant, and yet from her earliest days an obtrusive influential fact in her life. She was conscious of having been much kinder to them than could have been expected. And it was evident to her that her uncle and aunt also felt it a pity there were so many girls:--what rational person could feel otherwise, except poor mamma, who never would see how Alice set up her shoulders and lifted her eyebrows till she had no forehead left, how Bertha and Fanny whispered and tittered together about everything, or how Isabel was always listening and staring and forgetting where she was, and treading on the toes of her suffering elders?
"You have brothers, Anna," said Gwendolen, while the sisters were being noticed. "I think you are enviable there."

He did give a comparing glance at his daughter; but it was clear that Anna's timid appearance and miniature figure must appeal to a different taste from that which was attracted by Gwendolen, and that the girls could hardly be rivals. Gwendolen, at least, was aware of this, and kissed her cousin with real cordiality, saying,
"A companion is just what I want. I am so glad we are come to live here. And mamma will be much happier now she is near you, aunt."
The aunt trusted that it would be so, and felt it a blessing that a suitable home had been vacant in their uncle's parish. Then, of course, notice had to be taken of the four other girls, whom Gwendolen had always felt to be superfluous and unimportant, and yet from her earliest days an obtrusive fact in her life. She was conscious of having been much kinder to them than could have been expected. She could tell that her uncle and aunt also felt it a pity there were so many girls:- what rational person could feel otherwise, except poor mamma, who never would see how Alice hunched her shoulders, how Bertha and Fanny whispered and tittered together about everything, or how Isabel was always listening and staring and forgetting where she was?
"You have brothers, Anna," said Gwendolen. "I think you are enviable there."


"Yes," said Anna, simply. "I am very fond of them; but of course their education is a great anxiety to papa. He used to say they made me a tomboy. I really was a great romp with Rex. I think you will like Rex. He will come home before Christmas."
"I remember I used to think you rather wild and shy; but it is difficult now to imagine you a romp," said Gwendolen, smiling.

"Yes," said Anna, simply. "I am very fond of them; but of course their education is a great anxiety to papa. He used to say they made me a tomboy. I really was a great romp with Rex. I think you will like Rex. He will come home before Christmas."
"I remember I used to think you rather wild and shy; but it is difficult to imagine you a romp," said Gwendolen, smiling.


"Of course, I am altered now; I am come out, and all that. But in reality I like to go blackberrying with Edwy and Lotta as well as ever. I am not very fond of going out; but I dare say I shall like it better now you will be often with me. I am not at all clever, and I never know what to say. It seems so useless to say what everybody knows, and I can think of nothing else, except what papa says."
"I shall like going out with you very much," said Gwendolen, well disposed toward this _nave_ cousin. "Are you fond of riding?"
"Yes, but we have only one Shetland pony amongst us. Papa says he can't afford more, besides the carriage-horses and his own nag; he has so many expenses."

"Of course, I am altered now; I am come out, and all that. But I like to go blackberrying with Edwy and Lotta as well as ever. I am not very fond of society; but I dare say I shall like it better now you will be often with me. I am not at all clever, and I never know what to say."
"I shall like going out with you very much," said Gwendolen, well disposed toward this nave cousin. "Are you fond of riding?"
"Yes, but we have only one Shetland pony. Papa can't afford more; he has so many expenses."


"I intend to have a horse and ride a great deal now," said Gwendolen, in a tone of decision. "Is the society pleasant in this neighborhood?"
"Papa says it is, very. There are the clergymen all about, you know; and the Quallons, and the Arrowpoints, and Lord Brackenshaw, and Sir Hugo Mallinger's place, where there is nobody--that's very nice, because we make picnics there--and two or three families at Wanchester: oh, and old Mrs. Vulcany, at Nuttingwood, and--"
But Anna was relieved of this tax on her descriptive powers by the announcement of dinner, and Gwendolen's question was soon indirectly answered by her uncle, who dwelt much on the advantages he had secured for them in getting a place like Offendene. Except the rent, it involved no more expense than an ordinary house at Wanchester would have done.

"I intend to have a horse and ride a great deal," said Gwendolen decisively. "Is the society pleasant in this neighbourhood?"
"Papa says it is, very. There are clergymen all about, you know; and the Quallons, and the Arrowpoints, and Lord Brackenshaw, and Sir Hugo Mallinger's place, where there is nobody- that's very nice, because we make picnics there."
Just then dinner was announced, and Gwendolen's question was soon answered by her uncle, who dwelt much on the advantages of their getting a place like Offendene.


