They walked on the gravel across a green court, where the snow still lay in islets on the grass, and in masses on the boughs of the great cedar and the crenelated coping of the stone walls, and then into a larger court, where there was another cedar, to find the beautiful choir long ago turned into stables, in the first instance perhaps after an impromptu fashion by troopers, who had a pious satisfaction in insulting the priests of Baal and the images of Ashtoreth, the queen of heaven. The exterior--its west end, save for the stable door, walled in with brick and covered with ivy--was much defaced, maimed of finial and gargoyle, the friable limestone broken and fretted, and lending its soft gray to a powdery dark lichen; the long windows, too, were filled in with brick as far as the springing of the arches, the broad clerestory windows with wire or ventilating blinds. With the low wintry afternoon sun upon it, sending shadows from the cedar boughs, and lighting up the touches of snow remaining on every ledge, it had still a scarcely disturbed aspect of antique solemnity, which gave the scene in the interior rather a startling effect; though, ecclesiastical or reverential indignation apart, the eyes could hardly help dwelling with pleasure on its piquant picturesqueness. Each finely-arched chapel was turned into a stall, where in the dusty glazing of the windows there still gleamed patches of crimson, orange, blue, and palest violet; for the rest, the choir had been gutted, the floor leveled, paved, and drained according to the most approved fashion, and a line of loose boxes erected in the middle: a soft light fell from the upper windows on sleek brown or gray flanks and haunches; on mild equine faces looking out with active nostrils over the varnished brown boarding; on the hay hanging from racks where the saints once looked down from the altar-pieces, and on the pale golden straw scattered or in heaps; on a little white-and-liver-colored spaniel making his bed on the back of an elderly hackney, and on four ancient angels, still showing signs of devotion like mutilated martyrs--while over all, the grand pointed roof, untouched by reforming wash, showed its lines and colors mysteriously through veiling shadow and cobweb, and a hoof now and then striking against the boards seemed to fill the vault with thunder, while outside there was the answering bay of the blood-hounds.

They walked on the gravel across a green court, where the snow still lay in islets on the grass, and in masses on the boughs of the great cedar and the stone walls; and then into a larger court, to find the choir that had been turned into stables. The exterior was much defaced, its gargoyles maimed, the friable limestone broken and fretted; the long windows were bricked in, up to the springing of the arches.
With the low wintry sun lighting up the snow on every ledge, it had an antique solemnity which gave the scene rather a startling effect. Each finely-arched chapel was turned into a stall, where in the dusty glazing of the windows there gleamed patches of crimson, orange and blue; the choir had been gutted, the floor levelled, paved, and drained, and a line of loose boxes erected in the middle. A soft light fell from the upper windows on sleek brown or grey flanks and on mild equine faces looking out over the varnished boarding; while over all, the grand pointed roof showed its lines mysteriously through veiling shadow and cobweb, and a hoof now and then striking against the boards seemed to fill the vault with thunder.


"Oh, this is glorious!" Gwendolen burst forth, in forgetfulness of everything but the immediate impression: there had been a little intoxication for her in the grand spaces of courts and building, and the fact of her being an important person among them. "This _is_ glorious! Only I wish there were a horse in every one of the boxes. I would ten times rather have these stables than those at Diplow."

"Oh, this is glorious!" Gwendolen burst forth, forgetting everything but the immediate impression. "I wish there were a horse in every one of the boxes. I would ten times rather have these stables than those at Diplow."


But she had no sooner said this than some consciousness arrested her, and involuntarily she turned her eyes toward Deronda, who oddly enough had taken off his felt hat and stood holding it before him as if they had entered a room or an actual church. He, like others, happened to be looking at her, and their eyes met--to her intense vexation, for it seemed to her that by looking at him she had betrayed the reference of her thoughts, and she felt herself blushing: she exaggerated the impression that even Sir Hugo as well as Deronda would have of her bad taste in referring to the possession of anything at the Abbey: as for Deronda, she had probably made him despise her. Her annoyance at what she imagined to be the obviousness of her confusion robbed her of her usual facility in carrying it off by playful speech, and turning up her face to look at the roof, she wheeled away in that attitude. If any had noticed her blush as significant, they had certainly not interpreted it by the secret windings and recesses of her feeling. A blush is no language: only a dubious flag-signal which may mean either of two contradictories. Deronda alone had a faint guess at some part of her feeling; but while he was observing her he was himself under observation.

But she had no sooner said this than she involuntarily turned her eyes toward Deronda, who oddly enough had taken off his hat and stood holding it as if in an actual church. He happened to be looking at her, and their eyes met - to her intense vexation, for she felt herself blushing at the thought that Sir Hugo as well as Deronda would have felt her bad taste in referring to the possession of anything at the Abbey. Her annoyance at her own confusion robbed her of her usual facility of playful speech, and turning up her face to look at the roof, she wheeled away. Deronda alone guessed part of her feeling; but while he was observing her, he was himself under observation.


"Do you take off your hat to horses?" said Grandcourt, with a slight sneer.


"Why not?" said Deronda, covering himself. He had really taken off the hat automatically, and if he had been an ugly man might doubtless have done so with impunity; ugliness having naturally the air of involuntary exposure, and beauty, of display.

"Why not?" said Deronda, replacing his hat, which he had removed automatically.


Gwendolen's confusion was soon merged in the survey of the horses, which Grandcourt politely abstained from appraising, languidly assenting to Sir Hugo's alternate depreciation and eulogy of the same animal, as one that he should not have bought when he was younger, and piqued himself on his horses, but yet one that had better qualities than many more expensive brutes.

Gwendolen's confusion was soon merged in the survey of the horses, which Grandcourt politely abstained from appraising, languidly assenting to Sir Hugo's self-deprecating opinion of his animals.


"The fact is, stables dive deeper and deeper into the pocket nowadays, and I am very glad to have got rid of that _dmangeaison_," said Sir Hugo, as they were coming out.

"The fact is, stables dive deeper and deeper into the pocket nowadays," said Sir Hugo, as they were coming out.


"What is a man to do, though?" said Grandcourt. "He must ride. I don't see what else there is to do. And I don't call it riding to sit astride a set of brutes with every deformity under the sun."


This delicate diplomatic way of characterizing Sir Hugo's stud did not require direct notice; and the baronet, feeling that the conversation had worn rather thin, said to the party generally, "Now we are going to see the cloister--the finest bit of all--in perfect preservation; the monks might have been walking there yesterday."

At this delicate diplomatic assessment of Sir Hugo's stud, the baronet, feeling that the conversation had worn rather thin, said, "Now we are going to see the cloister, which is in perfect preservation; the monks might have been walking there yesterday."


But Gwendolen had lingered behind to look at the kenneled blood-hounds, perhaps because she felt a little dispirited; and Grandcourt waited for her.

But Gwendolen had lingered behind, and Grandcourt waited for her.


"You had better take my arm," he said, in his low tone of command; and she took it.

"You had better take my arm," he said, in his low tone of command.


"It's a great bore being dragged about in this way, and no cigar," said Grandcourt.

"It's a great bore being dragged about in this way, and no cigar."


"Like it!--one eternal chatter. And encouraging those ugly girls--inviting one to meet such monsters. How that _fat_ Deronda can bear looking at her----"

"Like it!- one eternal chatter. And encouraging those ugly girls - inviting one to meet such monsters. How that smug Deronda can bear looking at her-"


"Why do you call him a _fat_? Do you object to him so much?"

"Why do you call him smug? Do you object to him so much?"


"Object? no. What do I care about his being a _fat_? It's of no consequence to me. I'll invite him to Diplow again if you like."

"Object? He's of no consequence to me. I'll invite him to Diplow again if you like."


"I don't think he would come. He is too clever and learned to care about _us_," said Gwendolen, thinking it useful for her husband to be told (privately) that it was possible for him to be looked down upon.

"I don't think he would come. He is too clever and learned to care about us," said Gwendolen, thinking it useful for her husband to be told (privately) that it was possible for him to be looked down upon.


"I never saw that make much difference in a man. Either he is a gentleman, or he is not," said Grandcourt.


That a new husband and wife should snatch a moment's _tete--tete_ was what could be understood and indulged; and the rest of the party left them in the rear till, re-entering the garden, they all paused in that cloistered court where, among the falling rose-petals thirteen years before, we saw a boy becoming acquainted with his first sorrow. This cloister was built of a harder stone than the church, and had been in greater safety from the wearing weather. It was a rare example of a northern cloister with arched and pillared openings not intended for glazing, and the delicately-wrought foliage of the capitals seemed still to carry the very touches of the chisel. Gwendolen had dropped her husband's arm and joined the other ladies, to whom Deronda was noticing the delicate sense which had combined freedom with accuracy in the imitation of natural forms.

Meanwhile the group, wishing to indulge a tete-a-tete between the new husband and wife, left them behind. On their re-entering the garden, they all paused in that cloistered court where, among the falling rose-petals thirteen years before, we saw a boy becoming acquainted with his first sorrow. This cloister was built of a harder stone than the church, and the delicately-wrought foliage of the capitals seemed still to carry the touches of the chisel. Gwendolen dropped her husband's arm and joined the other ladies, to whom Deronda was indicating the artistry of the carvings.


"I wonder whether one oftener learns to love real objects through their representations, or the representations through the real objects," he said, after pointing out a lovely capital made by the curled leaves of greens, showing their reticulated under-side with the firm gradual swell of its central rib. "When I was a little fellow these capitals taught me to observe and delight in the structure of leaves."

"I wonder whether one learns to love real objects through their representations, or the representations through the real objects," he said, after pointing out some lovely curled leaves of stone. "When I was a little fellow these capitals taught me to delight in the structure of leaves."


"I suppose you can see every line of them with your eyes shut," said Juliet Fenn.

"I suppose you can see every line of them with your eyes shut.


