The altered poise which the years had brought in Mrs. Glasher was just the reverse. At first she was comparatively careless about the possibility of marriage. It was enough that she had escaped from a disagreeable husband and found a sort of bliss with a lover who had completely fascinated her--young, handsome, amorous, and living in the best style, with equipage and conversation of the kind to be expected in young men of fortune who have seen everything. She was an impassioned, vivacious woman, fond of adoration, exasperated by five years of marital rudeness; and the sense of release was so strong upon her that it stilled anxiety for more than she actually enjoyed. An equivocal position was of no importance to her then; she had no envy for the honors of a dull, disregarded wife: the one spot which spoiled her vision of her new pleasant world, was the sense that she left her three-year-old boy, who died two years afterward, and whose first tones saying "mamma" retained a difference from those of the children that came after. But now the years had brought many changes besides those in the contour of her cheek and throat; and that Grandcourt should marry her had become her dominant desire. The equivocal position which she had not minded about for herself was now telling upon her through her children, whom she loved with a devotion charged with the added passion of atonement. She had no repentance except in this direction. If Grandcourt married her, the children would be none the worse off for what had passed: they would see their mother in a dignified position, and they would be at no disadvantage with the world: her son could be made his father's heir. It was the yearning for this result which gave the supreme importance to Grandcourt's feeling for her; her love for him had long resolved itself into anxiety that he should give her the unique, permanent claim of a wife, and she expected no other happiness in marriage than the satisfaction of her maternal love and pride--including her pride for herself in the presence of her children. For the sake of that result she was prepared even with a tragic firmness to endure anything quietly in marriage; and she had acuteness enough to cherish Grandcourt's flickering purpose negatively, by not molesting him with passionate appeals and with scene-making. In her, as in every one else who wanted anything of him, his incalculable turns, and his tendency to harden under beseeching, had created a reasonable dread:--a slow discovery, of which no presentiment had been given in the bearing of a youthful lover with a fine line of face and the softest manners. But reticence had necessarily cost something to this impassioned woman, and she was the bitterer for it. There is no quailing--even that forced on the helpless and injured--which has not an ugly obverse: the withheld sting was gathering venom. She was absolutely dependent on Grandcourt; for though he had been always liberal in expenses for her, he had kept everything voluntary on his part; and with the goal of marriage before her, she would ask for nothing less. He had said that he would never settle anything except by will; and when she was thinking of alternatives for the future it often occurred to her that, even if she did not become Grandcourt's wife, he might never have a son who would have a legitimate claim on him, and the end might be that her son would be made heir to the best part of his estates. No son at that early age could promise to have more of his father's physique. But her becoming Grandcourt's wife was so far from being an extravagant notion of possibility, that even Lush had entertained it, and had said that he would as soon bet on it as on any other likelihood with regard to his familiar companion. Lush, indeed, on inferring that Grandcourt had a preconception of using his residence at Diplow in order to win Miss Arrowpoint, had thought it well to fan that project, taking it as a tacit renunciation of the marriage with Mrs. Glasher, which had long been a mark for the hovering and wheeling of Grandcourt's caprice. But both prospects had been negatived by Gwendolen's appearance on the scene; and it was natural enough for Mrs. Glasher to enter with eagerness into Lush's plan of hindering that new danger by setting up a barrier in the mind of the girl who was being sought as a bride. She entered into it with an eagerness which had passion in it as well as purpose, some of the stored-up venom delivering itself in that way.

In contrast, Mrs. Glasher herself was at first careless about the possibility of marriage. It was enough that she had escaped from a disagreeable husband and found bliss with a lover who had completely fascinated her - young, handsome, amorous, and living in the best style. She was an impassioned, vivacious woman, fond of adoration, exasperated by five years of marital rudeness as a disregarded wife. The one blot on her vision of her new pleasant world, was the knowledge that she left her three-year-old boy, who died two years afterward, and whose first tones saying "mamma" retained a difference from those of the children that came after.
But now, over the changes of the years, the desire that Grandcourt should marry her had become dominant. This was on behalf of her children, whom she loved with a devotion charged with the added passion of atonement. She had no repentance except in this direction. If Grandcourt married her, the children would be none the worse off for what had passed: they would be at no disadvantage with the world if her son was made his father's heir. Her love for Grandcourt had long resolved itself into anxiety that he should marry her, and for her children's sake she was prepared to endure anything quietly in marriage. She was acute enough to cherish Grandcourt's flickering purpose by not molesting him with passionate appeals and scene-making. His incalculable turns, and his tendency to harden under beseeching, had created dread in her. But her reticence made her bitter: the withheld sting was gathering venom.
She was absolutely dependent on Grandcourt. Though he had always been liberal in expenses for her, he had said that he would never settle anything except by will; and it often occurred to her that, even if she did not become Grandcourt's wife, he might never have a legitimate son; so in the end her boy might be made heir to his estates. No son could promise to have more of his father's physique.
But her becoming Grandcourt's wife was so far from being impossible, that even Lush had thought Grandcourt was as likely to marry Mrs. Glasher as anyone else. Indeed, when Lush thought that Grandcourt had an idea of attempting to win Miss Arrowpoint, he had supported that project instead. But both prospects had been eclipsed by Gwendolen's appearance on the scene; and Mrs. Glasher entered with eagerness into Lush's plan of hindering that new danger by setting up a barrier in Gwendolen's mind.


After that, she had heard from Lush of Gwendolen's departure, and the probability that all danger from her was got rid of; but there had been no letter to tell her that the danger had returned and had become a certainty. She had since then written to Grandcourt, as she did habitually, and he had been longer than usual in answering. She was inferring that he might intend coming to Gadsmere at the time when he was actually on the way; and she was not without hope--what construction of another's mind is not strong wishing equal to?--that a certain sickening from that frustrated courtship might dispose him to slip the more easily into the old track of intention.

After that, she had heard from Lush of Gwendolen's departure, and that the danger was gone; but there had been no letter to tell her that the danger had returned and had become a certainty. She had since then written to Grandcourt, as she did habitually, and he had been longer than usual in answering. She thought that he might intend coming to see her, and she hoped that a frustrated courtship might dispose him to slip the more easily into his old track.

Book 4 - GWENDOLEN GETS HER CHOICE | Chapter 30


Grandcourt had two grave purposes in coming to Gadsmere: to convey the news of his approaching marriage in person, in order to make this first difficulty final; and to get from Lydia his mother's diamonds, which long ago he had confided to her and wished her to wear. Her person suited diamonds, and made them look as if they were worth some of the money given for them. These particular diamonds were not mountains of light--they were mere peas and haricots for the ears, neck and hair; but they were worth some thousands, and Grandcourt necessarily wished to have them for his wife. Formerly when he had asked Lydia to put them into his keeping again, simply on the ground that they would be safer and ought to be deposited at the bank, she had quietly but absolutely refused, declaring that they were quite safe; and at last had said, "If you ever marry another woman I will give them up to her: are you going to marry another woman?" At that time Grandcourt had no motive which urged him to persist, and he had this grace in him, that the disposition to exercise power either by cowing or disappointing others or exciting in them a rage which they dared not express--a disposition which was active in him as other propensities became languid--had always been in abeyance before Lydia. A severe interpreter might say that the mere facts of their relation to each other, the melancholy position of this woman who depended on his will, made a standing banquet for his delight in dominating. But there was something else than this in his forbearance toward her: there was the surviving though metamorphosed effect of the power she had had over him; and it was this effect, the fitful dull lapse toward solicitations that once had the zest now missing from life, which had again and again inclined him to espouse a familiar past rather than rouse himself to the expectation of novelty. But now novelty had taken hold of him and urged him to make the most of it.

Grandcourt had two purposes in coming to Gadsmere: to convey the news of his approaching marriage in person; and to get from Lydia his mother's diamonds, which long ago he had handed to her. These particular diamonds were not mountains of light - they were mere peas and haricots for the ears, neck and hair; but they were worth some thousands, and Grandcourt wished to have them for his wife. Formerly when he had asked Lydia to put them into his keeping again, simply on the ground that they would be safer, she had quietly but absolutely refused, declaring that they were quite safe; and had said, "If you ever marry another woman I will give them up to her."
At that time Grandcourt had no motive which urged him to persist, and he had this grace in him, that he did not like to exercise his power of cowing or disappointing her as he did with others. A severe interpreter might say that the mere facts of their relation to each other, the melancholy position of this woman who depended on his will, made a standing banquet for his delight in dominating. But there was something more: there was the memory of the power she once had over him, which inclined him to espouse a familiar past rather than rouse himself to the expectation of novelty. But now novelty had taken hold of him.


Mrs. Glasher was seated in the pleasant room where she habitually passed her mornings with her children round her. It had a square projecting window and looked on broad gravel and grass, sloping toward a little brook that entered the pool. The top of a low, black cabinet, the old oak table, the chairs in tawny leather, were littered with the children's toys, books and garden garments, at which a maternal lady in pastel looked down from the walls with smiling indulgence. The children were all there. The three girls, seated round their mother near the widow, were miniature portraits of her--dark-eyed, delicate-featured brunettes with a rich bloom on their cheeks, their little nostrils and eyebrows singularly finished as if they were tiny women, the eldest being barely nine. The boy was seated on the carpet at some distance, bending his blonde head over the animals from a Noah's ark, admonishing them separately in a voice of threatening command, and occasionally licking the spotted ones to see if the colors would hold. Josephine, the eldest, was having her French lesson; and the others, with their dolls on their laps, sat demurely enough for images of the Madonna. Mrs. Glasher's toilet had been made very carefully--each day now she said to herself that Grandcourt might come in. Her head, which, spite of emaciation, had an ineffaceable beauty in the fine profile, crisp curves of hair, and clearly-marked eyebrows, rose impressively above her bronze-colored silk and velvet, and the gold necklace which Grandcourt had first clasped round her neck years ago. Not that she had any pleasure in her toilet; her chief thought of herself seen in the glass was, "How changed!"--but such good in life as remained to her she would keep. If her chief wish were fulfilled, she could imagine herself getting the comeliness of a matron fit for the highest rank. The little faces beside her, almost exact reductions of her own, seemed to tell of the blooming curves which had once been where now was sunken pallor. But the children kissed the pale cheeks and never found them deficient. That love was now the one end of her life.