"And it is always worth while to make a little sacrifice for a good style of house," said Mr. Gascoigne, in his easy, pleasantly confident tone, which made the world in general seem a very manageable place of residence: "especially where there is only a lady at the head. All the best people will call upon you; and you need give no expensive dinners. Of course, I have to spend a good deal in that way; it is a large item. But then I get my house for nothing. If I had to pay three hundred a year for my house I could not keep a table. My boys are too great a drain on me. You are better off than we are, in proportion; there is no great drain on you now, after your house and carriage."

"It is always worth while to make a little sacrifice for a good style of house," said Mr. Gascoigne, in his easy, pleasantly confident tone; "all the best people will call upon you; and you need give no expensive dinners. Of course, I have to spend a good deal in that way; but then I get my house for nothing. If I had to pay three hundred a year for my house I could not keep a table. My boys are too great a drain on me. You are better off than we are, in proportion; there is no great drain on you now, after your house and carriage."


"I assure you, Fanny, now that the children are growing up, I am obliged to cut and contrive," said Mrs. Gascoigne. "I am not a good manager by nature, but Henry has taught me. He is wonderful for making the best of everything; he allows himself no extras, and gets his curates for nothing. It is rather hard that he has not been made a prebendary or something, as others have been, considering the friends he has made and the need there is for men of moderate opinions in all respects. If the Church is to keep its position, ability and character ought to tell."

"I assure you, Fanny, now that the children are growing up, I am obliged to cut and contrive," said his wife. "Henry has taught me how to manage. He is wonderful for making the best of everything; he allows himself no extras, and gets his curates for nothing. It is rather hard that he has not been made a prebendary."


"Oh, my dear Nancy, you forget the old story--thank Heaven, there are three hundred as good as I. And ultimately, we shall have no reason to complain, I am pretty sure. There could hardly be a more thorough friend than Lord Brackenshaw--your landlord, you know, Fanny. Lady Brackenshaw will call upon you. And I have spoken for Gwendolen to be a member of our Archery Club--the Brackenshaw Archery Club--the most select thing anywhere. That is, if she has no objection," added Mr. Gascoigne, looking at Gwendolen with pleasant irony.
"I should like it of all things," said Gwendolen. "There is nothing I enjoy more than taking aim--and hitting," she ended, with a pretty nod and smile.

"Oh, my dear Nancy, thank Heaven, there are three hundred as good as I. And ultimately, we shall have no reason to complain, I am pretty sure. There could hardly be a better friend than Lord Brackenshaw - your landlord, you know, Fanny. Lady Brackenshaw will call upon you. And I have spoken for Gwendolen to be a member of the Brackenshaw Archery Club - the most select thing anywhere. That is, if she has no objection," added Mr. Gascoigne.
"I should like it of all things," said Gwendolen. "There is nothing I enjoy more than taking aim - and hitting," she ended, with a pretty smile.


"Our Anna, poor child, is too short-sighted for archery. But I consider myself a first-rate shot, and you shall practice with me. I must make you an accomplished archer before our great meeting in July. In fact, as to neighborhood, you could hardly be better placed. There are the Arrowpoints--they are some of our best people. Miss Arrowpoint is a delightful girl--she has been presented at Court. They have a magnificent place--Quetcham Hall--worth seeing in point of art; and their parties, to which you are sure to be invited, are the best things of the sort we have. The archdeacon is intimate there, and they have always a good kind of people staying in the house. Mrs. Arrowpoint is peculiar, certainly; something of a caricature, in fact; but well-meaning. And Miss Arrowpoint is as nice as possible.

"Anna, poor child, is too short-sighted for archery. But you shall practise with me. I must make you an accomplished archer before our great meeting in July. In fact, as to neighbourhood, you could hardly be better placed. There are the Arrowpoints - they are some of our best people. Miss Arrowpoint is a delightful girl - she has been presented at Court. They have a magnificent place at Quetcham Hall; and their parties are the best things of the sort we have. Mrs. Arrowpoint is peculiar, certainly; but well-meaning, and Miss Arrowpoint is as nice as possible.