"Yes. I was always repeating them, because for a good many years this court stood for me as my only image of a convent, and whenever I read of monks and monasteries, this was my scenery for them."


"You must love this place very much," said Miss Fenn, innocently, not thinking of inheritance. "So many homes are like twenty others. But this is unique, and you seem to know every cranny of it. I dare say you could never love another home so well."

You must love this place very much," said Miss Fenn, innocently, not thinking of inheritance. "You seem to know every cranny of it. I dare say you could never love another home so well."


"Oh, I carry it with me," said Deronda, quietly, being used to all possible thoughts of this kind. "To most men their early home is no more than a memory of their early years, and I'm not sure but they have the best of it. The image is never marred. There's no disappointment in memory, and one's exaggerations are always on the good side."

"Oh, I carry it with me," said Deronda quietly.


Gwendolen felt sure that he spoke in that way out of delicacy to her and Grandcourt--because he knew they must hear him; and that he probably thought of her as a selfish creature who only cared about possessing things in her own person. But whatever he might say, it must have been a secret hardship to him that any circumstances of his birth had shut him out from the inheritance of his father's position; and if he supposed that she exulted in her husband's taking it, what could he feel for her but scornful pity? Indeed it seemed clear to her that he was avoiding her, and preferred talking to others--which nevertheless was not kind in him.

Gwendolen felt that he probably thought of her as a selfish creature who only cared about possessions. It must be a secret hardship to him that he was shut out from his inheritance; and if he supposed that she exulted in her husband's taking it, what could he feel for her but scornful pity? It seemed clear to her that he was avoiding her.


With these thoughts in her mind she was prevented by a mixture of pride and timidity from addressing him again, and when they were looking at the rows of quaint portraits in the gallery above the cloisters, she kept up her air of interest and made her vivacious remarks without any direct appeal to Deronda. But at the end she was very weary of her assumed spirits, and as Grandcourt turned into the billiard-room, she went to the pretty boudoir which had been assigned to her, and shut herself up to look melancholy at her ease. No chemical process shows a more wonderful activity than the transforming influence of the thoughts we imagine to be going on in another. Changes in theory, religion, admirations, may begin with a suspicion of dissent or disapproval, even when the grounds of disapproval are but matter of searching conjecture.

With these thoughts in her mind she was prevented by a mixture of pride and timidity from addressing him again, and when they were looking at the quaint portraits in the gallery, she made her vivacious remarks without any direct appeal to Deronda. But at the end she was very weary of her assumed spirits, and when Grandcourt turned into the billiard-room, she went to her pretty boudoir to be melancholy at her ease. No chemical process shows a more extraordinary activity than the transforming influence of the thoughts we imagine to be going on in another. Changes in theory, religion, admirations, may all begin with a suspicion of another's dissent.


Poor Gwendolen was conscious of an uneasy, transforming process--all the old nature shaken to its depths, its hopes spoiled, its pleasures perturbed, but still showing wholeness and strength in the will to reassert itself. After every new shock of humiliation she tried to adjust herself and seize her old supports--proud concealment, trust in new excitements that would make life go by without much thinking; trust in some deed of reparation to nullify her self-blame and shield her from a vague, ever-visiting dread of some horrible calamity; trust in the hardening effect of use and wont that would make her indifferent to her miseries.

Poor Gwendolen was conscious of an uneasy, transforming process - all the old nature shaken to its depths, its hopes spoiled, its pleasures perturbed, but still showing strength in the will to reassert itself. After every new shock of humiliation she tried to adjust herself and seize her old supports - proud concealment, new excitements that would make life go by without much thinking; trust in some deed of reparation to shield her from a vague, ever-visiting dread of some horrible calamity; trust in the hardening effect of use that would make her indifferent to her miseries.


Yes--miseries. This beautiful, healthy young creature, with her two-and-twenty years and her gratified ambition, no longer felt inclined to kiss her fortunate image in the glass. She looked at it with wonder that she could be so miserable. One belief which had accompanied her through her unmarried life as a self-cajoling superstition, encouraged by the subordination of every one about her--the belief in her own power of dominating--was utterly gone. Already, in seven short weeks, which seemed half her life, her husband had gained a mastery which she could no more resist than she could have resisted the benumbing effect from the touch of a torpedo. Gwendolen's will had seemed imperious in its small girlish sway; but it was the will of a creature with a large discourse of imaginative fears: a shadow would have been enough to relax its hold. And she had found a will like that of a crab or a boa-constrictor, which goes on pinching or crushing without alarm at thunder. Not that Grandcourt was without calculation of the intangible effects which were the chief means of mastery; indeed, he had a surprising acuteness in detecting that situation of feeling in Gwendolen which made her proud and rebellious spirit dumb and helpless before him.

Yes - miseries. This beautiful, healthy young creature, with her two-and-twenty years and her gratified ambition, no longer felt inclined to kiss her fortunate image in the glass. She looked at it with wonder that she could be so miserable. Her belief in her own power of dominating was utterly gone. Already, in seven short weeks, which seemed half her life, her husband had gained a mastery which she could no more resist than she could have resisted the numbing electric touch of a torpedo fish. Gwendolen's will had seemed imperious in its small girlish sway; but it had been beset by imaginative fears, and even a shadow could weaken it: and she had found a will like that of a boa-constrictor, which goes on crushing without alarm at thunder. Not that Grandcourt was without acuity; he detected the feeling which made her proud and rebellious spirit dumb and helpless before him.


She had burned Lydia Glasher's letter with an instantaneous terror lest other eyes should see it, and had tenaciously concealed from Grandcourt that there was any other cause of her violent hysterics than the excitement and fatigue of the day: she had been urged into an implied falsehood. "Don't ask me--it was my feeling about everything--it was the sudden change from home." The words of that letter kept repeating themselves, and hung on her consciousness with the weight of a prophetic doom. "I am the grave in which your chance of happiness is buried as well as mine. You had your warning. You have chosen to injure me and my children. He had meant to marry me. He would have married me at last, if you had not broken your word. You will have your punishment. I desire it with all my soul. Will you give him this letter to set him against me and ruin us more--me and my children? Shall you like to stand before your husband with these diamonds on you, and these words of mine in his thoughts and yours? Will he think you have any right to complain when he has made you miserable? You took him with your eyes open. The willing wrong you have done me will be your curse."

She had burned Lydia Glasher's letter in terror lest other eyes should see it, and had blamed her violent hysterics solely on the excitement and fatigue of the day. "Don't ask me - it was my feeling about everything - it was the sudden change from home." But the words of that letter kept repeating themselves with the weight of doom:
'I am the grave in which your chance of happiness is buried. You had your warning. You have chosen to injure me and my children. He had meant to marry me. He would have married me at last, if you had not broken your word. You will have your punishment. I desire it with all my soul.
'Will you give him this letter to set him against me and ruin us - me and my children? Shall you like to stand before your husband with these diamonds on you, and these words in his thoughts and yours? Will he think you have any right to complain when he has made you miserable? You took him with your eyes open. The wrong you have done me will be your curse.'


The words had nestled their venomous life within her, and stirred continually the vision of the scene at the Whispering Stones. That scene was now like an accusing apparition: she dreaded that Grandcourt should know of it--so far out of her sight now was that possibility she had once satisfied herself with, of speaking to him about Mrs. Glasher and her children, and making them rich amends. Any endurance seemed easier than the mortal humiliation of confessing that she knew all before she married him, and in marrying him had broken her word. For the reasons by which she had justified herself when the marriage tempted her, and all her easy arrangement of her future power over her husband to make him do better than he might be inclined to do, were now as futile as the burned-out lights which set off a child's pageant. Her sense of being blameworthy was exaggerated by a dread both definite and vague. The definite dread was lest the veil of secrecy should fall between her and Grandcourt, and give him the right to taunt her. With the reading of that letter had begun her husband's empire of fear.

The words had nestled their venomous life within her. She dreaded that Grandcourt should know of that meeting at the Whispering Stones - so far out of her sight now was the possibility of speaking to him about Mrs. Glasher and her children, and making them rich amends. Any endurance seemed easier than the humiliation of confessing that she knew all before she married him, and in marrying him had broken her word. For the reasons by which she had justified her marriage, and her easy assumption of her future power over her husband, seemed now childish and futile. She dreaded the veil of secrecy being removed, and giving Grandcourt the right to taunt her. With the reading of that letter had begun her husband's empire of fear.


And her husband all the while knew it. He had not, indeed, any distinct knowledge of her broken promise, and would not have rated highly the effect of that breach on her conscience; but he was aware not only of what Lush had told him about the meeting at the Whispering Stones, but also of Gwendolen's concealment as to the cause of her sudden illness. He felt sure that Lydia had enclosed something with the diamonds, and that this something, whatever it was, had at once created in Gwendolen a new repulsion for him and a reason for not daring to manifest it. He did not greatly mind, or feel as many men might have felt, that his hopes in marriage were blighted: he had wanted to marry Gwendolen, and he was not a man to repent. Why should a gentleman whose other relations in life are carried on without the luxury of sympathetic feeling, be supposed to require that kind of condiment in domestic life? What he chiefly felt was that a change had come over the conditions of his mastery, which, far from shaking it, might establish it the more thoroughly. And it was established. He judged that he had not married a simpleton unable to perceive the impossibility of escape, or to see alternative evils: he had married a girl who had spirit and pride enough not to make a fool of herself by forfeiting all the advantages of a position which had attracted her; and if she wanted pregnant hints to help her in making up her mind properly he would take care not to withhold them.