Mrs. Glasher was seated in the pleasant room where she habitually passed her mornings with her children. The window looked out on broad gravel and grass; the old oak table was littered with the children's toys and books. The three girls, seated round their mother, were miniature portraits of her - dark-eyed, delicate-featured brunettes, the eldest being barely nine. The boy was seated on the carpet, bending his blonde head over the animals from a Noah's ark, admonishing them in a voice of threatening command, and occasionally licking them to see if the colours would hold.
Mrs. Glasher had dressed carefully, for each day now she said to herself that Grandcourt might come. Her head, which though emaciated, had an ineffaceable beauty, rose impressively above her bronze-coloured silk and velvet, and the gold necklace which Grandcourt had first clasped round her neck years ago. Not that she had any pleasure in her looks; her chief thought when she looked in the glass was, "How changed!" But the children kissed the pale cheeks and never found them deficient. That love was now the one end of her life.


Suddenly Mrs. Glasher turned away her head from Josephine's book and listened. "Hush, dear! I think some one is coming."

Suddenly Mrs. Glasher turned her head and listened. "Hush, dear! I think some one is coming."


Henleigh the boy jumped up and said, "Mamma, is it the miller with my donkey?"


He got no answer, and going up to his mamma's knee repeated his question in an insistent tone. But the door opened, and the servant announced Mr. Grandcourt. Mrs. Glasher rose in some agitation. Henleigh frowned at him in disgust at his not being the miller, and the three little girls lifted up their dark eyes to him timidly. They had none of them any particular liking for this friend of mamma's--in fact, when he had taken Mrs. Glasher's hand and then turned to put his other hand on Henleigh's head, that energetic scion began to beat the friend's arm away with his fists. The little girls submitted bashfully to be patted under the chin and kissed, but on the whole it seemed better to send them into the garden, where they were presently dancing and chatting with the dogs on the gravel.

He got no answer, and going up to his mamma's knee repeated his question insistently. But the door opened, and the servant announced Mr. Grandcourt.
Mrs. Glasher rose in some agitation. Henleigh frowned at him in disgust at his not being the miller, and the three little girls lifted up their dark eyes to him timidly. They had none of them any particular liking for this friend of mamma's - in fact, when he put his hand on Henleigh's head, the boy began to beat the arm away with his fists. The little girls submitted bashfully to be patted under the chin, but on the whole it seemed better to send them into the garden, where they were presently dancing and chatting with the dogs on the gravel.


"How far are you come?" said Mrs. Glasher, as Grandcourt put away his hat and overcoat.

"How far have you come?" said Mrs. Glasher.


"From Diplow," he answered slowly, seating himself opposite her and looking at her with an unnoting gaze which she noted.

"From Diplow," he answered slowly, seating himself opposite her. She noted his unseeing gaze.


"No, I rested at the Junction--a hideous hole. These railway journeys are always a confounded bore. But I had coffee and smoked."

"No, I rested at the Junction - a hideous hole. These railway journeys are always a confounded bore."


Grandcourt drew out his handkerchief, rubbed his face, and in returning the handkerchief to his pocket looked at his crossed knee and blameless boot, as if any stranger were opposite to him, instead of a woman quivering with a suspense which every word and look of his was to incline toward hope or dread. But he was really occupied with their interview and what it was likely to include. Imagine the difference in rate of emotion between this woman whom the years had worn to a more conscious dependence and sharper eagerness, and this man whom they were dulling into a more neutral obstinacy.

Grandcourt rubbed his face, and looked at his crossed knee and blameless boot, as if a stranger sat opposite him, instead of a woman quivering with suspense. Imagine the difference in emotion between this woman whom the years had worn to sharper eagerness, and this man whom they were dulling into obstinacy.


"I expected to see you--it was so long since I had heard from you. I suppose the weeks seem longer at Gadsmere than they do at Diplow," said Mrs. Glasher. She had a quick, incisive way of speaking that seemed to go with her features, as the tone and _timbre_ of a violin go with its form.

"I expected to see you - it was so long since I had heard from you," said Mrs. Glasher. She had a quick, incisive way of speaking.


"Yes," drawled Grandcourt. "But you found the money paid into the bank."


"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Glasher, curtly, tingling with impatience. Always before--at least she fancied so--Grandcourt had taken more notice of her and the children than he did to-day.

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Glasher, curtly, tingling with impatience. Always before, Grandcourt had taken more notice of her and the children than he did to-day.


"Yes," he resumed, playing with his whisker, and at first not looking at her, "the time has gone on at rather a rattling pace with me; generally it is slow enough. But there has been a good deal happening, as you know"--here he turned his eyes upon her.

"Yes," he resumed, playing with his whisker, "the time has gone on at rather a rattling pace. But there has been a good deal happening, as you know." Here he turned his eyes upon her.


He left a pause before he said, without change of manner, "That I was thinking of marrying. You saw Miss Harleth?"


The pale cheeks looked even paler, perhaps from the fierce brightness in the eyes above them.


"No. Lush told me," was the slow answer. It was as if the thumb-screw and the iron boot were being placed by creeping hands within sight of the expectant victim.

"No. Lush told me," was the slow answer. It was as if the thumb-screw was being placed by creeping hands within sight of the expectant victim.


"Good God! say at once that you are going to marry her," she burst out, passionately, her knees shaking and her hands tightly clasped.

"Good God! say at once that you are going to marry her," she burst out passionately, her hands tightly clasped.


"Of course, this kind of thing must happen some time or other, Lydia," said he; really, now the thumb-screw was on, not wishing to make the pain worse.

"Of course, it must happen some time or other, Lydia," said he; really, now the thumb-screw was on, not wishing to make the pain worse.


In those few under-toned words of Grandcourt's she felt as absolute a resistance as if her thin fingers had been pushing at a fast shut iron door. She knew her helplessness, and shrank from testing it by any appeal--shrank from crying in a dead ear and clinging to dead knees, only to see the immovable face and feel the rigid limbs. She did not weep nor speak; she was too hard pressed by the sudden certainty which had as much of chill sickness in it as of thought and emotion. The defeated clutch of struggling hope gave her in these first moments a horrible sensation. At last she rose, with a spasmodic effort, and, unconscious of every thing but her wretchedness, pressed her forehead against the hard, cold glass of the window. The children, playing on the gravel, took this as a sign that she wanted them, and, running forward, stood in front of her with their sweet faces upturned expectantly. This roused her: she shook her head at them, waved them off, and overcome with this painful exertion, sank back in the nearest chair.

In those few words she felt as absolute a resistance as if her thin fingers had been pushing at an iron door. She knew her helplessness, and shrank from testing it by any appeal - shrank from crying in a dead ear and clinging to dead knees, only to see the immovable face and feel the rigid limbs. She did not weep nor speak. At last she rose, with a spasmodic effort, and, unconscious of everything but her wretchedness, pressed her forehead against the hard, cold glass of the window. The children, playing on the gravel, took this as a sign that she wanted them, and, running forward, stood in front of her with their sweet faces upturned expectantly. This roused her: she shook her head at them, waved them off, and overcome, sank back in the nearest chair.


Grandcourt had risen too. He was doubly annoyed--at the scene itself, and at the sense that no imperiousness of his could save him from it; but the task had to be gone through, and there was the administrative necessity of arranging things so that there should be as little annoyance as possible in the future. He was leaning against the corner of the fire-place. She looked up at him and said, bitterly,

Grandcourt had risen too. He was doubly annoyed - at the scene itself, and at the sense that no imperiousness of his could save him from it; but the task had to be gone through. She looked up at him and said bitterly-


"All this is of no consequence to you. I and the children are importunate creatures. You wish to get away again and be with Miss Harleth."

"The children and I are of no consequence to you. You wish to get away again and be with Miss Harleth."


"Don't make the affair more disagreeable than it need be. Lydia. It is of no use to harp on things that can't be altered. Of course, its deucedly disagreeable to me to see you making yourself miserable. I've taken this journey to tell you what you must make up your mind to--you and the children will be provided for as usual--and there's an end of it."

"Don't make the affair more disagreeable than it need be, Lydia. It's deucedly disagreeable to me to see you making yourself miserable. You must make your mind up to it - you and the children will be provided for as usual - and there's an end of it."


Silence. She dared not answer. This woman with the intense, eager look had had the iron of the mother's anguish in her soul, and it had made her sometimes capable of a repression harder than shrieking and struggle. But underneath the silence there was an outlash of hatred and vindictiveness: she wished that the marriage might make two others wretched, besides herself. Presently he went on,

She dared not answer. This intense woman had the iron of a mother's anguish in her soul, and it had made her capable of a repression harder than shrieking and struggle. But underneath the silence there was vindictive hatred: she wished that the marriage might make them wretched. He went on-


"It will be better for you. You may go on living here. But I think of by-and-by settling a good sum on you and the children, and you can live where you like. There will be nothing for you to complain of then. Whatever happens, you will feel secure. Nothing could be done beforehand. Every thing has gone on in a hurry."