It is not all young ladies who have mothers as handsome and graceful as yours and Anna's."
Mrs. Davilow smiled faintly at this little compliment, but the husband and wife looked affectionately at each other, and Gwendolen thought, "My uncle and aunt, at least, are happy: they are not dull and dismal." Altogether, she felt satisfied with her prospects at Offendene, as a great improvement on anything she had known. Even the cheap curates, she incidentally learned, were almost always young men of family, and Mr. Middleton, the actual curate, was said to be quite an acquisition: it was only a pity he was so soon to leave.
But there was one point which she was so anxious to gain that she could not allow the evening to pass without taking her measures toward securing it. Her mamma, she knew, intended to submit entirely to her uncle's judgment with regard to expenditure; and the submission was not merely prudential, for Mrs. Davilow, conscious that she had always been seen under a cloud as poor dear Fanny, who had made a sad blunder with her second marriage, felt a hearty satisfaction in being frankly and cordially identified with her sister's family, and in having her affairs canvassed and managed with an authority which presupposed a genuine interest. Thus the question of a suitable saddle-horse, which had been sufficiently discussed with mamma, had to be referred to Mr. Gascoigne; and after Gwendolen had played on the piano, which had been provided from Wanchester, had sung to her hearers' admiration, and had induced her uncle to join her in a duet--what more softening influence than this on any uncle who would have sung finely if his time had not been too much taken up by graver matters?--she seized the opportune moment for saying, "Mamma, you have not spoken to my uncle about my riding."
"Gwendolen desires above all things to have a horse to ride--a pretty, light, lady's horse," said Mrs. Davilow, looking at Mr. Gascoigne. "Do you think we can manage it?"
Mr. Gascoigne projected his lower lip and lifted his handsome eyebrows sarcastically at Gwendolen, who had seated herself with much grace on the elbow of her mamma's chair.

It is not all young ladies who have mothers as handsome and graceful as yours and Anna's."
Mrs. Davilow smiled faintly at this little compliment, but the husband and wife looked affectionately at each other, and Gwendolen thought, "My uncle and aunt, at least, are not dull and dismal."
Altogether, she felt satisfied with her prospects at Offendene. Even the curates were almost always young men of family, and Mr. Middleton, the present curate, was said to be quite an acquisition: it was only a pity he was soon to leave.
But there was one point about which she was anxious. Her mamma, she knew, intended to submit to her uncle's judgment about expenditure: so the question of a saddle-horse had to be referred to Mr. Gascoigne. After Gwendolen had played on the piano, had sung to her hearers' admiration, and had joined her uncle in a duet, she seized the opportune moment for saying, "Mamma, you have not spoken to my uncle about my riding."
"Gwendolen desires above all things to have a horse to ride - a pretty, light, lady's horse," said Mrs. Davilow, looking at Mr. Gascoigne. "Do you think we can manage it?


"We could lend her the pony sometimes," said Mrs. Gascoigne, watching her husband's face, and feeling quite ready to disapprove if he did.
"That might be inconveniencing others, aunt, and would be no pleasure to me. I cannot endure ponies," said Gwendolen. "I would rather give up some other indulgence and have a horse." (Was there ever a young lady or gentleman not ready to give up an unspecified indulgence for the sake of the favorite one specified?)
"She rides so well. She has had lessons, and the riding-master said she had so good a seat and hand she might be trusted with any mount," said Mrs. Davilow, who, even if she had not wished her darling to have the horse, would not have dared to be lukewarm in trying to get it for her.
"There is the price of the horse--a good sixty with the best chance, and then his keep," said Mr. Gascoigne, in a tone which, though demurring, betrayed the inward presence of something that favored the demand. "There are the carriage-horses--already a heavy item. And remember what you ladies cost in toilet now."

She rides so well. She has had lessons, and the riding-master said she might be trusted with any mount." Even if Mrs. Davilow had not wished her darling to have a horse, she would not have dared to be lukewarm in trying to get it for her.
"We could lend her the pony sometimes," said Mrs. Gascoigne, watching her husband's face, and quite ready to disapprove if he did.
"I cannot endure ponies," said Gwendolen. "I would rather give up some other indulgence and have a horse." (Was there ever a young person not ready to give up an unspecified indulgence for the sake of a favourite one?)
"There is the price of the horse, and then his keep," said Mr. Gascoigne, considering. "The carriage-horses are already a heavy item. And remember what you ladies cost in clothes now."


"I really wear nothing but two black dresses," said Mrs. Davilow, hastily. "And the younger girls, of course, require no toilet at present. Besides, Gwendolen will save me so much by giving her sisters lessons." Here Mrs. Davilow's delicate cheek showed a rapid blush. "If it were not for that, I must really have a more expensive governess, and masters besides."
Gwendolen felt some anger with her mamma, but carefully concealed it.
"That is good--that is decidedly good," said Mr. Gascoigne, heartily, looking at his wife. And Gwendolen, who, it must be owned, was a deep young lady, suddenly moved away to the other end of the long drawing-room, and busied herself with arranging pieces of music.

"I really wear nothing but two black dresses," said Mrs. Davilow hastily. "And the younger girls need nothing yet. Besides, Gwendolen will save me so much by giving her sisters lessons." Here Mrs. Davilow blushed. "If it were not for that, I must have a more expensive governess, and masters besides."
"That is decidedly good," said Mr. Gascoigne, heartily. And Gwendolen, who was a deep young lady, suddenly moved away to the other end of the long drawing-room, and busied herself with pieces of music.