And her husband all the while knew it. He did not know of her broken promise; but he was aware not only of what Lush had told him about the meeting at the Whispering Stones, but also of Gwendolen's concealment as to the cause of her sudden illness. He felt sure that Lydia had enclosed something with the diamonds which had created in Gwendolen a new repulsion for him and a reason for not daring to show it. He did not greatly mind, or feel that his hopes in marriage were blighted: he had wanted to marry Gwendolen, and he was not a man to repent. Sympathetic feeling did not play a large part in his life. What he chiefly felt was that the change might establish his mastery more thoroughly.
And it was established. He judged that he had not married a simpleton: he had married a girl who had spirit and pride enough not to make a fool of herself by forfeiting the advantages of her position; and if she wanted pregnant hints to help her in making up her mind properly he would not withhold them.


Gwendolen, indeed, with all that gnawing trouble in her consciousness, had hardly for a moment dropped the sense that it was her part to bear herself with dignity, and appear what is called happy. In disclosure of disappointment or sorrow she saw nothing but a humiliation which would have been vinegar to her wounds. Whatever her husband might have come at last to be to her, she meant to wear the yoke so as not to be pitied. For she did think of the coming years with presentiment: she was frightened at Grandcourt. The poor thing had passed from her girlish sauciness of superiority over this inert specimen of personal distinction into an amazed perception of her former ignorance about the possible mental attitude of a man toward the woman he sought in marriage--of her present ignorance as to what their life with each other might turn into. For novelty gives immeasurableness to fear, and fills the early time of all sad changes with phantoms of the future. Her little coquetries, voluntary or involuntary, had told on Grandcourt during courtship, and formed a medium of communication between them, showing him in the light of a creature such as she could understand and manage: but marriage had nullified all such interchange, and Grandcourt had become a blank uncertainty to her in everything but this, that he would do just what he willed, and that she had neither devices at her command to determine his will, nor any rational means of escaping it.

Gwendolen, indeed, for all her trouble, felt bound to bear herself with dignity, and appear what is called happy. In disclosure of her disappointment or sorrow she saw nothing but humiliation. Whatever her husband might have become to her, she meant not to be pitied. For she did think of the future with fear: she was frightened at Grandcourt.
The poor thing had passed from her girlish sauciness of superiority over this inert specimen into an amazed perception of her former ignorance about the possible attitude of a man toward the woman he sought in marriage. During their courtship, her little coquetries had formed a means of communication between them, showing him in the light of a creature such as she could understand and manage. But marriage had nullified all such interchange, and Grandcourt had become a blank uncertainty to her in everything but that he would do just what he willed; and she had no means of either discovering his will, or of escaping it.


What had occurred between them and her wearing the diamonds was typical. One evening, shortly before they came to the Abbey, they were going to dine at Brackenshaw Castle. Gwendolen had said to herself that she would never wear those diamonds: they had horrible words clinging and crawling about them, as from some bad dream, whose images lingered on the perturbed sense. She came down dressed in her white, with only a streak of gold and a pendant of emeralds, which Grandcourt had given her, round her neck, and the little emerald stars in her ears.

What had occurred between them concerning her wearing the diamonds was typical. One evening, shortly before they came to the Abbey, they were going to dine at Brackenshaw Castle. Gwendolen had said to herself that she would never wear those diamonds: they had horrible words clinging and crawling about them. She came down dressed in her white, with only a streak of gold and a pendant of emeralds, which Grandcourt had given her, round her neck, and little emerald stars in her ears.


Grandcourt stood with his back to the fire and looked at her as she entered.

Grandcourt looked at her as she entered.


"Am I altogether as you like?" she said, speaking rather gaily. She was not without enjoyment in this occasion of going to Brackenshaw Castle with her new dignities upon her, as men whose affairs are sadly involved will enjoy dining out among persons likely to be under a pleasant mistake about them.

"Am I altogether as you like?" she said, speaking rather gaily. She was not without enjoyment at going to Brackenshaw Castle with her new dignities upon her.


Gwendolen felt suddenly uncomfortable, wondering what was to come. She was not unprepared for some struggle about the diamonds; but suppose he were going to say, in low, contemptuous tones, "You are not in any way what I like." It was very bad for her to be secretly hating him; but it would be much worse when he gave the first sign of hating her.

Gwendolen felt suddenly uncomfortable, wondering what was to come. She was prepared for some struggle about the diamonds; but suppose he were going to say, in low, contemptuous tones, "You are not in any way what I like." It was very bad for her to be secretly hating him; but it would be much worse when he gave the first sign of hating her.


"Oh, mercy!" she exclaimed, the pause lasting till she could bear it no longer. "How am I to alter myself?"

"Oh, mercy!" she exclaimed. "How am I to alter myself?"


"Put on the diamonds," said Grandcourt, looking straight at her with his narrow glance.


Gwendolen paused in her turn, afraid of showing any emotion, and feeling that nevertheless there was some change in her eyes as they met his. But she was obliged to answer, and said as indifferently as she could, "Oh, please not. I don't think diamonds suit me."

Gwendolen paused, afraid of showing any emotion. But she was obliged to answer, and said as indifferently as she could, "Oh, please not. I don't think diamonds suit me."


"What you think has nothing to do with it," said Grandcourt, his _sotto voce_ imperiousness seeming to have an evening quietude and finish, like his toilet. "I wish you to wear the diamonds."

"What you think has nothing to do with it," said Grandcourt with sotto voce imperiousness. "I wish you to wear the diamonds."


"Pray excuse me; I like these emeralds," said Gwendolen, frightened in spite of her preparation. That white hand of his which was touching his whisker was capable, she fancied, of clinging round her neck and threatening to throttle her; for her fear of him, mingling with the vague foreboding of some retributive calamity which hung about her life, had reached a superstitious point.

"Pray excuse me; I like these emeralds," said Gwendolen, frightened in spite of her preparation. That white hand of his which was touching his whisker was capable, she fancied, of threatening to throttle her; for her fear of him, mingling with the vague foreboding of some retributive calamity, had reached a superstitious point.


"Oblige me by telling me your reason for not wearing the diamonds when I desire it," said Grandcourt. His eyes were still fixed upon her, and she felt her own eyes narrowing under them as if to shut out an entering pain.

"Oblige me by telling me your reason for not wearing the diamonds when I desire it," said Grandcourt. His eyes were still fixed upon her.


Of what use was the rebellion within her? She could say nothing that would not hurt her worse than submission. Turning slowly and covering herself again, she went to her dressing-room. As she reached out the diamonds, it occurred to her that her unwillingness to wear them might have already raised a suspicion in Grandcourt that she had some knowledge about them which he had not given her. She fancied that his eyes showed a delight in torturing her. How could she be defiant? She had nothing to say that would touch him--nothing but what would give him a more painful grasp on her consciousness.

Of what use was rebellion? It would hurt her worse than submission. She went slowly to her dressing-room. As she brought out the diamonds it occurred to her that she might have already raised a suspicion in Grandcourt that she had some knowledge about them. She fancied that his eyes showed a delight in torturing her. How could she be defiant? Nothing she could say would touch him - it would merely give him a more painful grasp on her mind.


"He delights in making the dogs and horses quail: that is half his pleasure in calling them his," she said to herself, as she opened the jewel-case with a shivering sensation.

"He delights in making the dogs and horses quail: that is half his pleasure in calling them his," she said to herself, as she opened the jewel-case with a shiver.


"It will come to be so with me; and I shall quail. What else is there for me? I will not say to the world, 'Pity me.'"

"So shall I quail too. What else is there for me? I will not say to the world, 'Pity me.'"


She was about to ring for her maid when she heard the door open behind her. It was Grandcourt who came in.

She heard the door open behind her, and Grandcourt came in.


"You want some one to fasten them," he said, coming toward her.

"You want some one to fasten them," he said.


She did not answer, but simply stood still, leaving him to take out the ornaments and fasten them as he would. Doubtless he had been used to fasten them on some one else. With a bitter sort of sarcasm against herself, Gwendolen thought, "What a privilege this is, to have robbed another woman of!"

She did not answer, but simply stood still, leaving him to fasten the diamonds on her as he would. Doubtless he had been used to fasten them on someone else. With a bitter sarcasm against herself, Gwendolen thought, "What a privilege this is, to have robbed another woman of!"


"What makes you so cold?" said Grandcourt, when he had fastened the last ear-ring. "Pray put plenty of furs on. I hate to see a woman come into a room looking frozen. If you are to appear as a bride at all, appear decently."

"What makes you so cold?" said Grandcourt. "Pray put plenty of furs on. I hate to see a woman come into a room looking frozen. If you are to appear as a bride at all, appear decently."


This marital speech was not exactly persuasive, but it touched the quick of Gwendolen's pride and forced her to rally. The words of the bad dream crawled about the diamonds still, but only for her: to others they were brilliants that suited her perfectly, and Grandcourt inwardly observed that she answered to the rein.

This marital speech touched the quick of Gwendolen's pride and forced her to rally. The words of the bad dream crawled about the diamonds still, but only for her: to others they were brilliants that suited her perfectly, and Grandcourt inwardly observed that she answered to the rein.


"Oh, yes, mamma, quite happy," Gwendolen had said on her return to Diplow. "Not at all disappointed in Ryelands. It is a much finer place than this--larger in every way. But don't you want some more money?"

"Oh, yes, mamma, quite happy," Gwendolen had said on her return to Diplow. "Ryelands is a much finer place than this in every way. But don't you want some more money?"


"Did you not know that Mr. Grandcourt left me a letter on your wedding-day? I am to have eight hundred a year. He wishes me to keep Offendene for the present, while you are at Diplow. But if there were some pretty cottage near the park at Ryelands we might live there without much expense, and I should have you most of the year, perhaps."

"Did you not know that Mr. Grandcourt left me a letter on your wedding-day? I am to have eight hundred a year. He wishes me to keep Offendene for the present, while you are at Diplow. But if there were some pretty cottage near the park at Ryelands we might live there without much expense, and be closer to you."


"We must leave that to Mr. Grandcourt, mamma."