"You may go on living here. But I think of by-and-by settling a good sum on you and the children, and you can live where you like. You will have nothing to complain of.


Grandcourt ceased his slow delivery of sentences. He did not expect her to thank him, but he considered that she might reasonably be contented; if it were possible for Lydia to be contented. She showed no change, and after a minute he said,


"You have never had any reason to fear that I should be illiberal. I don't care a curse about the money."


"If you did care about it, I suppose you would not give it us," said Lydia. The sarcasm was irrepressible.


"That's a devilishly unfair thing to say," Grandcourt replied, in a lower tone; "and I advise you not to say that sort of thing again."


"Should you punish me by leaving the children in beggary?" In spite of herself, the one outlet of venom had brought the other.

"Should you punish me by leaving the children in beggary?" she said in spite of herself.


"There is no question about leaving the children in beggary," said Grandcourt, still in his low voice. "I advise you not to say things that you will repent of."

"There is no question about leaving the children in beggary," said Grandcourt, still in his low voice. "Do not say things that you will repent of."


"I am used to repenting," said she, bitterly. "Perhaps you will repent. You have already repented of loving me."


"All this will only make it uncommonly difficult for us to meet again. What friend have you besides me?"


The words came like a low moan. At the same moment there flashed through her the wish that after promising himself a better happiness than that he had had with her, he might feel a misery and loneliness which would drive him back to her to find some memory of a time when he was young, glad, and hopeful. But no! he would go scathless; it was she that had to suffer.

The words came like a low moan. Through her mind flashed the wish that he might feel a misery and loneliness which would drive him back to her. But no! he would go unscathed; it was she that had to suffer.


With this the scorching words were ended. Grandcourt had meant to stay till evening; he wished to curtail his visit, but there was no suitable train earlier than the one he had arranged to go by, and he had still to speak to Lydia on the second object of his visit, which like a second surgical operation seemed to require an interval. The hours had to go by; there was eating to be done; the children came in--all this mechanism of life had to be gone through with the dreary sense of constraint which is often felt in domestic quarrels of a commoner kind. To Lydia it was some slight relief for her stifled fury to have the children present: she felt a savage glory in their loveliness, as if it would taunt Grandcourt with his indifference to her and them--a secret darting of venom which was strongly imaginative. He acquitted himself with all the advantage of a man whose grace of bearing has long been moulded on an experience of boredom--nursed the little Antonia, who sat with her hands crossed and eyes upturned to his bald head, which struck her as worthy of observation--and propitiated Henleigh by promising him a beautiful saddle and bridle. It was only the two eldest girls who had known him as a continual presence; and the intervening years had overlaid their infantine memories with a bashfulness which Grandcourt's bearing was not likely to dissipate. He and Lydia occasionally, in the presence of the servants, made a conventional remark; otherwise they never spoke; and the stagnant thought in Grandcourt's mind all the while was of his own infatuation in having given her those diamonds, which obliged him to incur the nuisance of speaking about them. He had an ingrained care for what he held to belong to his caste, and about property he liked to be lordly; also he had a consciousness of indignity to himself in having to ask for anything in the world. But however he might assert his independence of Mrs. Glasher's past, he had made a past for himself which was a stronger yoke than any he could impose. He must ask for the diamonds which he had promised to Gwendolen.

With this the scorching words were ended. Although Grandcourt still had to speak to Lydia on the second object of his visit, like a second surgical operation it seemed to require an interval. The hours had to go by; there was eating to be done; the children came in - all this mechanism of life had to be gone through with the dreary constraint which is often felt in domestic quarrels. Lydia felt a savage glory in her children's loveliness, as if it would taunt Grandcourt with his indifference.
He acquitted himself with bored grace - nursed the little Antonia, who sat with her eyes upturned to his bald head - and propitiated Henleigh by promising him a beautiful saddle and bridle. It was only the two eldest girls who had known him as a continual presence; and the intervening years had overlaid their memories with bashfulness.
He and Lydia occasionally, in the presence of the servants, made a conventional remark; otherwise they never spoke; and the thought in Grandcourt's mind all the while was of his own infatuation in having given her those diamonds, which obliged him to incur the nuisance of speaking about them. He did not like to ask for anything; but he must ask for the diamonds which he had promised to Gwendolen.


At last they were alone again, with the candles above them, face to face with each other. Grandcourt looked at his watch, and then said, in an apparently indifferent drawl, "There is one thing I had to mention, Lydia. My diamonds--you have them."

At last they were alone again. Grandcourt looked at his watch, and said, in an apparently indifferent drawl, "There is one thing I had to mention, Lydia. My diamonds - you have them."


"Yes, I have them," she answered promptly, rising and standing with her arms thrust down and her fingers threaded, while Grandcourt sat still. She had expected the topic, and made her resolve about it. But she meant to carry out her resolve, if possible, without exasperating him. During the hours of silence she had longed to recall the words which had only widened the breach between them.

"Yes, I have them," she answered promptly, rising and standing with her fingers threaded. She had expected the topic, and made her resolve; but she meant to carry it out, if possible, without exasperating him.


"I thought you said you kept them by you."


"When I said so it was true. They are in the bank at Dudley."


"Get them away, will you? I must make an arrangement for your delivering them to some one."


"Make no arrangement. They shall be delivered to the person you intended them for. _I_ will make the arrangement."

"Make no arrangement. They shall be delivered to the person you intended them for."


"What I say. I have always told you that I would give them up to your wife. I shall keep my word. She is not your wife yet."


"This is foolery," said Grandcourt, with undertoned disgust. It was too irritating that this indulgence of Lydia had given her a sort of mastery over him in spite of dependent condition.

"This is foolery," said Grandcourt, with undertoned disgust. It was too irritating that Lydia had any sort of mastery over him in spite of her dependence.


She did not speak. He also rose now, but stood leaning against the mantle-piece with his side-face toward her.


"The diamonds must be delivered to me before my marriage," he began again.

"The diamonds must be delivered to me before my marriage."


"The tenth. There is no time to be lost."


"And where do you go after the marriage?"


He did not reply except by looking more sullen. Presently he said, "You must appoint a day before then, to get them from the bank and meet me--or somebody else I will commission;--it's a great nuisance. Mention a day."

He did not reply except by looking more sullen. Presently he said, "You must get them from the bank before then and meet me; it's a great nuisance."


"No; I shall not do that. They shall be delivered to her safely. I shall keep my word."


"Do you mean to say," said Grandcourt, just audibly, turning to face her, "that you will not do as I tell you?"


"Yes, I mean that," was the answer that leaped out, while her eyes flashed close to him. The poor creature was immediately conscious that if her words had any effect on her own lot, the effect must be mischievous, and might nullify all the remaining advantage of her long patience. But the word had been spoken.

"Yes, I mean that." The poor creature was immediately conscious that the effect of her words on her own position must be mischievous. But the words had been spoken.


He was in a position the most irritating to him. He could not shake her nor touch her hostilely; and if he could, the process would not bring his mother's diamonds. He shrank from the only sort of threat that would frighten her--if she believed it. And in general, there was nothing he hated more than to be forced into anything like violence even in words: his will must impose itself without trouble. After looking at her for a moment, he turned his side-face toward her again, leaning as before, and said,

He was highly irritated, but he shrank from the only sort of threat that would frighten her - if she believed it. And there was nothing he hated more than to be forced into anything like violence even in words: his will must impose itself without trouble. After a moment, he said-


"Why will you not tell me where you are going after the marriage? I could be at the wedding if I liked, and learn in that way," said Lydia, not shrinking from the one suicidal form of threat within her power.

"Why will you not tell me where you are going after the marriage? I could be at the wedding if I liked, and learn in that way," said Lydia, using the one suicidal form of threat within her power.


"Of course, if you like, you can play the mad woman," said Grandcourt, with _sotto voce_ scorn. "It is not to be supposed that you will wait to think what good will come of it--or what you owe to me."

"Of course, if you like, you can play the mad woman," said Grandcourt, with sotto voce scorn.


He was in a state of disgust and embitterment quite new in the history of their relation to each other. It was undeniable that this woman, whose life he had allowed to send such deep suckers into his, had a terrible power of annoyance in her; and the rash hurry of his proceedings had left her opportunities open. His pride saw very ugly possibilities threatening it, and he stood for several minutes in silence reviewing the situation--considering how he could act upon her. Unlike himself she was of a direct nature, with certain simple strongly-colored tendencies, and there was one often-experienced effect which he thought he could count upon now. As Sir Hugo had said of him, Grandcourt knew how to play his cards upon occasion.

He was in a state of disgust and embitterment quite new in their relationship. This woman had a terrible power of annoyance; and the rash hurry of his proceedings had left opportunities open. He stood for several minutes in silence reviewing the situation - considering how he could act upon her. Unlike himself, she was of a direct nature, and there was one often-experienced effect which he thought he could count upon now.


He did not speak again, but looked at his watch, rang the bell, and ordered the vehicle to be brought round immediately. Then he removed farther from her, walked as if in expectation of a summons, and remained silent without turning his eyes upon her.

He did not speak again, but looked at his watch, rang the bell, and ordered the vehicle to be brought round. Then he walked away silently without turning his eyes upon her.


She was suffering the horrible conflict of self-reproach and tenacity. She saw beforehand Grandcourt leaving her without even looking at her again--herself left behind in lonely uncertainty--hearing nothing from him--not knowing whether she had done her children harm--feeling that she had perhaps made him hate her;--all the wretchedness of a creature who had defeated her own motives. And yet she could not bear to give up a purpose which was a sweet morsel to her vindictiveness. If she had not been a mother she would willingly have sacrificed herself to her revenge--to what she felt to be the justice of hindering another from getting happiness by willingly giving her over to misery. The two dominant passions were at struggle. She must satisfy them both.