"The dear child has had no indulgences, no pleasures," said Mrs. Davilow, in a pleading undertone. "I feel the expense is rather imprudent in this first year of our settling. But she really needs the exercise--she needs cheering. And if you were to see her on horseback, it is something splendid."
"It is what we could not afford for Anna," said Mrs. Gascoigne. "But she, dear child, would ride Lotta's donkey and think it good enough." (Anna was absorbed in a game with Isabel, who had hunted out an old back-gammon-board, and had begged to sit up an extra hour.)
"Certainly, a fine woman never looks better than on horseback," said Mr. Gascoigne. "And Gwendolen has the figure for it. I don't say the thing should not be considered."

"The dear child has had no pleasures," said Mrs. Davilow pleadingly. "She really needs the exercise - she needs cheering. And if you were to see her on horseback, it is something splendid."
"Certainly, a fine woman never looks better than on horseback," said Mr. Gascoigne. "And Gwendolen has the figure for it.


"We might try it for a time, at all events. It can be given up, if necessary," said Mrs. Davilow.
"Well, I will consult Lord Brackenshaw's head groom. He is my _fidus Achates_ in the horsey way."
"Thanks," said Mrs. Davilow, much relieved. "You are very kind."
"That he always is," said Mrs. Gascoigne. And later that night, when she and her husband were in private, she said,

I will consult Lord Brackenshaw's head groom."
"You are very kind."
"That he always is," said Mrs. Gascoigne. And later that night, when she and her husband were in private, she said,


"I thought you were almost too indulgent about the horse for Gwendolen. She ought not to claim so much more than your own daughter would think of. Especially before we see how Fanny manages on her income. And you really have enough to do without taking all this trouble on yourself."
"My dear Nancy, one must look at things from every point of view. This girl is really worth some expense: you don't often see her equal. She ought to make a first-rate marriage, and I should not be doing my duty if I spared my trouble in helping her forward. You know yourself she has been under a disadvantage with such a father-in-law, and a second family, keeping her always in the shade. I feel for the girl, And I should like your sister and her family now to have the benefit of your having married rather a better specimen of our kind than she did."

"I thought you were almost too indulgent about the horse for Gwendolen. She ought not to claim so much more than your own daughter; especially before we see how Fanny manages on her income. You have enough to do without taking this trouble on yourself."
"My dear Nancy, this girl is worth some expense: you don't often see her equal. She ought to make a first-rate marriage, and I should not be doing my duty if I did not help her forward. She has been under a disadvantage with such a stepfather. I feel for the girl. And I should like your sister to have the benefit of your having married rather a better specimen of our kind than she did."


"Rather better! I should think so. However, it is for me to be grateful that you will take so much on your shoulders for the sake of my sister and her children. I am sure I would not grudge anything to poor Fanny. But there is one thing I have been thinking of, though you have never mentioned it."
"What is that?"
"The boys. I hope they will not be falling in love with Gwendolen."

"Rather better! I should think so. I would not grudge anything to poor Fanny. But I have been thinking of one thing you have never mentioned."
"What is that?"
"The boys. I hope they will not be falling in love with Gwendolen."


"Don't presuppose anything of the kind, my dear, and there will be no danger. Rex will never be at home for long together, and Warham is going to India. It is the wiser plan to take it for granted that cousins will not fall in love. If you begin with precautions, the affair will come in spite of them. One must not undertake to act for Providence in these matters, which can no more be held under the hand than a brood of chickens. The boys will have nothing, and Gwendolen will have nothing. They can't marry. At the worst there would only be a little crying, and you can't save boys and girls from that."
Mrs. Gascoigne's mind was satisfied: if anything did happen, there was the comfort of feeling that her husband would know what was to be done, and would have the energy to do it.

"Don't presuppose anything of the kind, my dear, and there will be no danger. Rex will never be at home for long, and Warham is going to India. It is wiser to take it for granted that cousins will not fall in love. The boys will have nothing, and Gwendolen will have nothing. They can't marry. At the worst there would only be a little crying, and you can't save boys and girls from that."
Mrs. Gascoigne's mind was satisfied: if anything did happen, there was the comfort of feeling that her husband would know what was to be done, and would have the energy to do it.