"Oh, certainly. It is exceedingly handsome of him to say that he will pay the rent for Offendene till June. And we can go on very well--without any man-servant except Crane, just for out-of-doors. Our good Merry will stay with us and help me to manage everything. It is natural that Mr. Grandcourt should wish me to live in a good style of house in your neighborhood, and I cannot decline. So he said nothing about it to you?"

"Oh, certainly. It is exceedingly handsome of him to pay the rent for Offendene till June. And we can go on very well; our good Merry will stay and help to manage everything. It is natural that Mr. Grandcourt should wish me to live in a good style of house, and I cannot decline. So he said nothing about it to you?"


"No; he wished me to hear it from you, I suppose."


Gwendolen in fact had been very anxious to have some definite knowledge of what would be done for her mother, but at no moment since her marriage had she been able to overcome the difficulty of mentioning the subject to Grandcourt. Now, however, she had a sense of obligation which would not let her rest without saying to him, "It is very good of you to provide for mamma. You took a great deal on yourself in marrying a girl who had nothing but relations belonging to her."

Gwendolen in fact had been very anxious to have some definite knowledge of what would be done for her mother, but had not been able to overcome the difficulty of mentioning the subject to Grandcourt. Now, however, she had a sense of obligation which made her say to him, "It is very good of you to provide for mamma."


Grandcourt was smoking, and only said carelessly, "Of course I was not going to let her live like a gamekeeper's mother."

Grandcourt only said carelessly, "Of course I was not going to let her live like a gamekeeper's mother."


"At least he is not mean about money," thought Gwendolen, "and mamma is the better off for my marriage."


She often pursued the comparison between what might have been, if she had not married Grandcourt, and what actually was, trying to persuade herself that life generally was barren of satisfaction, and that if she had chosen differently she might now have been looking back with a regret as bitter as the feeling she was trying to argue away. Her mother's dullness, which used to irritate her, she was at present inclined to explain as the ordinary result of woman's experience. True, she still saw that she would "manage differently from mamma;" but her management now only meant that she would carry her troubles with spirit, and let none suspect them. By and by she promised herself that she should get used to her heart-sores, and find excitements that would carry her through life, as a hard gallop carried her through some of the morning hours. There was gambling: she had heard stories at Leubronn of fashionable women who gambled in all sorts of ways. It seemed very flat to her at this distance, but perhaps if she began to gamble again, the passion might awake. Then there was the pleasure of producing an effect by her appearance in society: what did celebrated beauties do in town when their husbands could afford display? All men were fascinated by them: they had a perfect equipage and toilet, walked into public places, and bowed, and made the usual answers, and walked out again, perhaps they bought china, and practiced accomplishments. If she could only feel a keen appetite for those pleasures--could only believe in pleasure as she used to do! Accomplishments had ceased to have the exciting quality of promising any pre-eminence to her; and as for fascinated gentlemen--adorers who might hover round her with languishment, and diversify married life with the romantic stir of mystery, passion, and danger, which her French reading had given her some girlish notion of--they presented themselves to her imagination with the fatal circumstance that, instead of fascinating her in return, they were clad in her own weariness and disgust. The admiring male, rashly adjusting the expression of his features and the turn of his conversation to her supposed tastes, had always been an absurd object to her, and at present seemed rather detestable. Many courses are actually pursued--follies and sins both convenient and inconvenient--without pleasure or hope of pleasure; but to solace ourselves with imagining any course beforehand, there must be some foretaste of pleasure in the shape of appetite; and Gwendolen's appetite had sickened. Let her wander over the possibilities of her life as she would, an uncertain shadow dogged her. Her confidence in herself and her destiny had turned into remorse and dread; she trusted neither herself nor her future.

She often pursued the comparison between what might have been, if she had not married Grandcourt, and what actually was, trying to persuade herself that life generally was barren of satisfaction, and that if she had chosen differently she might now be feeling a regret as bitter as her current misery. She still thought that she would "manage differently from mamma;" but her management now only meant that she would let none suspect her troubles. She promised herself that she should get used to her heart-sores, and find excitements that would carry her through life, as a hard gallop carried her through the morning hours. There was gambling: she had heard stories at Leubronn of fashionable women who gambled. It seemed very flat to her at this distance, but perhaps if she began to gamble again, the passion might awake.
Then there was the pleasure of producing an effect by her appearance in society, and winning men's admiration, as celebrated beauties did: they had perfect outfits, walked into public places, bowed, made the usual answers, and walked out again; and perhaps they bought china, and practiced accomplishments.
If she could only believe in pleasure as she used to do! Accomplishments had ceased to have the exciting quality of promising her pre-eminence; and as for admirers, she imagined them with weariness and disgust. Gwendolen's appetite for such delights had sickened. Wherever she wandered over the possibilities of her life, a shadow dogged her. Her confidence in herself and her destiny had turned into remorse and dread; she trusted neither herself nor her future.


This hidden helplessness gave fresh force to the hold Deronda had from the first taken on her mind, as one who had an unknown standard by which he judged her. Had he some way of looking at things which might be a new footing for her--an inward safeguard against possible events which she dreaded as stored-up retribution? It is one of the secrets in that change of mental poise which has been fitly named conversion, that to many among us neither heaven nor earth has any revelation till some personality touches theirs with a peculiar influence, subduing them into receptiveness. It had been Gwendolen's habit to think of the persons around her as stale books, too familiar to be interesting. Deronda had lit up her attention with a sense of novelty: not by words only, but by imagined facts, his influence had entered into the current of that self-suspicion and self-blame which awakens a new consciousness.

This hidden helplessness gave fresh force to the hold Deronda had taken on her mind, as one who judged her by an unknown standard. Had he some way of looking at things which might be a new inward safeguard for her against the retribution which she dreaded? It had been Gwendolen's habit to think of the persons around her as stale books, too familiar to be interesting. Deronda had lit up her attention with a sense of novelty: his influence had entered into the current of that self-suspicion and self-blame which awakens a new consciousness.


"I wish he could know everything about me without my telling him," was one of her thoughts, as she sat leaning over the end of a couch, supporting her head with her hand, and looking at herself in a mirror--not in admiration, but in a sad kind of companionship. "I wish he knew that I am not so contemptible as he thinks me; that I am in deep trouble, and want to be something better if I could." Without the aid of sacred ceremony or costume, her feelings had turned this man, only a few years older than herself, into a priest; a sort of trust less rare than the fidelity that guards it. Young reverence for one who is also young is the most coercive of all: there is the same level of temptation, and the higher motive is believed in as a fuller force--not suspected to be a mere residue from weary experience.

"I wish he could know everything about me without my telling him," she thought, as she sat on a couch, supporting her head with her hand, and looking at herself in a mirror - not in admiration, but in a sad companionship. "I wish he knew that I am not so contemptible as he thinks me; that I am in deep trouble, and want to be something better." Without the aid of sacred ceremony or costume, her feelings had turned this man, only a few years older than herself, into a priest. Young reverence for one who is also young is the strongest of all.


But the coercion is often stronger on the one who takes the reverence. Those who trust us educate us. And perhaps in that ideal consecration of Gwendolen's, some education was being prepared for Deronda.

But the effect is also stronger on the one who takes the reverence. Those who trust us educate us. And perhaps in that consecration of Gwendolen's, some education was being prepared for Deronda.


Among the heirs of Art, as is the division of the promised land, each has to win his portion by hard fighting: the bestowal is after the manner of prophecy, and is a title without possession. To carry the map of an ungotten estate in your pocket is a poor sort of copyhold. And in fancy to cast his shoe over Eden is little warrant that a man shall ever set the sole of his foot on an acre of his own there.


The most obstinate beliefs that mortals entertain about themselves are such as they have no evidence for beyond a constant, spontaneous pulsing of their self-satisfaction--as it were a hidden seed of madness, a confidence that they can move the world without precise notion of standing-place or lever.


"Pray go to church, mamma," said Gwendolen the next morning. "I prefer seeing Herr Klesmer alone." (He had written in reply to her note that he would be with her at eleven.)

"Pray go to church, mamma," said Gwendolen the next morning. "I prefer seeing Herr Klesmer alone. He will be here at eleven."


"That is hardly correct, I think," said Mrs. Davilow, anxiously.

"That is hardly correct, I think," said Mrs. Davilow anxiously.


"Our affairs are too serious for us to think of such nonsensical rules," said Gwendolen, contemptuously. "They are insulting as well as ridiculous."


"You would not mind Isabel sitting with you? She would be reading in a corner."

"You would not mind Isabel? She could be reading in a corner."


"No; she could not: she would bite her nails and stare. It would be too irritating. Trust my judgment, mamma, I must be alone. Take them all to church."

"No; she could not: she would bite her nails and stare. It would be too irritating. Trust my judgment, mamma; I must be alone. Take them all to church."


Gwendolen had her way, of course; only that Miss Merry and two of the girls stayed at home, to give the house a look of habitation by sitting at the dining-room windows.

Gwendolen had her way, of course; only Miss Merry and two of the girls stayed at home, to give the house a look of habitation by sitting at the dining-room windows.


It was a delicious Sunday morning. The melancholy waning sunshine of autumn rested on the half-strown grass and came mildly through the windows in slanting bands of brightness over the old furniture, and the glass panel that reflected the furniture; over the tapestried chairs with their faded flower-wreaths, the dark enigmatic pictures, the superannuated organ at which Gwendolen had pleased herself with acting Saint Cecelia on her first joyous arrival, the crowd of pallid, dusty knickknacks seen through the open doors of the antechamber where she had achieved the wearing of her Greek dress as Hermione. This last memory was just now very busy in her; for had not Klesmer then been struck with admiration of her pose and expression? Whatever he had said, whatever she imagined him to have thought, was at this moment pointed with keenest interest for her: perhaps she had never before in her life felt so inwardly dependent, so consciously in need of another person's opinion. There was a new fluttering of spirit within her, a new element of deliberation in her self-estimate which had hitherto been a blissful gift of intuition. Still it was the recurrent burden of her inward soliloquy that Klesmer had seen but little of her, and any unfavorable conclusion of his must have too narrow a foundation. She really felt clever enough for anything.