She was suffering the horrible conflict of self-reproach and tenacity. She imagined Grandcourt leaving her without even looking at her again - herself left behind in lonely uncertainty - hearing nothing - not knowing whether she had done her children harm - feeling that she had perhaps made him hate her, and defeated her own motives. And yet she could not bear to give up a sweet revenge.


"Don't let us part in anger, Henleigh," she began, without changing her voice or attitude: "it is a very little thing I ask. If I were refusing to give anything up that you call yours it would be different: that would be a reason for treating me as if you hated me. But I ask such a little thing. If you will tell me where you are going on the wedding-day I will take care that the diamonds shall be delivered to her without scandal. Without scandal," she repeated entreatingly.

"Don't let us part in anger, Henleigh," she began: "it is a very little thing I ask. If you tell me where you are going on the wedding-day I will take care that the diamonds shall be delivered to her without scandal. Without scandal," she repeated entreatingly.


"Such preposterous whims make a woman odious," said Grandcourt, not giving way in look or movement. "What is the use of talking to mad people?"


"Yes, I am foolish--loneliness has made me foolish--indulge me." Sobs rose as she spoke. "If you will indulge me in this one folly I will be very meek--I will never trouble you." She burst into hysterical crying, and said again almost with a scream--"I will be very meek after that."

"Yes, I am foolish - loneliness has made me foolish - indulge me." Sobs rose as she spoke. "If you will indulge me in this one folly I will never trouble you." She burst into hysterical crying, and said almost with a scream- "I will be very meek."


There was a strange mixture of acting and reality in this passion. She kept hold of her purpose as a child might tighten its hand over a small stolen thing, crying and denying all the while. Even Grandcourt was wrought upon by surprise: this capricious wish, this childish violence, was as unlike Lydia's bearing as it was incongruous with her person. Both had always had a stamp of dignity on them. Yet she seemed more manageable in this state than in her former attitude of defiance. He came close up to her again, and said, in his low imperious tone, "Be quiet, and hear what I tell you, I will never forgive you if you present yourself again and make a scene."

There was a strange mixture of acting and reality in this passion. She kept hold of her purpose as a child might tighten its hand over a small stolen thing, crying and denying all the while. Even Grandcourt was surprised: this childish caprice was unlike the normally dignified Lydia. He came close up to her, and said, in his low imperious tone, "Be quiet. I will never forgive you if you present yourself and make a scene."


She pressed her handkerchief against her face, and when she could speak firmly said, in the muffled voice that follows sobbing, "I will not--if you will let me have my way--I promise you not to thrust myself forward again. I have never broken my word to you--how many have you broken to me? When you gave me the diamonds to wear you were not thinking of having another wife. And I now give them up--I don't reproach you--I only ask you to let me give them up in my own way. Have I not borne it well? Everything is to be taken away from me, and when I ask for a straw, a chip--you deny it me." She had spoken rapidly, but after a little pause she said more slowly, her voice freed from its muffled tone: "I will not bear to have it denied me."

She pressed her handkerchief against her face, and said, in a muffled voice, "If you let me have my way, I promise not to thrust myself forward again. I have never broken my word to you - how many have you broken to me? I don't reproach you - I only ask you to let me give up the diamonds in my own way. Have I not borne it well? Everything is to be taken away from me, and when I ask for a straw, you deny it me. I will not bear to have it denied me."


Grandcourt had a baffling sense that he had to deal with something like madness; he could only govern by giving way. The servant came to say the fly was ready. When the door was shut again Grandcourt said sullenly, "We are going to Ryelands then."

Grandcourt had a baffling sense that he had to deal with something like madness; he could only govern by giving way. He said sullenly, "We are going to Ryelands."


"They shall be delivered to her there," said Lydia, with decision.

"They shall be delivered to her there," said Lydia.


"Very well, I am going." He felt no inclination even to take her hand: she had annoyed him too sorely. But now that she had gained her point, she was prepared to humble herself that she might propitiate him.

Now that she had gained her point, she was prepared to humble herself.


"Forgive me; I will never vex you again," she said, with beseeching looks. Her inward voice said distinctly--"It is only I who have to forgive." Yet she was obliged to ask forgiveness.

"Forgive me; I will never vex you again," she said beseechingly.


"You had better keep that promise. You have made me feel uncommonly ill with your folly," said Grandcourt, apparently choosing this statement as the strongest possible use of language.


"Poor thing!" cried Lydia, with a faint smile;--was he aware of the minor fact that he made her feel ill this morning?

"Poor thing!" cried Lydia, with a faint smile.


But with the quick transition natural to her, she was now ready to coax him if he would let her, that they might part in some degree reconciled. She ventured to lay her hand on his shoulder, and he did not move away from her: she had so far succeeded in alarming him, that he was not sorry for these proofs of returned subjection.

She was now ready to coax him if he would let her, so that they might part in some degree reconciled. She ventured to lay her hand on his shoulder, and he did not move away. She had so far succeeded in alarming him, that he was not sorry for these proofs of returned subjection.


"Light a cigar," she said, soothingly, taking the case from his breast-pocket and opening it.

"Light a cigar," she said, soothingly, taking the case from his breast-pocket.


Amidst such caressing signs of mutual fear they parted. The effect that clung and gnawed within Grandcourt was a sense of imperfect mastery.

Amidst such caressing signs of mutual fear they parted. The effect that clung and gnawed within Grandcourt was a sense of his imperfect mastery.


The beginning of an acquaintance whether with persons or things is to get a definite outline for our ignorance.


Mr. Grandcourt's wish to be introduced had no suddenness for Gwendolen; but when Lord Brackenshaw moved aside a little for the prefigured stranger to come forward and she felt herself face to face with the real man, there was a little shock which flushed her cheeks and vexatiously deepened with her consciousness of it. The shock came from the reversal of her expectations: Grandcourt could hardly have been more unlike all her imaginary portraits of him. He was slightly taller than herself, and their eyes seemed to be on a level; there was not the faintest smile on his face as he looked at her, not a trace of self-consciousness or anxiety in his bearing: when he raised his hat he showed an extensive baldness surrounded with a mere fringe of reddish-blonde hair, but he also showed a perfect hand; the line of feature from brow to chin undisguised by beard was decidedly handsome, with only moderate departures from the perpendicular, and the slight whisker too was perpendicular. It was not possible for a human aspect to be freer from grimace or solicitous wrigglings: also it was perhaps not possible for a breathing man wide awake to look less animated. The correct Englishman, drawing himself up from his bow into rigidity, assenting severely, and seemed to be in a state of internal drill, suggests a suppressed vivacity, and may be suspected of letting go with some violence when he is released from parade; but Grandcourt's bearing had no rigidity, it inclined rather to the flaccid. His complexion had a faded fairness resembling that of an actress when bare of the artificial white and red; his long narrow gray eyes expressed nothing but indifference. Attempts at description are stupid: who can all at once describe a human being? Even when he is presented to us we only begin that knowledge of his appearance which must be completed by innumerable impressions under differing circumstances. We recognize the alphabet; we are not sure of the language. I am only mentioning the point that Gwendolen saw by the light of a prepared contrast in the first minutes of her meeting with Grandcourt: they were summed up in the words, "He is not ridiculous." But forthwith Lord Brackenshaw was gone, and what is called conversation had begun, the first and constant element in it being that Grandcourt looked at Gwendolen persistently with a slightly exploring gaze, but without change of expression, while she only occasionally looked at him with a flash of observation a little softened by coquetry. Also, after her answers there was a longer or shorter pause before he spoke again.

Mr. Grandcourt's wish to be introduced was not unexpected; but when Gwendolen came face to face with the real man, there was a little shock which flushed her cheeks. The shock came from the reversal of her expectations: Grandcourt could hardly have been more unlike her imaginary portraits of him.
He was slightly taller than herself, and their eyes seemed to be on a level; there was not the faintest smile on his face as he looked at her, not a trace of self-consciousness or anxiety in his bearing: when he raised his hat he showed an extensive baldness surrounded with a fringe of reddish-blonde hair, but he also showed a perfect hand; and his features were decidedly handsome. It was not possible for a face to be freer from grimace: also it was perhaps not possible for a breathing man to look less animated. His bearing was relaxed; his long narrow grey eyes expressed nothing but indifference.
Attempts at description are stupid: who can all at once describe a human being? Our knowledge of his appearance must be completed by innumerable impressions. We recognize the alphabet; we are not sure of the language. Gwendolen's first impressions were summed up in the words, "He is not ridiculous."
As Lord Brackenshaw left, conversation began, while Grandcourt looked at Gwendolen persistently with a slightly exploring gaze, but without change of expression. She only occasionally glanced at him with a flash of observation a little softened by coquetry. After her answers there was a pause before he spoke again.


"I used to think archery was a great bore," Grandcourt began. He spoke with a fine accent, but with a certain broken drawl, as of a distinguished personage with a distinguished cold on his chest.

"I used to think archery was a great bore," Grandcourt began. He spoke with a fine accent, but with a broken and distinguished drawl.


"Are you converted to-day?" said Gwendolen.


(Pause, during which she imagined various degrees and modes of opinion about herself that might be entertained by Grandcourt.)

(Pause, during which she imagined various opinions about herself that Grandcourt might hold.)


"Yes, since I saw you shooting. In things of this sort one generally sees people missing and simpering."


"I suppose you are a first-rate shot with a rifle."


(Pause, during which Gwendolen, having taken a rapid observation of Grandcourt, made a brief graphic description of him to an indefinite hearer.)