"Rien ne pese tant qu'un secret Le porter loin est difficile aux dames: Et je sais mesme sur ce fait Bon nombre d'hommes qui sont femmes." --LA FONTAINE.
Meanwhile Deronda had been fastened and led off by Mr. Vandernoodt, who wished for a brisker walk, a cigar, and a little gossip. Since we cannot tell a man his own secrets, the restraint of being in his company often breeds a desire to pair off in conversation with some more ignorant person, and Mr. Vandernoodt presently said,
"What a washed-out piece of cambric Grandcourt is! But if he is a favorite of yours, I withdraw the remark."
"Not the least in the world," said Deronda.

Meanwhile Deronda had been led off by Mr. Vandernoodt, who wished for a cigar and a little gossip. That gentleman presently said-
"What a washed-out piece of cambric Grandcourt is! But if he is a favourite of yours, I withdraw the remark."
"Not the least in the world," said Deronda.


"I thought not. One wonders how he came to have a great passion again; and he must have had--to marry in this way. Though Lush, his old chum, hints that he married this girl out of obstinacy. By George! it was a very accountable obstinacy. A man might make up his mind to marry her without the stimulus of contradiction. But he must have made himself a pretty large drain of money, eh?"
"I know nothing of his affairs."
"What! not of the other establishment he keeps up?"

"I thought not. One wonders how he came to have a great passion again; though Lush, his old chum, hints that he married this girl out of obstinacy. By George! it was a very accountable obstinacy. But it must be a pretty large drain of money, eh?"
"I know nothing of his affairs."
"What! not of the other establishment he keeps up?"


"Diplow? Of course. He took that of Sir Hugo. But merely for the year."
"No, no; not Diplow: Gadsmere. Sir Hugo knows, I'll answer for it."
Deronda said nothing. He really began to feel some curiosity, but he foresaw that he should hear what Mr. Vandernoodt had to tell, without the condescension of asking.

"Diplow? Of course."
"No, no; not Diplow: Gadsmere. Sir Hugo knows, I'll answer for it."
Deronda said nothing, despite feeling some curiosity; but Mr. Vandernoodt required no prompting.


"Lush would not altogether own to it, of course. He's a confident and go-between of Grandcourt's. But I have it on the best authority. The fact is, there's another lady with four children at Gadsmere. She has had the upper hand of him these ten years and more, and by what I can understand has it still--left her husband for him, and used to travel with him everywhere. Her husband's dead now; I found a fellow who was in the same regiment with him, and knew this Mrs. Glasher before she took wing. A fiery dark-eyed woman--a noted beauty at that time--he thought she was dead. They say she has Grandcourt under her thumb still, and it's a wonder he didn't marry her, for there's a very fine boy, and I understand Grandcourt can do absolutely as he pleases with the estates. Lush told me as much as that."

"Lush would not altogether own to it, of course. But I have it on the best authority. The fact is, there's another lady with four children at Gadsmere. She has had the upper hand of him these ten years and more - left her husband for him. He's dead now; I found a fellow who was in the same regiment with him, and knew this Mrs. Glasher before she took wing. A noted beauty at that time - he thought she was dead. They say she has Grandcourt under her thumb still, and it's a wonder he didn't marry her, for there's a very fine boy, and I understand Grandcourt can do as he pleases with the estates."


"What right had he to marry this girl?" said Deronda, with disgust.
Mr. Vandernoodt, adjusting the end of his cigar, shrugged his shoulders and put out his lips.
"_She_ can know nothing of it," said Deronda, emphatically. But that positive statement was immediately followed by an inward query--"Could she have known anything of it?"

"What right had he to marry this girl?" said Deronda, with disgust.
Mr. Vandernoodt, adjusting his cigar, shrugged.
"She can know nothing of it," said Deronda, emphatically. But that statement was immediately followed by an inward query - "Could she have known?"


"It's rather a piquant picture," said Mr. Vandernoodt--"Grandcourt between two fiery women. For depend upon it this light-haired one has plenty of devil in her. I formed that opinion of her at Leubronn. It's a sort of Medea and Cresa business. Fancy the two meeting! Grandcourt is a new kind of Jason: I wonder what sort of a part he'll make of it. It's a dog's part at best. I think I hear Ristori now, saying, 'Jasone! Jasone!' These fine women generally get hold of a stick."

"It's rather a piquant picture," said Mr. Vandernoodt, "Grandcourt between two fiery women. These fine women generally get hold of a stick."


"Grandcourt can bite, I fancy," said Deronda. "He is no stick."


"No, no; I meant Jason. I can't quite make out Grandcourt. But he's a keen fellow enough--uncommonly well built too. And if he comes into all this property, the estates will bear dividing. This girl, whose friends had come to beggary, I understand, may think herself lucky to get him. I don't want to be hard on a man because he gets involved in an affair of that sort. But he might make himself more agreeable. I was telling him a capital story last night, and he got up and walked away in the middle. I felt inclined to kick him. Do you suppose that is inattention or insolence, now?"