It was a delicious Sunday morning. The melancholy waning sunshine of autumn came mildly through the windows in slanting bands of brightness over the old furniture, the organ at which Gwendolen had acted Saint Cecilia, the antechamber where she worn her Greek dress as Hermione. This last memory was just now very busy in her; for had not Klesmer been struck with admiration of her pose and expression? His reaction was at this moment of the keenest interest for her: perhaps she had never before in her life felt so in need of another person's opinion. Still she told herself that Klesmer had seen little of her, and any unfavourable conclusion of his must have too narrow a foundation. She really felt clever enough for anything.


To fill up the time she collected her volumes and pieces of music, and laying them on the top of the piano, set herself to classify them. Then catching the reflection of her movements in the glass panel, she was diverted to the contemplation of the image there and walked toward it. Dressed in black, without a single ornament, and with the warm whiteness of her skin set off between her light-brown coronet of hair and her square-cut bodice, she might have tempted an artist to try again the Roman trick of a statue in black, white, and tawny marble. Seeing her image slowly advancing, she thought "I _am_ beautiful"--not exultingly, but with grave decision. Being beautiful was after all the condition on which she most needed external testimony. If any one objected to the turn of her nose or the form of her neck and chin, she had not the sense that she could presently show her power of attainment in these branches of feminine perfection.


There was not much time to fill up in this way before the sound of wheels, the loud ring, and the opening doors assured her that she was not by any accident to be disappointed. This slightly increased her inward flutter. In spite of her self-confidence, she dreaded Klesmer as part of that unmanageable world which was independent of her wishes--something vitriolic that would not cease to burn because you smiled or frowned at it. Poor thing! she was at a higher crisis of her woman's fate than in her last experience with Grandcourt. The questioning then, was whether she should take a particular man as a husband. The inmost fold of her questioning now was whether she need take a husband at all--whether she could not achieve substantially for herself and know gratified ambition without bondage.

The sound of wheels and opening doors increased her inward flutter. In spite of her self-confidence, she dreaded Klesmer as part of that unmanageable world which was independent of her wishes.


Klesmer made his most deferential bow in the wide doorway of the antechamber--showing also the deference of the finest gray kerseymere trousers and perfect gloves (the 'masters of those who know' are happily altogether human). Gwendolen met him with unusual gravity, and holding out her hand said, "It is most kind of you to come, Herr Klesmer. I hope you have not thought me presumptuous."

Klesmer made his most deferential bow. Gwendolen met him with unusual gravity, saying, "It is most kind of you to come, Herr Klesmer. I hope you have not thought me presumptuous."


"I took your wish as a command that did me honor," said Klesmer, with answering gravity. He was really putting by his own affairs in order to give his utmost attention to what Gwendolen might have to say; but his temperament was still in a state of excitation from the events of yesterday, likely enough to give his expressions a more than usually biting edge.

"I took your wish as a command that did me honour," said Klesmer, with answering gravity. He was really putting aside his own affairs to give his utmost attention to Gwendolen; but he was still in a state of excitation from the events of yesterday.


Gwendolen for once was under too great a strain of feeling to remember formalities. She continued standing near the piano, and Klesmer took his stand near the other end of it with his back to the light and his terribly omniscient eyes upon her. No affectation was of use, and she began without delay.

Gwendolen was under too great a strain to remember formalities. She began without delay.


"I wish to consult you, Herr Klesmer. We have lost all our fortune; we have nothing. I must get my own bread, and I desire to provide for my mamma, so as to save her from any hardship. The only way I can think of--and I should like it better than anything--is to be an actress--to go on the stage. But, of course, I should like to take a high position, and I thought--if you thought I could"--here Gwendolen became a little more nervous--"it would be better for me to be a singer--to study singing also."

"I wish to consult you, Herr Klesmer. We have lost all our fortune; we have nothing. I must get my own bread, and I desire to provide for my mamma. The only way I can think of - and I should like it better than anything - is to be an actress on the stage. But, of course, I should like to take a high position, and I thought - if you thought I could" - here Gwendolen became a little more nervous- "it would be better for me to study singing also."


Klesmer put down his hat upon the piano, and folded his arms as if to concentrate himself.


"I know," Gwendolen resumed, turning from pale to pink and back again--"I know that my method of singing is very defective; but I have been ill taught. I could be better taught; I could study. And you will understand my wish:--to sing and act too, like Grisi, is a much higher position. Naturally, I should wish to take as high rank as I can. And I can rely on your judgment. I am sure you will tell me the truth."

"I know," Gwendolen resumed, turning from pale to pink, "I know that my singing is very defective; but I have been ill taught. I could be better taught. And you will understand my wish: to sing and act too, is a much higher position. Naturally, I should wish to take as high rank as I can. And I can rely on your judgment. I am sure you will tell me the truth."


Gwendolen somehow had the conviction that now she made this serious appeal the truth would be favorable.

Gwendolen somehow had the conviction that now she had made this serious appeal the truth would be favourable.


Still Klesmer did not speak. He drew off his gloves quickly, tossed them into his hat, rested his hands on his hips, and walked to the other end of the room. He was filled with compassion for this girl: he wanted to put a guard on his speech. When he turned again, he looked at her with a mild frown of inquiry, and said with gentle though quick utterance, "You have never seen anything, I think, of artists and their lives?--I mean of musicians, actors, artists of that kind?"

Still Klesmer did not speak. He drew off his gloves, tossed them into his hat, and walked to the other end of the room, filled with compassion for this girl: he wanted to guard his speech. When he turned again, he looked at her with a mild frown of inquiry, and said gently, "You have never seen anything, I think, of actors and their lives?"


"Oh, no," said Gwendolen, not perturbed by a reference to this obvious fact in the history of a young lady hitherto well provided for.


"You are--pardon me," said Klesmer, again pausing near the piano--"in coming to a conclusion on such a matter as this, everything must be taken into consideration--you are perhaps twenty?"

"You are - pardon me," said Klesmer, "but you are perhaps twenty?"


"I am twenty-one," said Gwendolen, a slight fear rising in her. "Do you think I am too old?"


Klesmer pouted his under lip and shook his long fingers upward in a manner totally enigmatic.


"Many persons begin later than others," said Gwendolen, betrayed by her habitual consciousness of having valuable information to bestow.


Klesmer took no notice, but said with more studied gentleness than ever, "You have probably not thought of an artistic career until now: you did not entertain the notion, the longing--what shall I say?--you did not wish yourself an actress, or anything of that sort, till the present trouble?"

Klesmer said with more studied gentleness than ever, "You have probably not thought of an artistic career until now: you did not wish yourself an actress, till the present trouble?"


"Not exactly: but I was fond of acting. I have acted; you saw me, if you remember--you saw me here in charades, and as Hermione," said Gwendolen, really fearing that Klesmer had forgotten.

"Not exactly: but I was fond of acting. You saw me, if you remember, in charades, and as Hermione," said Gwendolen, really fearing that Klesmer had forgotten.


"Yes, yes," he answered quickly, "I remember--I remember perfectly," and again walked to the other end of the room. It was difficult for him to refrain from this kind of movement when he was in any argument either audible or silent.

"Yes, yes," he answered quickly, "I remember perfectly," and again walked to the other end of the room.


Gwendolen felt that she was being weighed. The delay was unpleasant. But she did not yet conceive that the scale could dip on the wrong side, and it seemed to her only graceful to say, "I shall be very much obliged to you for taking the trouble to give me your advice, whatever it maybe."

Gwendolen felt that she was being weighed. The delay was unpleasant. But she did not yet conceive that the scale could dip on the wrong side, when she said, "I shall be very much obliged to you for your advice, whatever it may be."


"Miss Harleth," said Klesmer, turning toward her and speaking with a slight increase of accent, "I will veil nothing from you in this matter. I should reckon myself guilty if I put a false visage on things--made them too black or too white. The gods have a curse for him who willingly tells another the wrong road. And if I misled one who is so young, so beautiful--who, I trust, will find her happiness along the right road, I should regard myself as a--_Bsewicht_." In the last word Klesmer's voice had dropped to a loud whisper.

"Miss Harleth," said Klesmer with a slight increase of accent, "I will veil nothing from you in this matter. I should reckon myself guilty if I put you on the wrong road. And if I misled one who is so young, so beautiful - who, I trust, will find her happiness along the right road, I should regard myself as a villain."


Gwendolen felt a sinking of heart under this unexpected solemnity, and kept a sort of fascinated gaze on Klesmer's face, as he went on.

Gwendolen felt a sinking of heart under this unexpected solemnity as he went on.


"You are a beautiful young lady--you have been brought up in ease--you have done what you would--you have not said to yourself, 'I must know this exactly,' 'I must understand this exactly,' 'I must do this exactly,'"--in uttering these three terrible _musts_, Klesmer lifted up three long fingers in succession. "In sum, you have not been called upon to be anything but a charming young lady, whom it is an impoliteness to find fault with."

"You are a beautiful young lady - you have been brought up in ease. You have not been called upon to be anything but a charming young lady, whom it is impolite to find fault with."


He paused an instant; then resting his fingers on his hips again, and thrusting out his powerful chin, he said,

He paused; then thrusting out his powerful chin, he said,


"Well, then, with that preparation, you wish to try the life of an artist; you wish to try a life of arduous, unceasing work, and--uncertain praise. Your praise would have to be earned, like your bread; and both would come slowly, scantily--what do I say?--they may hardly come at all."

"With that preparation, you wish to try the life of an artist; a life of arduous, unceasing work, and uncertain praise. Your praise would have to be earned, like your bread; and both would come slowly, scantily. They may hardly come at all."