(Pause, during which Gwendolen made a brief graphic description of Grandcourt to an unknown hearer.)


"Oh, then, you are a formidable person. People who have done things once and left them off make one feel very contemptible, as if one were using cast-off fashions. I hope you have not left off all follies, because I practice a great many."

"Oh, then you are a formidable person. People who have done things once and left them off make one feel very contemptible. I hope you have not left off all follies, because I practice a great many."


(Pause, during which Gwendolen made several interpretations of her own speech.)


"Well, in general, I think, whatever is agreeable is called a folly. But you have not left off hunting, I hear."

"Well, in general, I think whatever is agreeable is called a folly. But you have not left off hunting, I hear."


(Pause, wherein Gwendolen recalled what she had heard about Grandcourt's position, and decided that he was the most aristocratic-looking man she had ever seen.)

(Pause, wherein Gwendolen recalled Grandcourt's position, and decided that he was the most aristocratic-looking man she had ever seen.)


"And do you care about the turf?--or is that among the things you have left off?"

"And do you care about the turf? - or is that among the things you have left off?"


(Pause, during which Gwendolen thought that a man of extremely calm, cold manners might be less disagreeable as a husband than other men, and not likely to interfere with his wife's preferences.)


"I run a horse now and then; but I don't go in for the thing as some men do. Are you fond of horses?"

"I run a horse now and then. Are you fond of horses?"


"Yes, indeed; I never like my life so well as when I am on horseback, having a great gallop. I think of nothing. I only feel myself strong and happy."

"Yes, indeed: I never like my life so well as when I am on horseback, having a great gallop. I think of nothing. I only feel myself strong and happy."


(Pause, wherein Gwendolen wondered whether Grandcourt would like what she said, but assured herself that she was not going to disguise her tastes.)


"I don't know. When I am on horseback I never think of danger. It seems to me that if I broke my bones I should not feel it. I should go at anything that came in my way."


(Pause during which Gwendolen had run through a whole hunting season with two chosen hunters to ride at will.)

(Pause, during which Gwendolen had run through a whole hunting season with two chosen hunters to ride at will.)


"You would perhaps like tiger-hunting or pig-sticking. I saw some of that for a season or two in the East. Everything here is poor stuff after that."


(Pause, wherein Gwendolen speculated on the probability that the men of coldest manners were the most adventurous, and felt the strength of her own insight, supposing the question had to be decided.)

(Pause, wherein Gwendolen speculated that men of coldest manners were probably the most adventurous, and felt the strength of her own insight.)


"One must have something or other. But one gets used to it."


"I begin to think I am very fortunate, because everything is new to me: it is only that I can't get enough of it. I am not used to anything except being dull, which I should like to leave off as you have left off shooting."

"I begin to think I am very fortunate, because everything is new to me: I am not used to anything except being dull, which I should like to leave off as you have left off shooting."


(Pause, during which it occurred to Gwendolen that a man of cold and distinguished manners might possibly be a dull companion; but on the other hand she thought that most persons were dull, that she had not observed husbands to be companions--and that after all she was not going to accept Grandcourt.)

(Pause, during which it occurred to Gwendolen that a man of cold and distinguished manners might possibly be a dull companion; but then most persons were dull - and after all she was not going to accept Grandcourt.)


"This is a dreadful neighborhood. There is nothing to be done in it. That is why I practiced my archery."

"This is a dreadful neighbourhood. There is nothing to be done in it. That is why I practised my archery."


(Pause, during which Gwendolen reflected that the life of an unmarried woman who could not go about and had no command of anything must necessarily be dull through all degrees of comparison as time went on.)

(Pause, during which Gwendolen reflected that the life of an unmarried woman who could not go about must be dull indeed.)


"You have made yourself queen of it. I imagine you will carry the first prize."


"I don't know that. I have great rivals. Did you not observe how well Miss Arrowpoint shot?"

"But I have great rivals. Did you not observe how well Miss Arrowpoint shot?"


(Pause, wherein Gwendolen was thinking that men had been known to choose some one else than the woman they most admired, and recalled several experiences of that kind in novels.)


"Shall we go now and hear what the scoring says? Every one is going to the other end now--shall we join them? I think my uncle is looking toward me. He perhaps wants me."

"Shall we go and hear the scoring? Everyone is going to the other end now - shall we join them? I think my uncle is looking toward me. He perhaps wants me."


Gwendolen found a relief for herself by thus changing the situation: not that the _tete--tete_ was quite disagreeable to her; but while it lasted she apparently could not get rid of the unwonted flush in her cheeks and the sense of surprise which made her feel less mistress of herself than usual. And this Mr. Grandcourt, who seemed to feel his own importance more than he did hers--a sort of unreasonableness few of us can tolerate--must not take for granted that he was of great moment to her, or that because others speculated on him as a desirable match she held herself altogether at his beck. How Grandcourt had filled up the pauses will be more evident hereafter.

Gwendolen found it a relief to thus change the situation: not that the tte--tte was quite disagreeable; but while it lasted she could not get rid of the unwonted flush in her cheeks and the sense of surprise which made her feel less mistress of herself than usual. And this Mr. Grandcourt must not take for granted that he was of great moment to her, or that because others speculated on him as a desirable match she held herself at his beck and call.


"You have just missed the gold arrow, Gwendolen," said Mr. Gascoigne. "Miss Juliet Fenn scores eight above you."


"I am very glad to hear it. I should have felt that I was making myself too disagreeable--taking the best of everything," said Gwendolen, quite easily.

"I am very glad to hear it. I should have felt that I was taking the best of everything," said Gwendolen easily.


It was impossible to be jealous of Juliet Fenn, a girl as middling as mid-day market in everything but her archery and plainness, in which last she was noticeable like her father: underhung and with receding brow resembling that of the more intelligent fishes. (Surely, considering the importance which is given to such an accident in female offspring, marriageable men, or what the new English calls "intending bridegrooms," should look at themselves dispassionately in the glass, since their natural selection of a mate prettier than themselves is not certain to bar the effect of their own ugliness.)

It was impossible to be jealous of Juliet Fenn, a girl middling in everything but her archery and her plainness, in which she resembled one of the more intelligent fishes.


There was now a lively movement in the mingling groups, which carried the talk along with it. Every one spoke to every one else by turns, and Gwendolen, who chose to see what was going on around her now, observed that Grandcourt was having Klesmer presented to him by some one unknown to her--a middle-aged man, with dark, full face and fat hands, who seemed to be on the easiest terms with both, and presently led the way in joining the Arrowpoints, whose acquaintance had already been made by both him and Grandcourt. Who this stranger was she did not care much to know; but she wished to observe what was Grandcourt's manner toward others than herself. Precisely the same: except that he did not look much at Miss Arrowpoint, but rather at Klesmer, who was speaking with animation--now stretching out his long fingers horizontally, now pointing downward with his fore-finger, now folding his arms and tossing his mane, while he addressed himself first to one and then to the other, including Grandcourt, who listened with an impassive face and narrow eyes, his left fore-finger in his waistcoat-pocket, and his right slightly touching his thin whisker.

There was now a lively movement of mingling groups. Gwendolen observed that Grandcourt was having Klesmer presented to him by a middle-aged man, with a dark, full face and fat hands, who seemed to be friendly with both. Who this stranger was she did not care to know; but she wished to observe Grandcourt's manner toward others than herself. Precisely the same: except that he did not look much at Miss Arrowpoint, but rather at Klesmer, who was speaking with animation and tossing his mane. Grandcourt listened with an impassive face and narrow eyes, his left fore-finger in his waistcoat-pocket, and his right slightly touching his thin whisker.


"I wonder which style Miss Arrowpoint admires most," was a thought that glanced through Gwendolen's mind, while her eyes and lips gathered rather a mocking expression. But she would not indulge her sense of amusement by watching, as if she were curious, and she gave all her animation to those immediately around her, determined not to care whether Mr. Grandcourt came near her again or not.

"I wonder which style Miss Arrowpoint admires most," thought Gwendolen, rather mockingly. Then she gave all her animation to those immediately around her, determined not to care whether Mr. Grandcourt came near her again or not.


He did come, however, and at a moment when he could propose to conduct Mrs. Davilow to her carriage, "Shall we meet again in the ball-room?" she said as he raised his hat at parting. The "yes" in reply had the usual slight drawl and perfect gravity.

He did not come, however, until it was time to conduct Mrs. Davilow to her carriage.
"Shall we meet again in the ball-room tonight?" she said. His "yes" in reply had the usual slight drawl and perfect gravity.


"You were wrong for once, Gwendolen," said Mrs. Davilow, during their few minutes' drive to the castle.

"You were wrong about Mr. Grandcourt, Gwendolen," said Mrs. Davilow, during their drive to the castle.


"About Mr. Grandcourt's appearance and manners. You can't find anything ridiculous in him."

"You can't find anything ridiculous in him."


"I suppose I could if I tried, but I don't want to do it," said Gwendolen, rather pettishly; and her mother was afraid to say more.

"I could if I tried, but I don't want to," said Gwendolen, rather pettishly; and her mother was afraid to say more.


It was the rule on these occasions for the ladies and gentlemen to dine apart, so that the dinner might make a time of comparative ease and rest for both. Indeed, the gentlemen had a set of archery stories about the epicurism of the ladies, who had somehow been reported to show a revolting masculine judgment in venison, even asking for the fat--a proof of the frightful rate at which corruption might go on in women, but for severe social restraint, and every year the amiable Lord Brackenshaw, who was something of a _gourmet_, mentioned Byron's opinion that a woman should never be seen eating,--introducing it with a confidential--"The fact is" as if he were for the first time admitting his concurrence in that sentiment of the refined poet.