"I can't quite make him out. But this girl may think herself lucky to get him. I don't want to be hard on a man because he gets involved in an affair of that sort. But he might make himself more agreeable. I was telling him a capital story last night, and he got up and walked away in the middle. I felt inclined to kick him."


"Oh, a mixture. He generally observes the forms: but he doesn't listen much," said Deronda. Then, after a moment's pause, he went on, "I should think there must be some exaggeration or inaccuracy in what you have heard about this lady at Gadsmere."
"Not a bit, depend upon it; it has all lain snug of late years. People have forgotten all about it. But there the nest is, and the birds are in it. And I know Grandcourt goes there. I have good evidence that he goes there. However, that's nobody's business but his own. The affair has sunk below the surface."

"He doesn't listen much," said Deronda. After a pause, he went on, "I think there must be some exaggeration in what you have heard about this lady at Gadsmere."
"Not a bit. People have forgotten all about it. But there the nest is, and the birds are in it. And I have good evidence that Grandcourt goes there. However, that's nobody's business but his own. The affair has sunk below the surface."


"I wonder you could have learned so much about it," said Deronda, rather drily.
"Oh, there are plenty of people who knew all about it; but such stories get packed away like old letters. They interest me. I like to know the manners of my time--contemporary gossip, not antediluvian. These Dryasdust fellows get a reputation by raking up some small scandal about Semiramis or Nitocris, and then we have a thousand and one poems written upon it by all the warblers big and little. But I don't care a straw about the _faux pas_ of the mummies. You do, though. You are one of the historical men--more interested in a lady when she's got a rag face and skeleton toes peeping out. Does that flatter your imagination?"
"Well, if she had any woes in her love, one has the satisfaction of knowing that she's well out of them."


"Ah, you are thinking of the Medea, I see."
Deronda then chose to point to some giant oaks worth looking at in their bareness. He also felt an interest in this piece of contemporary gossip, but he was satisfied that Mr. Vandernoodt had no more to tell about it.

Deronda then chose to point to some giant oaks worth looking at: although this piece of gossip interested him, he felt that Mr. Vandernoodt had no more to tell.


Since the early days when he tried to construct the hidden story of his own birth, his mind had perhaps never been so active in weaving probabilities about any private affair as it had now begun to be about Gwendolen's marriage. This unavowed relation of Grandcourt's--could she have gained some knowledge of it, which caused her to shrink from the match--a shrinking finally overcome by the urgence of poverty? He could recall almost every word she had said to him, and in certain of these words he seemed to discern that she was conscious of having done some wrong--inflicted some injury. His own acute experience made him alive to the form of injury which might affect the unavowed children and their mother. Was Mrs. Grandcourt, under all her determined show of satisfaction, gnawed by a double, a treble-headed grief--self-reproach, disappointment, jealousy? He dwelt especially on all the slight signs of self-reproach: he was inclined to judge her tenderly, to excuse, to pity. He thought he had found a key now by which to interpret her more clearly: what magnifying of her misery might not a young creature get into who had wedded her fresh hopes to old secrets! He thought he saw clearly enough now why Sir Hugo had never dropped any hint of this affair to him; and immediately the image of this Mrs. Glasher became painfully associated with his own hidden birth. Gwendolen knowing of that woman and her children, marrying Grandcourt, and showing herself contented, would have been among the most repulsive of beings to him; but Gwendolen tasting the bitterness of remorse for having contributed to their injury was brought very near to his fellow-feeling. If it were so, she had got to a common plane of understanding with him on some difficulties of life which a woman is rarely able to judge of with any justice or generosity; for, according to precedent, Gwendolen's view of her position might easily have been no other than that her husband's marriage with her was his entrance on the path of virtue, while Mrs. Glasher represented his forsaken sin.

Since the early days when he tried to construct the hidden story of his own birth, his mind had never been so active in weaving probabilities as it now began to be about Gwendolen's marriage. Could she have gained some knowledge of this other household, which caused her to shrink from the match - a shrinking finally overcome by poverty? Her words seemed to show that she was conscious of having done some wrong. His own acute experience made him alive to the injury which might affect the unavowed children and their mother. Was Mrs. Grandcourt, under all her determined show of satisfaction, gnawed by self-reproach, disappointment or jealousy?
He dwelt especially on the signs of self-reproach: he was inclined to judge her tenderly. He thought he had found a key by which to interpret her more clearly, imagining the misery of a young creature who had wedded her fresh hopes to old secrets; and he saw why Sir Hugo had never dropped any hint of this affair to him. Immediately the image of Mrs. Glasher became painfully associated with his own hidden birth.
Gwendolen knowing of that woman and her children, marrying Grandcourt, and showing herself contented, would have repulsed him; but Gwendolen tasting bitter remorse for contributing to their injury was a sympathetic figure. She seemed to have reached a common plane of understanding with him on matters which a woman is rarely able to judge of with justice or generosity: for she might easily have taken the view that her husband's marriage was his entrance on the path of virtue, while Mrs. Glasher represented his forsaken sin.