This tone of discouragement, which Klesmer had hoped might suffice without anything more unpleasant, roused some resistance in Gwendolen. With a slight turn of her head away from him, and an air of pique, she said,

This discouragement, which Klesmer had hoped might suffice without anything more unpleasant, roused some resistance in Gwendolen. With an air of pique, she said-


"I thought that you, being an artist, would consider the life one of the most honorable and delightful. And if I can do nothing better?--I suppose I can put up with the same risks as other people do."

"I thought that you, being an artist, would consider the life one of the most honourable and delightful. And if I can do nothing better, I suppose I can put up with the same risks as other people."


"Do nothing better?" said Klesmer, a little fired. "No, my dear Miss Harleth, you could do nothing better--neither man nor woman could do anything better--if you could do what was best or good of its kind. I am not decrying the life of the true artist. I am exalting it. I say, it is out of the reach of any but choice organizations--natures framed to love perfection and to labor for it; ready, like all true lovers, to endure, to wait, to say, I am not yet worthy, but she--Art, my mistress--is worthy, and I will live to merit her. An honorable life? Yes. But the honor comes from the inward vocation and the hard-won achievement: there is no honor in donning the life as a livery."

"Do nothing better?" said Klesmer, a little fired. "No, my dear Miss Harleth, you could do nothing better. I am not decrying the life of the artist. I am exalting it. An honourable life? Yes. But the honour comes from the inward vocation and the hard-won achievement: there is no honour in donning the life as a livery."


Some excitement of yesterday had revived in Klesmer and hurried him into speech a little aloof from his immediate friendly purpose. He had wished as delicately as possible to rouse in Gwendolen a sense of her unfitness for a perilous, difficult course; but it was his wont to be angry with the pretensions of incompetence, and he was in danger of getting chafed. Conscious of this, he paused suddenly. But Gwendolen's chief impression was that he had not yet denied her the power of doing what would be good of its kind. Klesmer's fervor seemed to be a sort of glamor such as he was prone to throw over things in general; and what she desired to assure him of was that she was not afraid of some preliminary hardships. The belief that to present herself in public on the stage must produce an effect such as she had been used to feel certain of in private life, was like a bit of her flesh--it was not to be peeled off readily, but must come with blood and pain. She said, in a tone of some insistence;

Some excitement of yesterday had revived in Klesmer and hurried him into sterner speech than he had intended. Conscious of this, he paused suddenly. But Gwendolen's impression was that he had not yet denied that she could succeed. Klesmer was prone to fervour; and she wished to assure him that she was not afraid of some preliminary hardships. She believed that on the stage she must produce an effect such as she had been used to feel certain of in private life: and the belief would not be peeled off easily, but with blood and pain. She insisted-


"I am quite prepared to bear hardships at first. Of course no one can become celebrated all at once. And it is not necessary that every one should be first-rate--either actresses or singers. If you would be so kind as to tell me what steps I should take, I shall have the courage to take them. I don't mind going up hill. It will be easier than the dead level of being a governess. I will take any steps you recommend."

"I am quite prepared to bear hardships at first. Of course no one can become famous all at once. And it is not necessary that every actress or singer should be first-rate. If you would be so kind as to tell me what steps you would recommend, I shall have the courage to take them."


Klesmer was convinced now that he must speak plainly.


"I will tell you the steps, not that I recommend, but that will be forced upon you. It is all one, so far, what your goal will be--excellence, celebrity, second, third rateness--it is all one. You must go to town under the protection of your mother. You must put yourself under training--musical, dramatic, theatrical:--whatever you desire to do you have to learn"--here Gwendolen looked as if she were going to speak, but Klesmer lifted up his hand and said, decisively, "I know. You have exercised your talents--you recite--you sing--from the drawing-room _Standpunkt_. My dear Frulein, you must unlearn all that. You have not yet conceived what excellence is: you must unlearn your mistaken admirations. You must know what you have to strive for, and then you must subdue your mind and body to unbroken discipline. Your mind, I say. For you must not be thinking of celebrity: put that candle out of your eyes, and look only at excellence. You would of course earn nothing--you could get no engagement for a long while. You would need money for yourself and your family. But that," here Klesmer frowned and shook his fingers as if to dismiss a triviality, "that could perhaps be found."

"I will tell you the steps that will be forced upon you. You must go to town under the protection of your mother. You must put yourself under training - musical, dramatic, theatrical"- here Gwendolen looked as if she were going to speak, but Klesmer lifted up his hand and said, decisively, "I know. You recite and sing for the drawing-room. You must unlearn all that. You have not yet conceived what excellence is: you must unlearn your mistakes. You must know what you have to strive for, and then subdue your mind and body to unbroken discipline. For you must not be thinking of celebrity: put that candle out of your eyes, and look only at excellence. You would of course earn nothing - you could get no engagement for a long while. You would need money. But that could perhaps be found."


Gwendolen turned pink and pale during this speech. Her pride had felt a terrible knife-edge, and the last sentence only made the smart keener. She was conscious of appearing moved, and tried to escape from her weakness by suddenly walking to a seat and pointing out a chair to Klesmer. He did not take it, but turned a little in order to face her and leaned against the piano. At that moment she wished that she had not sent for him: this first experience of being taken on some other ground than that of her social rank and her beauty was becoming bitter to her. Klesmer, preoccupied with a serious purpose, went on without change of tone.

Gwendolen turned pink and then pale during this speech. Her pride had felt a terrible knife-edge. She wished that she had not sent for him: this first experience of being taken on some other ground than that of her social rank and her beauty was becoming bitter. Klesmer went on.


"Now, what sort of issue might be fairly expected from all this self-denial? You would ask that. It is right that your eyes should be open to it. I will tell you truthfully. This issue would be uncertain, and, most probably, would not be worth much."

"Now, what sort of result might be fairly expected from this self-denial? I will tell you truthfully. The result would be uncertain, and probably would not be worth much."


At these relentless words Klesmer put out his lip and looked through his spectacles with the air of a monster impenetrable by beauty.


Gwendolen's eyes began to burn, but the dread of showing weakness urged her to added self-control. She compelled herself to say, in a hard tone,

Gwendolen's eyes began to burn, but the dread of showing weakness urged her to self-control. She said in a hard tone-


"You think I want talent, or am too old to begin."


Klesmer made a sort of hum, and then descended on an emphatic "Yes! The desire and the training should have begun seven years ago--or a good deal earlier. A mountebank's child who helps her father to earn shillings when she is six years old--a child that inherits a singing throat from a long line of choristers and learns to sing as it learns to talk, has a likelier beginning. Any great achievement in acting or in music grows with the growth. Whenever an artist has been able to say, 'I came, I saw, I conquered,' it has been at the end of patient practice. Genius at first is little more than a great capacity for receiving discipline. Singing and acting, like the fine dexterity of the juggler with his cups and balls, require a shaping of the organs toward a finer and finer certainty of effect. Your muscles--your whole frame--must go like a watch, true, true to a hair. That is the work of spring-time, before habits have been determined."

"Yes! The desire and the training should have begun seven years ago, or earlier. A mountebank's child who helps her father to earn shillings when she is six - a child that learns to sing as it learns to talk, has a likelier beginning. Genius at first is little more than a great capacity for receiving discipline, and patient practice. Singing and acting require a shaping of the organs toward a finer certainty of effect. Your muscles - your whole frame - must go like a watch, true to a hair. That is the work of youth."


"I did not pretend to genius," said Gwendolen, still feeling that she might somehow do what Klesmer wanted to represent as impossible. "I only suppose that I might have a little talent--enough to improve."

"I did not pretend to genius," said Gwendolen, still feeling that she might somehow do what he said was impossible. "I only suppose that I might have a little talent - enough to improve."


"I don't deny that," said Klesmer. "If you had been put in the right track some years ago and had worked well you might now have made a public singer, though I don't think your voice would have counted for much in public. For the stage your personal charms and intelligence might then have told without the present drawback of inexperience--lack of discipline--lack of instruction."

"I don't deny that," said Klesmer. "If you had been put in the right track some years ago and had worked well, you might now have made a public singer, though I don't think your voice would have counted for much. For the stage your personal charms and intelligence might then have told."


Certainly Klesmer seemed cruel, but his feeling was the reverse of cruel. Our speech, even when we are most single-minded, can never take its line absolutely from one impulse; but Klesmer's was, as far as possible, directed by compassion for poor Gwendolen's ignorant eagerness to enter on a course of which he saw all the miserable details with a definiteness which he could not if he would have conveyed to her mind.

Klesmer seemed cruel, but his feeling was the reverse of cruel. He was directed by compassion for poor Gwendolen, so ignorantly eager to enter on a course of which he saw all the miserable details.


Gwendolen, however, was not convinced. Her self-opinion rallied, and since the counselor whom she had called in gave a decision of such severe peremptoriness, she was tempted to think that his judgment was not only fallible but biased. It occurred to her that a simpler and wiser step for her to have taken would have been to send a letter through the post to the manager of a London theatre, asking him to make an appointment. She would make no further reference to her singing; Klesmer, she saw, had set himself against her singing. But she felt equal to arguing with him about her going on the stage, and she answered in a resistant tone,

Gwendolen, however, was not convinced. Her self-opinion rallied, and since her counsellor was so severe, she was tempted to think that his judgment was fallible and biased. It occurred to her that it would have been simpler and wiser for her to have written to the manager of a London theatre, asking to make an appointment. Klesmer, she saw, had set himself against her singing. But she felt equal to arguing about her acting, and she answered in a resistant tone-


"I understood, of course, that no one can be a finished actress at once. It may be impossible to tell beforehand whether I should succeed; but that seems to me a reason why I should try. I should have thought that I might have taken an engagement at a theatre meanwhile, so as to earn money and study at the same time."