It was the rule on these occasions for the ladies and gentlemen to dine apart.


In the ladies' dining-room it was evident that Gwendolen was not a general favorite with her own sex: there were no beginnings of intimacy between her and other girls, and in conversation they rather noticed what she said than spoke to her in free exchange. Perhaps it was that she was not much interested in them, and when left alone in their company had a sense of empty benches. Mrs. Vulcany once remarked that Miss Harleth was too fond of the gentlemen; but we know that she was not in the least fond of them--she was only fond of their homage--and women did not give her homage. The exception to this willing aloofness from her was Miss Arrowpoint, who often managed unostentatiously to be by her side, and talked to her with quiet friendliness.

In the ladies' dining-room it was evident that Gwendolen was not a favourite with her own sex: there was no intimacy between her and other girls, perhaps because she was not much interested in them. The exception to this aloofness from her was Miss Arrowpoint, who talked to her with quiet friendliness.


"She knows, as I do, that our friends are ready to quarrel over a husband for us," thought Gwendolen, "and she is determined not to enter into the quarrel."


"I think Miss Arrowpoint has the best manners I ever saw," said Mrs. Davilow, when she and Gwendolen were in a dressing-room with Mrs. Gascoigne and Anna, but at a distance where they could have their talk apart.

"I think Miss Arrowpoint has the best manners I ever saw," said Mrs. Davilow, when she and Gwendolen had retired to a dressing-room.


"I wish I were like her," said Gwendolen.


"Why? Are you getting discontented with yourself, Gwen?"


"No; but I am discontented with things. She seems contented."

"I am discontented with things. She seems contented."


"I am sure you ought to be satisfied to-day. You must have enjoyed the shooting. I saw you did."

"I am sure you ought to be satisfied to-day. You must have enjoyed the shooting."


"Oh, that is over now, and I don't know what will come next," said Gwendolen, stretching herself with a sort of moan and throwing up her arms. They were bare now; it was the fashion to dance in the archery dress, throwing off the jacket; and the simplicity of her white cashmere with its border of pale green set off her form to the utmost. A thin line of gold round her neck, and the gold star on her breast, were her only ornaments. Her smooth soft hair piled up into a grand crown made a clear line about her brow. Sir Joshua would have been glad to take her portrait; and he would have had an easier task than the historian at least in this, that he would not have had to represent the truth of change--only to give stability to one beautiful moment.

"Oh, that is over now, and I don't know what will come next," said Gwendolen, stretching and throwing up her arms. They were bare now; it was the fashion to dance in the archery dress, without the jacket; and her simple white cashmere with its border of pale green set off her form. A thin line of gold round her neck, and the gold star on her breast, were her only ornaments.


"The dancing will come next," said Mrs. Davilow "You are sure to enjoy that."

"The dancing will come next," said Mrs. Davilow. "You are sure to enjoy that."


"I shall only dance in the quadrille. I told Mr. Clintock so. I shall not waltz or polk with any one."

"I shall only dance in the quadrille. I told Mr. Clintock so. I shall not waltz or polk with anyone.


"Why in the world do you say that all on a sudden?"


"I can't bear having ugly people so near me."


"Mr. Clintock, for example, is not ugly." Mrs. Davilow dared not mention Grandcourt.

"Mr. Clintock is not ugly." Mrs. Davilow dared not mention Grandcourt.


"Well, I hate woolen cloth touching me."


"Fancy!" said Mrs. Davilow to her sister who now came up from the other end of the room. "Gwendolen says she will not waltz or polk."


"She is rather given to whims, I think," said Mrs. Gascoigne, gravely. "It would be more becoming in her to behave as other young ladies do on such an occasion as this; especially when she has had the advantage of first-rate dancing lessons."


"Why should I dance if I don't like it, aunt? It is not in the catechism."


"My _dear_!" said Mrs. Gascoigne, in a tone of severe check, and Anna looked frightened at Gwendolen's daring. But they all passed on without saying any more.


Apparently something had changed Gwendolen's mood since the hour of exulting enjoyment in the archery-ground. But she did not look the worse under the chandeliers in the ball-room, where the soft splendor of the scene and the pleasant odors from the conservatory could not but be soothing to the temper, when accompanied with the consciousness of being preeminently sought for. Hardly a dancing man but was anxious to have her for a partner, and each whom she accepted was in a state of melancholy remonstrance that she would not waltz or polk.

Apparently something had changed Gwendolen's mood since the hour of exulting enjoyment in the archery-ground. But she did not look the worse for it under the chandeliers in the ball-room, where the soft splendour of the scene and the pleasant odours from the conservatory soothed her temper, as did the consciousness of being sought after. Almost every man was anxious to have her for a partner, and was in a state of melancholy remonstrance that she would not waltz or polk.


"Are you under a vow, Miss Harleth?"--"Why are you so cruel to us all?"--"You waltzed with me in February."--"And you who waltz so perfectly!" were exclamations not without piquancy for her. The ladies who waltzed naturally thought that Miss Harleth only wanted to make herself particular; but her uncle when he overheard her refusal, supported her by saying,


"Gwendolen has usually good reasons." He thought she was certainly more distinguished in not waltzing, and he wished her to be distinguished. The archery ball was intended to be kept at the subdued pitch that suited all dignities clerical and secular; it was not an escapement for youthful high spirits, and he himself was of opinion that the fashionable dances were too much of a romp.


Among the remonstrant dancing men, however, Mr. Grandcourt was not numbered. After standing up for a quadrille with Miss Arrowpoint, it seemed that he meant to ask for no other partner. Gwendolen observed him frequently with the Arrowpoints, but he never took an opportunity of approaching her. Mr. Gascoigne was sometimes speaking to him; but Mr. Gascoigne was everywhere. It was in her mind now that she would probably after all not have the least trouble about him: perhaps he had looked at her without any particular admiration, and was too much used to everything in the world to think of her as more than one of the girls who were invited in that part of the country. Of course! It was ridiculous of elders to entertain notions about what a man would do, without having seen him even through a telescope. Probably he meant to marry Miss Arrowpoint. Whatever might come, she, Gwendolen, was not going to be disappointed: the affair was a joke whichever way it turned, for she had never committed herself even by a silent confidence in anything Mr. Grandcourt would do. Still, she noticed that he did sometimes quietly and gradually change his position according to hers, so that he could see her whenever she was dancing, and if he did not admire her--so much the worse for him.

Among the remonstrant dancing men, however, Mr. Grandcourt was not numbered. After standing up for a quadrille with Miss Arrowpoint, it seemed that he meant to ask for no other partner. Gwendolen saw him frequently with the Arrowpoints, but he never approached her.
She thought that she would probably not have the least trouble about him after all: probably he meant to marry Miss Arrowpoint. Whatever might come, she, Gwendolen, was not going to be disappointed: for she had never committed herself even by a silent confidence in anything Mr. Grandcourt would do. Still, she noticed that he did sometimes quietly and gradually change his position according to hers, so that he could see her whenever she was dancing.


This movement for the sake of being in sight of her was more direct than usual rather late in the evening, when Gwendolen had accepted Klesmer as a partner; and that wide-glancing personage, who saw everything and nothing by turns, said to her when they were walking, "Mr. Grandcourt is a man of taste. He likes to see you dancing."

This movement for the sake of watching her was more direct than usual late in the evening, when Gwendolen had Klesmer as a partner; and that wide-glancing personage said to her, "Mr. Grandcourt is a man of taste. He likes to see you dancing."


"Perhaps he likes to look at what is against his taste," said Gwendolen, with a light laugh; she was quite courageous with Klesmer now. "He may be so tired of admiring that he likes disgust for variety."


"Those words are not suitable to your lips," said Klesmer, quickly, with one of his grand frowns, while he shook his hand as if to banish the discordant sounds.

"Those words are not suitable to your lips," said Klesmer, quickly, with one of his grand frowns.


"Are you as critical of words as of music?"


"Certainly I am. I should require your words to be what your face and form are--always among the meanings of a noble music."

"Certainly. I should require your words to be as noble as your face and form."


"That is a compliment as well as a correction. I am obliged for both. But do you know I am bold enough to wish to correct _you_, and require you to understand a joke?"


"One may understand jokes without liking them," said the terrible Klesmer. "I have had opera books sent me full of jokes; it was just because I understood them that I did not like them. The comic people are ready to challenge a man because he looks grave. 'You don't see the witticism, sir?' 'No, sir, but I see what you meant.' Then I am what we call ticketed as a fellow without _esprit_. But, in fact," said Klesmer, suddenly dropping from his quick narrative to a reflective tone, with an impressive frown, "I am very sensible to wit and humor."


"I am glad you tell me that," said Gwendolen, not without some wickedness of intention. But Klesmer's thoughts had flown off on the wings of his own statement, as their habit was, and she had the wickedness all to herself. "Pray, who is that standing near the card-room door?" she went on, seeing there the same stranger with whom Klesmer had been in animated talk on the archery ground. "He is a friend of yours, I think."

Pray, who is that standing near the card-room door?" she went on, seeing there the same stranger with whom Klesmer had been in animated talk on the archery ground. "A friend of yours?"


"No, no; an amateur I have seen in town; Lush, a Mr. Lush--too fond of Meyerbeer and Scribe--too fond of the mechanical-dramatic."

"No, an amateur I have seen in town - too fond of popular operas - a Mr. Lush."


"Thanks. I wanted to know whether you thought his face and form required that his words should be among the meanings of noble music?" Klesmer was conquered, and flashed at her a delightful smile which made them quite friendly until she begged to be deposited by the side of her mamma.