And Deronda had naturally some resentment on behalf of the Hagars and Ishmaels.
Undeniably Deronda's growing solicitude about Gwendolen depended chiefly on her peculiar manner toward him; and I suppose neither man nor woman would be the better for an utter insensibility to such appeals. One sign that his interest in her had changed its footing was that he dismissed any caution against her being a coquette setting snares to involve him in a vulgar flirtation, and determined that he would not again evade any opportunity of talking to her. He had shaken off Mr. Vandernoodt, and got into a solitary corner in the twilight; but half an hour was long enough to think of those possibilities in Gwendolen's position and state of mind; and on forming the determination not to avoid her, he remembered that she was likely to be at tea with the other ladies in the drawing-room. The conjecture was true; for Gwendolen, after resolving not to go down again for the next four hours, began to feel, at the end of one, that in shutting herself up she missed all chances of seeing and hearing, and that her visit would only last two days more. She adjusted herself, put on her little air of self-possession, and going down, made herself resolutely agreeable. Only ladies were assembled, and Lady Pentreath was amusing them with a description of a drawing-room under the Regency, and the figure that was cut by ladies and gentlemen in 1819, the year she was presented--when Deronda entered.

And Deronda had naturally some resentment on behalf of the abandoned Hagars and Ishmaels.
Undeniably his growing solicitude about Gwendolen depended chiefly on her peculiar manner toward him; but he dismissed any idea of her being a coquette trying to involve him in a vulgar flirtation, and he determined that he would not again evade any opportunity of talking to her.
That evening, he realised that she was likely to be at tea with the other ladies in the drawing-room. The conjecture was true; for Gwendolen, after resolving not to go down again, began to feel that in shutting herself up she missed all chances of seeing and hearing, and that her visit would only last two days more. She adjusted herself, put on her self-possession, and going down, made herself resolutely agreeable. Lady Pentreath was amusing the assembled ladies with a description of a Regency drawing-room, when Deronda entered.


"Shall I be acceptable?" he said. "Perhaps I had better go back and look for the others. I suppose they are in the billiard-room."
"No, no; stay where you are," said Lady Pentreath. "They were all getting tired of me; let us hear what _you_ have to say."
"That is rather an embarrassing appeal," said Deronda, drawing up a chair near Lady Mallinger's elbow at the tea-table. "I think I had better take the opportunity of mentioning our songstress," he added, looking at Lady Mallinger--"unless you have done so."

"Shall I be acceptable?" he said. "Perhaps I had better go back to the others in the billiard-room."
"No, no; stay where you are," said Lady Pentreath. "Let us hear what you have to say."
"That is rather an embarrassing appeal," said Deronda, drawing up a chair. "I think I had better take the opportunity of mentioning our songstress," he added, looking at Lady Mallinger- "unless you have done so."


"Oh, the little Jewess!" said Lady Mallinger. "No, I have not mentioned her. It never entered my head that any one here wanted singing lessons."
"All ladies know some one else who wants singing lessons," said Deronda. "I have happened to find an exquisite singer,"--here he turned to Lady Pentreath. "She is living with some ladies who are friends of mine--the mother and sisters of a man who was my chum at Cambridge. She was on the stage at Vienna; but she wants to leave that life, and maintain herself by teaching."

"Oh, the little Jewess!" said Lady Mallinger. "No, I have not mentioned her. It never entered my head that anyone here wanted singing lessons."
"All ladies know someone else who wants singing lessons," said Deronda. "I have happened to find an exquisite singer,"- here he turned to Lady Pentreath. "She is living with some ladies who are friends of mine. She was on the stage at Vienna; but she wants to leave that life, and maintain herself by teaching."


"There are swarms of those people, aren't there?" said the old lady. "Are her lessons to be very cheap or very expensive? Those are the two baits I know of."
"There is another bait for those who hear her," said Deronda. "Her singing is something quite exceptional, I think. She has had such first-rate teaching--or rather first-rate instinct with her teaching--that you might imagine her singing all came by nature."
"Why did she leave the stage, then?" said Lady Pentreath. "I'm too old to believe in first-rate people giving up first-rate chances."