"I understood, of course, that no one can be a finished actress at once. It may be impossible to tell beforehand whether I should succeed; but I could try. I could take an engagement at a theatre meanwhile, so as to earn money and study at the same time."


"Can't be done, my dear Miss Harleth--I speak plainly--it can't be done. I must clear your mind of these notions which have no more resemblance to reality than a pantomime. Ladies and gentlemen think that when they have made their toilet and drawn on their gloves they are as presentable on the stage as in a drawing-room. No manager thinks that. With all your grace and charm, if you were to present yourself as an aspirant to the stage, a manager would either require you to pay as an amateur for being allowed to perform or he would tell you to go and be taught--trained to bear yourself on the stage, as a horse, however beautiful, must be trained for the circus; to say nothing of that study which would enable you to personate a character consistently, and animate it with the natural language of face, gesture, and tone. For you to get an engagement fit for you straight away is out of the question."

"Can't be done, my dear Miss Harleth. I must clear your mind of these notions which have no more resemblance to reality than a pantomime. With all your grace and charm, if you were to present yourself as an aspirant to the stage, a manager would either require you to pay as an amateur for being allowed to perform, or he would tell you to go and be taught. An actor must study to personate a character consistently, and animate it with the natural language of face, gesture, and tone. For you to get an engagement fit for you straight away is out of the question."


"I really cannot understand that," said Gwendolen, rather haughtily--then, checking herself, she added in another tone--"I shall be obliged to you if you will explain how it is that such poor actresses get engaged. I have been to the theatre several times, and I am sure there were actresses who seemed to me to act not at all well and who were quite plain."

"I really cannot understand that," said Gwendolen, rather haughtily. "How is it that such poor actresses get engaged? I have been to the theatre several times, and I am sure there were actresses who seemed to me to act not at all well and who were quite plain."


"Ah, my dear Miss Harleth, that is the easy criticism of the buyer. We who buy slippers toss away this pair and the other as clumsy; but there went an apprenticeship to the making of them. Excuse me; you could not at present teach one of those actresses; but there is certainly much that she could teach you. For example, she can pitch her voice so as to be heard: ten to one you could not do it till after many trials. Merely to stand and move on the stage is an art--requires practice. It is understood that we are not now talking of a _comparse_ in a petty theatre who earns the wages of a needle-woman. That is out of the question for you."

"Ah, my dear Miss Harleth, excuse me; you could not at present teach one of those actresses; but there is certainly much that she could teach you. Ten to one you could not pitch your voice so as to be heard: and merely to stand and move on the stage requires practice."


"Of course I must earn more than that," said Gwendolen, with a sense of wincing rather than of being refuted, "but I think I could soon learn to do tolerably well all those little things you have mentioned. I am not so very stupid. And even in Paris, I am sure, I saw two actresses playing important ladies' parts who were not at all ladies and quite ugly. I suppose I have no particular talent, but I _must_ think it is an advantage, even on the stage, to be a lady and not a perfect fright."

"I think I could soon learn to do it tolerably well. I am not so very stupid. And even in Paris, I saw two actresses playing important ladies' parts who were not at all ladies and quite ugly. I suppose I have no particular talent, but I must think it is an advantage, even on the stage, to be a lady and not a perfect fright."


"Ah, let us understand each other," said Klesmer, with a flash of new meaning. "I was speaking of what you would have to go through if you aimed at becoming a real artist--if you took music and the drama as a higher vocation in which you would strive after excellence. On that head, what I have said stands fast. You would find--after your education in doing things slackly for one-and-twenty years--great difficulties in study; you would find mortifications in the treatment you would get when you presented yourself on the footing of skill. You would be subjected to tests; people would no longer feign not to see your blunders. You would at first only be accepted on trial. You would have to bear what I may call a glaring insignificance: any success must be won by the utmost patience. You would have to keep your place in a crowd, and after all it is likely you would lose it and get out of sight. If you determine to face these hardships and still try, you will have the dignity of a high purpose, even though you may have chosen unfortunately. You will have some merit, though you may win no prize. You have asked my judgment on your chances of winning. I don't pretend to speak absolutely; but measuring probabilities, my judgment is:--you will hardly achieve more than mediocrity."

"Ah, let us understand each other," said Klesmer, with a flash of new meaning. "I was speaking of what you would have to go through if you aimed at becoming a real artist and striving after excellence. On that head, you would find mortifications: you would be subjected to tests, and judged without flattery. You would have to bear insignificance: any success must be won by the utmost patience. If you determine to face these hardships, you will have the dignity of a high purpose, even though you may have chosen unfortunately. You will have some merit, though you may win no prize. You have asked my judgment on your chances of winning. I don't pretend to speak absolutely; but measuring probabilities, my judgment is that you will hardly achieve more than mediocrity."


Klesmer had delivered himself with emphatic rapidity, and now paused a moment. Gwendolen was motionless, looking at her hands, which lay over each other on her lap, till the deep-toned, long-drawn "_But_," with which he resumed, had a startling effect, and made her look at him again.

Klesmer now paused a moment. Gwendolen was motionless, looking at her hands.


"But--there are certainly other ideas, other dispositions with which a young lady may take up an art that will bring her before the public. She may rely on the unquestioned power of her beauty as a passport. She may desire to exhibit herself to an admiration which dispenses with skill. This goes a certain way on the stage: not in music: but on the stage, beauty is taken when there is nothing more commanding to be had. Not without some drilling, however: as I have said before, technicalities have in any case to be mastered. But these excepted, we have here nothing to do with art. The woman who takes up this career is not an artist: she is usually one who thinks of entering on a luxurious life by a short and easy road--perhaps by marriage--that is her most brilliant chance, and the rarest. Still, her career will not be luxurious to begin with: she can hardly earn her own poor bread independently at once, and the indignities she will be liable to are such as I will not speak of."

"But"- he resumed- "there are certainly other ideas with which a young lady may take up an art that will bring her before the public. She may rely on the unquestioned power of her beauty as a passport. She may desire to exhibit herself to an admiration which dispenses with skill. This goes a certain way on the stage: not in music: but on the stage, beauty is taken when there is nothing more commanding to be had. Not without some drilling, however: as I have said, technicalities have to be mastered. But the woman who takes up this career is not an artist: she usually thinks of entering a luxurious life by a short and easy road - perhaps by marriage. Still, her career will not be luxurious to begin with: she can hardly earn her own bread at once, and the indignities she will be liable to are such as I will not speak of."


"I desire to be independent," said Gwendolen, deeply stung and confusedly apprehending some scorn for herself in Klesmer's words. "That was my reason for asking whether I could not get an immediate engagement. Of course I cannot know how things go on about theatres. But I thought that I could have made myself independent. I have no money, and I will not accept help from any one."

"I desire to be independent," said Gwendolen, deeply stung and confusedly apprehending some scorn for herself in Klesmer's words. "Of course I cannot know how things go on in theatres. But I thought that I could have made myself independent. I have no money, and I will not accept help from anyone."


Her wounded pride could not rest without making this disclaimer. It was intolerable to her that Klesmer should imagine her to have expected other help from him than advice.


"That is a hard saying for your friends," said Klesmer, recovering the gentleness of tone with which he had begun the conversation. "I have given you pain. That was inevitable. I was bound to put the truth, the unvarnished truth, before you. I have not said--I will not say--you will do wrong to choose the hard, climbing path of an endeavoring artist. You have to compare its difficulties with those of any less hazardous--any more private course which opens itself to you. If you take that more courageous resolve I will ask leave to shake hands with you on the strength of our freemasonry, where we are all vowed to the service of art, and to serve her by helping every fellow-servant."

"I have given you pain," said Klesmer gently. "But I was bound to put the unvarnished truth before you. I will not say you will do wrong to choose the hard, climbing path of an artist. If you take that courageous resolve I will ask leave to shake hands with you on the strength of our freemasonry, where we are all vowed to the service of art."


Gwendolen was silent, again looking at her hands. She felt herself very far away from taking the resolve that would enforce acceptance; and after waiting an instant or two, Klesmer went on with deepened seriousness.

Gwendolen was silent, looking down. She felt herself very far from taking the resolve; and after a moment, Klesmer went on with deepened seriousness.


"Where there is the duty of service there must be the duty of accepting it. The question is not one of personal obligation. And in relation to practical matters immediately affecting your future--excuse my permitting myself to mention in confidence an affair of my own. I am expecting an event which would make it easy for me to exert myself on your behalf in furthering your opportunities of instruction and residence in London--under the care, that is, of your family--without need for anxiety on your part. If you resolve to take art as a bread-study, you need only undertake the study at first; the bread will be found without trouble. The event I mean is my marriage--in fact--you will receive this as a matter of confidence--my marriage with Miss Arrowpoint, which will more than double such right as I have to be trusted by you as a friend. Your friendship will have greatly risen in value for _her_ by your having adopted that generous labor."

"Excuse my mentioning in confidence an affair of my own. I am expecting an event which would make it easy for me to exert myself on your behalf, by arranging for your instruction and residence in London, under the care of your family. If you resolve to study the art, you need only undertake the study at first; your bread will be found without trouble. The event I mean is my marriage with Miss Arrowpoint. Your friendship will have greatly risen in value for her by your having adopted that generous labour."


Gwendolen's face had begun to burn. That Klesmer was about to marry Miss Arrowpoint caused her no surprise, and at another moment she would have amused herself in quickly imagining the scenes that must have occurred at Quetcham. But what engrossed her feeling, what filled her imagination now, was the panorama of her own immediate future that Klesmer's words seemed to have unfolded. The suggestion of Miss Arrowpoint as a patroness was only another detail added to its repulsiveness: Klesmer's proposal to help her seemed an additional irritation after the humiliating judgment he had passed on her capabilities. His words had really bitten into her self-confidence and turned it into the pain of a bleeding wound; and the idea of presenting herself before other judges was now poisoned with the dread that they also might be harsh; they also would not recognize the talent she was conscious of. But she controlled herself, and rose from her seat before she made any answer. It seemed natural that she should pause. She went to the piano and looked absently at leaves of music, pinching up the corners. At last she turned toward Klesmer and said, with almost her usual air of proud equality, which in this interview had not been hitherto perceptible.