Three minutes afterward her preparations for Grandcourt's indifference were all canceled. Turning her head after some remark to her mother, she found that he had made his way up to her.

Three minutes afterward, when she was back with her mamma, Grandcourt made his way up to her.


"May I ask if you are tired of dancing, Miss Harleth?" he began, looking down with his former unperturbed expression.

"May I ask if you are tired of dancing, Miss Harleth?" he began.


"Will you do me the honor--the next--or another quadrille?"

"Will you do me the honour - the next - or another quadrille?"


"I should have been very happy," said Gwendolen looking at her card, "but I am engaged for the next to Mr. Clintock--and indeed I perceive that I am doomed for every quadrille; I have not one to dispose of." She was not sorry to punish Mr. Grandcourt's tardiness, yet at the same time she would have liked to dance with him. She gave him a charming smile as she looked up to deliver her answer, and he stood still looking down at her with no smile at all.

"I should have been very happy," said Gwendolen looking at her card, "but I am engaged for the next to Mr. Clintock - and indeed I have not one quadrille left to dispose of." She was not sorry to punish Mr. Grandcourt's tardiness, yet at the same time she would have liked to dance with him. She gave him a charming smile, and he stood looking down at her with no smile at all.


"I am unfortunate in being too late," he said, after a moment's pause.


"It seemed to me that you did not care for dancing," said Gwendolen. "I thought it might be one of the things you had left off."


"Yes, but I have not begun to dance with you," said Grandcourt. Always there was the same pause before he took up his cue. "You make dancing a new thing, as you make archery."


"Then I don't know whether to feel flattered or not. When you had once danced with me there would be no more novelty in it."

"But once you had danced with me there would be no more novelty in it."


"On the contrary, there would probably be much more."


"It is difficult to make Miss Harleth understand her power?" Here Grandcourt had turned to Mrs. Davilow, who, smiling gently at her daughter, said,

"It is difficult to make Miss Harleth understand her power?" Here Grandcourt had turned to Mrs. Davilow, who, smiling gently at her daughter, said-


"I think she does not generally strike people as slow to understand."


"Mamma," said Gwendolen, in a deprecating tone, "I am adorably stupid, and want everything explained to me--when the meaning is pleasant."

"Mamma," said Gwendolen, in a deprecating tone, "I am adorably stupid, and want everything explained to me - when the meaning is pleasant."


"If you are stupid, I admit that stupidity is adorable," returned Grandcourt, after the usual pause, and without change of tone. But clearly he knew what to say.


"I begin to think that my cavalier has forgotten me," Gwendolen observed after a little while. "I see the quadrille is being formed."

"I begin to think that Mr Clintock has forgotten me," Gwendolen observed, looking round for her partner. "I see the quadrille is being formed."


"He deserves to be renounced," said Grandcourt.


"I think he is very pardonable," said Gwendolen.


"There must have been some misunderstanding," said Mrs. Davilow. "Mr. Clintock was too anxious about the engagement to have forgotten it."


But now Lady Brackenshaw came up and said, "Miss Harleth, Mr. Clintock has charged me to express to you his deep regret that he was obliged to leave without having the pleasure of dancing with you again. An express came from his father, the archdeacon; something important; he was to go. He was _au dsespoir_."

But just then Lady Brackenshaw came up and said, "Miss Harleth, Mr. Clintock has charged me to express to you his deep regret that he was obliged to leave without having the pleasure of dancing with you again."


"Oh, he was very good to remember the engagement under the circumstances," said Gwendolen. "I am sorry he was called away." It was easy to be politely sorrowful on so felicitous an occasion.

"I am sorry he was called away," said Gwendolen, politely.


"Then I can profit by Mr. Clintock's misfortune?" said Grandcourt. "May I hope that you will let me take his place?"

"May I hope that you will let me take his place?" said Grandcourt.


"I shall be very happy to dance the next quadrille with you."


The appropriateness of the event seemed an augury, and as Gwendolen stood up for the quadrille with Grandcourt, there was a revival in her of the exultation--the sense of carrying everything before her, which she had felt earlier in the day. No man could have walked through the quadrille with more irreproachable ease than Grandcourt; and the absence of all eagerness in his attention to her suited his partner's taste. She was now convinced that he meant to distinguish her, to mark his admiration of her in a noticeable way; and it began to appear probable that she would have it in her power to reject him, whence there was a pleasure in reckoning up the advantages which would make her rejection splendid, and in giving Mr. Grandcourt his utmost value. It was also agreeable to divine that this exclusive selection of her to dance with, from among all the unmarried ladies present, would attract observation; though she studiously avoided seeing this, and at the end of the quadrille walked away on Grandcourt's arm as if she had been one of the shortest sighted instead of the longest and widest sighted of mortals. They encountered Miss Arrowpoint, who was standing with Lady Brackenshaw and a group of gentlemen. The heiress looked at Gwendolen invitingly and said, "I hope you will vote with us, Miss Harleth, and Mr. Grandcourt too, though he is not an archer." Gwendolen and Grandcourt paused to join the group, and found that the voting turned on the project of a picnic archery meeting to be held in Cardell Chase, where the evening entertainment would be more poetic than a ball under chandeliers--a feast of sunset lights along the glades and through the branches and over the solemn tree-tops.

It seemed an augury, and as Gwendolen stood up for the quadrille with Grandcourt, her earlier exultation revived. No man could have walked through the dance with more irreproachable ease; and the absence of all eagerness in his attention suited her taste. She was now convinced that he meant to distinguish her; and it began to appear probable that she would have it in her power to reject him. It was agreeable to know that his selecting her to dance with, from all the ladies present, attracted observation; though she studiously avoided seeing this, and at the end of the quadrille walked away on Grandcourt's arm as if she had been the shortest sighted of mortals.
They joined Miss Arrowpoint and Lady Brackenshaw amongst a group who were discussing a project: a picnic archery meeting to be held in Cardell Chase.


Gwendolen thought the scheme delightful--equal to playing Robin Hood and Maid Marian: and Mr. Grandcourt, when appealed to a second time, said it was a thing to be done; whereupon Mr. Lush, who stood behind Lady Brackenshaw's elbow, drew Gwendolen's notice by saying with a familiar look and tone to Grandcourt, "Diplow would be a good place for the meeting, and more convenient: there's a fine bit between the oaks toward the north gate."

Gwendolen thought the scheme delightful, and Mr. Grandcourt said it was a thing to be done. Mr. Lush, who stood behind Lady Brackenshaw, said with a familiar tone to Grandcourt, "Diplow would be a good place for the meeting, and more convenient."


Impossible to look more unconscious of being addressed than Grandcourt; but Gwendolen took a new survey of the speaker, deciding, first, that he must be on terms of intimacy with the tenant of Diplow, and, secondly, that she would never, if she could help it, let him come within a yard of her. She was subject to physical antipathies, and Mr. Lush's prominent eyes, fat though not clumsy figure, and strong black gray-besprinkled hair of frizzy thickness, which, with the rest of his prosperous person, was enviable to many, created one of the strongest of her antipathies. To be safe from his looking at her, she murmured to Grandcourt, "I should like to continue walking."

Although Grandcourt looked totally unconscious of being addressed, Gwendolen took a new survey of the speaker, deciding, first, that he must be on intimate terms with Grandcourt, and, secondly, that she would never let him come within a yard of her. Mr. Lush's prominent eyes, fat though not clumsy figure, and strong black grey-besprinkled frizzy hair, created in her a strong antipathy. She murmured to Grandcourt, "I should like to continue walking."


He obeyed immediately; but when they were thus away from any audience, he spoke no word for several minutes, and she, out of a half-amused, half-serious inclination for experiment, would not speak first. They turned into the large conservatory, beautifully lit up with Chinese lamps. The other couples there were at a distance which would not have interfered with any dialogue, but still they walked in silence until they had reached the farther end where there was a flush of pink light, and the second wide opening into the ball-room. Grandcourt, when they had half turned round, paused and said languidly,

He obeyed immediately; but spoke no word for several minutes, and she, out of a half-amused inclination for experiment, would not speak first. They turned into the large conservatory, beautifully lit up with Chinese lamps. The other couples were at a distance, but still they walked in silence until they had reached the farther end where there was a second wide opening into the ball-room. Grandcourt paused and said languidly-


If the situation had been described to Gwendolen half an hour before, she would have laughed heartily at it, and could only have imagined herself returning a playful, satirical answer. But for some mysterious reason--it was a mystery of which she had a faint wondering consciousness--she dared not be satirical: she had begun to feel a wand over her that made her afraid of offending Grandcourt.

Half an hour before, Gwendolen could only have imagined herself returning a playful, satirical answer. But for some mysterious reason she dared not be satirical: she had begun to feel a wand over her that made her afraid of offending Grandcourt.


"Yes," she said, quietly, without considering what "kind of thing" was meant--whether the flowers, the scents, the ball in general, or this episode of walking with Mr. Grandcourt in particular. And they returned along the conservatory without farther interpretation. She then proposed to go and sit down in her old place, and they walked among scattered couples preparing for the waltz to the spot where Mrs. Davilow had been seated all the evening. As they approached it her seat was vacant, but she was coming toward it again, and, to Gwendolen's shuddering annoyance, with Mr. Lush at her elbow. There was no avoiding the confrontation: her mamma came close to her before they had reached the seats, and, after a quiet greeting smile, said innocently, "Gwendolen, dear, let me present Mr. Lush to you." Having just made the acquaintance of this personage, as an intimate and constant companion of Mr. Grandcourt's, Mrs. Davilow imagined it altogether desirable that her daughter also should make the acquaintance.