"There are swarms of those people, aren't there?" said the old lady. "Are her lessons to be very cheap or very expensive? Those are the two baits I know of."
"There is another bait for those who hear her," said Deronda. "Her singing is something quite exceptional, I think."
"Why did she leave the stage, then?" said Lady Pentreath.


"Her voice was too weak. It is a delicious voice for a room. You who put up with my singing of Schubert would be enchanted with hers," said Deronda, looking at Mrs. Raymond. "And I imagine she would not object to sing at private parties or concerts. Her voice is quite equal to that."
"I am to have her in my drawing-room when we go up to town," said Lady Mallinger. "You shall hear her then. I have not heard her myself yet; but I trust Daniel's recommendation. I mean my girls to have lessons of her."

"Her voice was too weak. It is a delicious voice for a room. You who put up with my singing of Schubert would be enchanted with hers," said Deronda. "And I imagine she would not object to sing at private parties or concerts. Her voice is quite equal to that."
"I am to have her in my drawing-room when we go up to town," said Lady Mallinger. "You shall hear her then. I have not heard her; but I trust Daniel's recommendation. I mean my girls to have lessons."


"Is it a charitable affair?" said Lady Pentreath. "I can't bear charitable music."
Lady Mallinger, who was rather helpless in conversation, and felt herself under an engagement not to tell anything of Mirah's story, had an embarrassed smile on her face, and glanced at Deronda.
"It is a charity to those who want to have a good model of feminine singing," said Deronda. "I think everybody who has ears would benefit by a little improvement on the ordinary style. If you heard Miss Lapidoth"--here he looked at Gwendolen--"perhaps you would revoke your resolution to give up singing."
"I should rather think my resolution would be confirmed," said Gwendolen. "I don't feel able to follow your advice of enjoying my own middlingness."

"Is it a charitable affair?" said Lady Pentreath.
"It is a charity to those who want to have a good model of feminine singing," said Deronda. "If you heard Miss Lapidoth" - here he looked at Gwendolen - "perhaps you would change your resolution to give up singing."
"I should rather think my resolution would be confirmed," said Gwendolen. "I don't feel able to follow your advice of enjoying my own middlingness."


"For my part," said Deronda, "people who do anything finely always inspirit me to try. I don't mean that they make me believe I can do it as well. But they make the thing, whatever it may be, seem worthy to be done. I can bear to think my own music not good for much, but the world would be more dismal if I thought music itself not good for much. Excellence encourages one about life generally; it shows the spiritual wealth of the world."
"But then, if we can't imitate it, it only makes our own life seem the tamer," said Gwendolen, in a mood to resent encouragement founded on her own insignificance.
"That depends on the point of view, I think," said Deronda. "We should have a poor life of it if we were reduced for all our pleasure to our own performances. A little private imitation of what is good is a sort of private devotion to it, and most of us ought to practice art only in the light of private study--preparation to understand and enjoy what the few can do for us. I think Miss Lapidoth is one of the few."

"For my part," said Deronda, "people who do anything finely always encourage me to try. I don't mean that they make me believe I can do it as well. But they make the thing seem worthy of doing. Although my own music is not good for much, the world would be more dismal if I thought music itself not good for much. Excellence shows us the spiritual wealth of the world."
"But if we can't imitate it, it only makes our own life seem tamer," said Gwendolen.
"That depends on the point of view, I think," said Deronda. "Most of us ought to practice art only as private study - preparation to understand and enjoy what the few can do for us. I think Miss Lapidoth is one of the few."


"She must be a very happy person, don't you think?" said Gwendolen, with a touch of sarcasm, and a turn of her neck toward Mrs. Raymond.
"I don't know," answered the independent lady; "I must hear more of her before I say that."
"It may have been a bitter disappointment to her that her voice failed her for the stage," said Juliet Fenn, sympathetically.
"I suppose she's past her best, though," said the deep voice of Lady Pentreath.
"On the contrary, she has not reached it," said Deronda. "She is barely twenty."
"And very pretty," interposed Lady Mallinger, with an amiable wish to help Deronda. "And she has very good manners. I'm sorry she's a bigoted Jewess; I should not like it for anything else, but it doesn't matter in singing."

"She must be a very happy person, don't you think?" said Gwendolen, with a touch of sarcasm.
"It may have been a bitter disappointment to her that her voice failed her for the stage," said Juliet Fenn, sympathetically.
"I suppose she's past her best, though," said Lady Pentreath.
"On the contrary, she has not reached it," said Deronda. "She is barely twenty."
"And very pretty," interposed Lady Mallinger, with an amiable wish to help Deronda. "And she has very good manners. I'm sorry she's a Jewess; but it doesn't matter in singing."