Gwendolen's face began to burn. That Klesmer was about to marry Miss Arrowpoint caused her no surprise, and at another time she would have amused herself in imagining the scenes at Quetcham. But she saw only the picture of her own future that Klesmer's words unfolded. The suggestion of Miss Arrowpoint as a patroness, and Klesmer's proposal to help her, were irritations after his humiliating judgment on her abilities. His words had bitten into her self-confidence; and the idea of presenting herself before other judges was now poisoned with the dread that they also might be harsh, and fail to recognize her talent. But she controlled herself, and went to the piano before answering. At last she turned toward Klesmer and said, with almost her usual air of proud equality,


"I congratulate you sincerely, Herr Klesmer. I think I never saw any one so admirable as Miss Arrowpoint. And I have to thank you for every sort of kindness this morning. But I can't decide now. If I make the resolve you have spoken of, I will use your permission--I will let you know. But I fear the obstacles are too great. In any case, I am deeply obliged to you. It was very bold of me to ask you to take this trouble."

"I congratulate you sincerely, Herr Klesmer. I never saw anyone so admirable as Miss Arrowpoint. And I thank you for your kindness this morning. But I can't decide now. If I make the resolve you have spoken of, I will let you know. But I fear the obstacles are too great. In any case, I am deeply obliged to you."


Klesmer's inward remark was, "She will never let me know." But with the most thorough respect in his manner, he said, "Command me at any time. There is an address on this card which will always find me with little delay."

Klesmer's inward remark was, "She will never let me know." But with the utmost respect, he said, "Command me at any time. The address on this card will always find me."


When he had taken up his hat and was going to make his bow, Gwendolen's better self, conscious of an ingratitude which the clear-seeing Klesmer must have penetrated, made a desperate effort to find its way above the stifling layers of egoistic disappointment and irritation. Looking at him with a glance of the old gayety, she put out her hand, and said with a smile, "If I take the wrong road, it will not be because of your flattery."

He took up his hat.
Gwendolen's better self, conscious of ingratitude, made a desperate effort to rise above the stifling layers of egoistic disappointment. She said with a smile, "If I take the wrong road, it will not be because of your flattery."


"God forbid that you should take any road but one where you will find and give happiness!" said Klesmer, fervently. Then, in foreign fashion, he touched her fingers lightly with his lips, and in another minute she heard the sound of his departing wheels getting more distant on the gravel.

"God forbid that you should take any road but one to happiness!" said Klesmer, fervently. Then he touched her fingers lightly with his lips, and left.


Gwendolen had never in her life felt so miserable. No sob came, no passion of tears, to relieve her. Her eyes were burning; and the noonday only brought into more dreary clearness the absence of interest from her life. All memories, all objects, the pieces of music displayed, the open piano--the very reflection of herself in the glass--seemed no better than the packed-up shows of a departing fair. For the first time since her consciousness began, she was having a vision of herself on the common level, and had lost the innate sense that there were reasons why she should not be slighted, elbowed, jostled--treated like a passenger with a third-class ticket, in spite of private objections on her own part. She did not move about; the prospects begotten by disappointment were too oppressively preoccupying; she threw herself into the shadiest corner of a settee, and pressed her fingers over her burning eyelids. Every word that Klesmer had said seemed to have been branded into her memory, as most words are which bring with them a new set of impressions and make an epoch for us. Only a few hours before, the dawning smile of self-contentment rested on her lips as she vaguely imagined a future suited to her wishes: it seemed but the affair of a year or so for her to become the most approved Juliet of the time: or, if Klesmer encouraged her idea of being a singer, to proceed by more gradual steps to her place in the opera, while she won money and applause by occasional performances. Why not? At home, at school, among acquaintances, she had been used to have her conscious superiority admitted; and she had moved in a society where everything, from low arithmetic to high art, is of the amateur kind, politely supposed to fall short of perfection only because gentlemen and ladies are not obliged to do more than they like--otherwise they would probably give forth abler writings, and show themselves more commanding artists than any the world is at present obliged to put up with. The self-confident visions that had beguiled her were not of a highly exceptional kind; and she had at least shown some rationality in consulting the person who knew the most and had flattered her the least. In asking Klesmer's advice, however, she had rather been borne up by a belief in his latent admiration than bent on knowing anything more unfavorable that might have lain behind his slight objections to her singing; and the truth she had asked for, with an expectation that it would be agreeable, had come like a lacerating thong.

Gwendolen had never felt so miserable. Her eyes were burning; and she saw with dreary clearness the absence of interest from her life. All memories, all objects, the pieces of music displayed, the piano, seemed no better than the packed-up shows of a departing fair. For the first time she had lost the innate sense of her superiority. She threw herself onto the settee, and pressed her fingers over her eyelids. Every word of Klesmer's seemed branded into her memory.
Only a few hours before, she had contentedly imagined a future suited to her wishes: in a year or so she would become the most approved Juliet of the time: or would proceed by gradual steps to her place in the opera, while she won money and applause by occasional performances. Why not? At home, at school, among acquaintances, she had been used to have her superiority admitted; and she had moved in a society where everything is of the amateur kind, only falling short of perfection because gentlemen and ladies are not obliged to do more than they like.
She had at least shown some sense in consulting the person who knew the most and had flattered her the least. In asking Klesmer's advice, however, she had been borne up by a belief in his latent admiration rather than a wish to know anything more unfavourable than slight objections; and the truth she had asked for, expecting it to be agreeable, had come like a lacerating blow.


"Too old--should have begun seven years ago--you will not, at best, achieve more than mediocrity--hard, incessant work, uncertain praise--bread coming slowly, scantily, perhaps not at all--mortifications, people no longer feigning not to see your blunders--glaring insignificance"--all these phrases rankled in her; and even more galling was the hint that she could only be accepted on the stage as a beauty who hoped to get a husband. The "indignities" that she might be visited with had no very definite form for her, but the mere association of anything called "indignity" with herself, roused a resentful alarm. And along with the vaguer images which were raised by those biting words, came the precise conception of disagreeables which her experience enabled her to imagine. How could she take her mamma and the four sisters to London? if it were not possible for her to earn money at once? And as for submitting to be a _protg_, and asking her mamma to submit with her to the humiliation of being supported by Miss Arrowpoint--that was as bad as being a governess; nay, worse; for suppose the end of all her study to be as worthless as Klesmer clearly expected it to be, the sense of favors received and never repaid, would embitter the miseries of disappointment. Klesmer doubtless had magnificent ideas about helping artists; but how could he know the feelings of ladies in such matters? It was all over: she had entertained a mistaken hope; and there was an end of it.

"Too old - should have begun seven years ago - will not achieve more than mediocrity - incessant work, uncertain praise, little earnings - mortifications, insignificance" - these phrases rankled; and even more galling was the hint that she could only be accepted on the stage as a beauty hoping for a husband. The "indignities" that she might incur had no very definite form for her, but the mere word "indignity" roused a resentful alarm. And how could she take her mamma and four sisters to London, if she were not earning money at once? As for submitting to be the protg of Miss Arrowpoint, that was as bad as being a governess. It was over: she had entertained a mistaken hope; and there was an end of it.


"An end of it!" said Gwendolen, aloud, starting from her seat as she heard the steps and voices of her mamma and sisters coming in from church. She hurried to the piano and began gathering together her pieces of music with assumed diligence, while the expression on her pale face and in her burning eyes was what would have suited a woman enduring a wrong which she might not resent, but would probably revenge.

"An end of it!" said Gwendolen aloud, starting up as she heard the voices of her mamma and sisters coming in from church. She hurried to the piano and began to rearrange her music.


"Well, my darling," said gentle Mrs. Davilow, entering, "I see by the wheel-marks that Klesmer has been here. Have you been satisfied with the interview?" She had some guesses as to its object, but felt timid about implying them.

"Well, my darling," said gentle Mrs. Davilow, "were you satisfied with your interview with Klesmer?" She had some guesses as to its object.


"Satisfied, mamma? oh, yes," said Gwendolen, in a high, hard tone, for which she must be excused, because she dreaded a scene of emotion. If she did not set herself resolutely to feign proud indifference, she felt that she must fall into a passionate outburst of despair, which would cut her mamma more deeply than all the rest of their calamities.

"Satisfied, mamma? oh, yes," said Gwendolen, in a high, hard tone. She had set herself resolutely to feign proud indifference, lest she fall into a passionate outburst of despair.


"Your uncle and aunt were disappointed at not seeing you," said Mrs. Davilow, coming near the piano, and watching Gwendolen's movements. "I only said that you wanted rest."

"Your uncle and aunt were disappointed at not seeing you," said Mrs. Davilow. "I said that you wanted rest."


"Quite right, mamma," said Gwendolen, in the same tone, turning to put away some music.


"Am I not to know anything now, Gwendolen? Am I always to be in the dark?" said Mrs. Davilow, too keenly sensitive to her daughter's manner and expression not to fear that something painful had occurred.

"Am I not to know anything now, Gwendolen? Am I always to be in the dark?" said Mrs. Davilow, in fear that something painful had occurred.


"There is really nothing to tell now, mamma," said Gwendolen, in a still higher voice. "I had a mistaken idea about something I could do. Herr Klesmer has undeceived me. That is all."

"There is really nothing to tell, mamma," said Gwendolen, in a still higher voice. "I had a mistaken idea about something I could do. Herr Klesmer has undeceived me. That is all."


"Don't look and speak in that way, my dear child: I cannot bear it," said Mrs. Davilow, breaking down. She felt an undefinable terror.