"Yes," she said, quietly, without considering what "kind of thing" was meant - whether the flowers, the scents, the ball in general, or walking with Mr. Grandcourt in particular. And they returned along the conservatory without farther interpretation.
She proposed to go and sit down in her old place by Mrs. Davilow; but as they approached, she saw, to her shuddering annoyance, that Mr. Lush stood at her mother's elbow. There was no avoiding the confrontation: her mamma said innocently, "Gwendolen, dear, let me present Mr. Lush to you." Having just made the acquaintance of this intimate companion of Mr. Grandcourt's, Mrs. Davilow imagined it altogether desirable that her daughter also should meet him.


It was hardly a bow that Gwendolen gave--rather, it was the slightest forward sweep of the head away from the physiognomy that inclined itself toward her, and she immediately moved toward her seat, saying, "I want to put on my burnous." No sooner had she reached it, than Mr. Lush was there, and had the burnous in his hand: to annoy this supercilious young lady, he would incur the offense of forestalling Grandcourt; and, holding up the garment close to Gwendolen, he said, "Pray, permit me?" But she, wheeling away from him as if he had been a muddy hound, glided on to the ottoman, saying, "No, thank you."

It was hardly a bow that Gwendolen gave - rather, it was the slightest sweep of the head away from him. She immediately moved toward her seat, saying, "I want to put on my cloak." No sooner had she reached it, than Mr. Lush was there with the cloak in his hand, willing to risk forestalling Grandcourt for the sake of annoying this supercilious young lady. Holding up the garment, he said, "Pray, permit me?" But she wheeled away, saying, "No, thank you."


A man who forgave this would have much Christian feeling, supposing he had intended to be agreeable to the young lady; but before he seized the burnous Mr. Lush had ceased to have that intention. Grandcourt quietly took the drapery from him, and Mr. Lush, with a slight bow, moved away. "You had perhaps better put it on," said Mr. Grandcourt, looking down on her without change of expression.

A man who forgave this would have much Christian feeling, supposing he had intended to be agreeable to the young lady; but Mr. Lush had no such intention. Grandcourt quietly took the cloak from him, and Mr. Lush, with a slight bow, moved away. "You had perhaps better put it on," said Mr. Grandcourt, looking down on her without change of expression.


"Thanks; perhaps it would be wise," said Gwendolen, rising, and submitting very gracefully to take the burnous on her shoulders.

"Thanks; perhaps it would be wise," said Gwendolen, rising, and submitting very gracefully.


After that, Mr. Grandcourt exchanged a few polite speeches with Mrs. Davilow, and, in taking leave, asked permission to call at Offendene the next day. He was evidently not offended by the insult directed toward his friend. Certainly Gwendolen's refusal of the burnous from Mr. Lush was open to the interpretation that she wished to receive it from Mr. Grandcourt. But she, poor child, had no design in this action, and was simply following her antipathy and inclination, confiding in them as she did in the more reflective judgments into which they entered as sap into leafage. Gwendolen had no sense that these men were dark enigmas to her, or that she needed any help in drawing conclusions about them--Mr. Grandcourt at least. The chief question was, how far his character and ways might answer her wishes; and unless she were satisfied about that, she had said to herself that she would not accept his offer.

In taking leave, Mr. Grandcourt asked permission to call at Offendene the next day, evidently not offended by the insult to his friend. Certainly Gwendolen's refusal of the cloak from Mr. Lush was open to the interpretation that she wished to receive it from Mr. Grandcourt. But she, poor child, was simply following her antipathy, without any such design. Gwendolen had no sense that these men were dark enigmas to her - Mr. Grandcourt at least. The chief question was, how far he might answer her wishes; and unless she were satisfied about that, she would not accept his offer.


Could there be a slenderer, more insignificant thread in human history than this consciousness of a girl, busy with her small inferences of the way in which she could make her life pleasant?--in a time, too, when ideas were with fresh vigor making armies of themselves, and the universal kinship was declaring itself fiercely; when women on the other side of the world would not mourn for the husbands and sons who died bravely in a common cause, and men stinted of bread on our side of the world heard of that willing loss and were patient: a time when the soul of man was walking to pulses which had for centuries been beating in him unfelt, until their full sum made a new life of terror or of joy.


What in the midst of that mighty drama are girls and their blind visions? They are the Yea or Nay of that good for which men are enduring and fighting. In these delicate vessels is borne onward through the ages the treasure of human affections.


"Das Gluck ist eine leichte Dirne, Und weilt nicht gern am selben Ort; Sie streicht das Haar dir von der Stirne Und kusst dich rasch und flattert fort


Frau Ungluck hat im Gegentheile Dich liebefest an's Herz gedruckt; Sie sagt, sie habe keine Eile, Setzt sich zu dir an's Bett und strickt." --HEINE.


Something which Mirah had lately been watching for as the fulfilment of a threat, seemed now the continued visit of that familiar sorrow which had lately come back, bringing abundant luggage.

Something which Mirah had lately been watching for now came about.


Turning out of Knightsbridge, after singing at a charitable morning concert in a wealthy house, where she had been recommended by Klesmer, and where there had been the usual groups outside to see the departing company, she began to feel herself dogged by footsteps that kept an even pace with her own. Her concert dress being simple black, over which she had thrown a dust cloak, could not make her an object of unpleasant attention, and render walking an imprudence; but this reflection did not occur to Mirah: another kind of alarm lay uppermost in her mind. She immediately thought of her father, and could no more look round than if she had felt herself tracked by a ghost. To turn and face him would be voluntarily to meet the rush of emotions which beforehand seemed intolerable. If it were her father he must mean to claim recognition, and he would oblige her to face him. She must wait for that compulsion. She walked on, not quickening her pace--of what use was that?--but picturing what was about to happen as if she had the full certainty that the man behind her was her father; and along with her picturing went a regret that she had given her word to Mrs. Meyrick not to use any concealment about him. The regret at last urged her, at least, to try and hinder any sudden betrayal that would cause her brother an unnecessary shock. Under the pressure of this motive, she resolved to turn before she reached her own door, and firmly will the encounter instead of merely submitting to it. She had already reached the entrance of the small square where her home lay, and had made up her mind to turn, when she felt her embodied presentiment getting closer to her, then slipping to her side, grasping her wrist, and saying, with a persuasive curl of accent, "Mirah!"

Turning out of Knightsbridge after singing at a charitable morning concert, she began to feel herself dogged by footsteps that kept pace with her own. She immediately thought of her father, and could no more look round than if she had felt herself tracked by a ghost. She walked on, not quickening her pace - of what use was that? - but certain that the man behind her was her father. Hoping to prevent any unnecessary shock for her brother, she resolved to turn to meet her father before she reached her door. She came to the entrance of the small square where her home lay, but before she could turn she felt him grasping her wrist, and saying, with a persuasive curl of accent, "Mirah!"


She paused at once without any start; it was the voice she expected, and she was meeting the expected eyes. Her face was as grave as if she had been looking at her executioner, while his was adjusted to the intention of soothing and propitiating her. Once a handsome face, with bright color, it was now sallow and deep-lined, and had that peculiar impress of impudent suavity which comes from courting favor while accepting disrespect. He was lightly made and active, with something of youth about him which made the signs of age seem a disguise; and in reality he was hardly fifty-seven. His dress was shabby, as when she had seen him before. The presence of this unreverend father now, more than ever, affected Mirah with the mingled anguish of shame and grief, repulsion and pity--more than ever, now that her own world was changed into one where there was no comradeship to fence him from scorn and contempt.

She paused without any start; it was the voice she expected. Her face was as grave as if she were looking at her executioner, while his had a propitiating expression. Once a handsome face, it was now sallow and deep-lined, with an impudent suavity. He was lightly made and active, with something youthful about him which made the signs of age seem a disguise. His dress was shabby, and Mirah felt mingled shame and grief, repulsion and pity.


Slowly, with a sad, tremulous voice, she said, "It is you, father."


"Why did you run away from me, child?" he began with rapid speech which was meant to have a tone of tender remonstrance, accompanied with various quick gestures like an abbreviated finger-language. "What were you afraid of? You knew I never made you do anything against your will. It was for your sake I broke up your engagement in the Vorstadt, because I saw it didn't suit you, and you repaid me by leaving me to the bad times that came in consequence. I had made an easier engagement for you at the Vorstadt Theater in Dresden: I didn't tell you, because I wanted to take you by surprise. And you left me planted there--obliged to make myself scarce because I had broken contract. That was hard lines for me, after I had given up everything for the sake of getting you an education which was to be a fortune to you. What father devoted himself to his daughter more than I did to you? You know how I bore that disappointment in your voice, and made the best of it: and when I had nobody besides you, and was getting broken, as a man must who has had to fight his way with his brains--you chose that time to leave me. Who else was it you owed everything to, if not to me? and where was your feeling in return? For what my daughter cared, I might have died in a ditch."

"Why did you run away from me, child?" he began with rapid speech which was meant to have a tone of tender remonstrance. "What were you afraid of? I never made you do anything against your will. I broke up your engagement in the Vorstadt because I saw it didn't suit you, and you repaid me by leaving me. I had made an easier engagement for you: I didn't tell you, because I wanted to surprise you. And you left me planted there, after I had given up everything for the sake of getting you an education. What father devoted himself to his daughter more than I did? You know how I bore that disappointment in your voice, and made the best of it: and when I had nobody besides you, you chose to leave me. Who else did you owe everything to, if not to me? and where was your feeling in return? For what my daughter cared, I might have died in a ditch."


Lapidoth stopped short here, not from lack of invention, but because he had reached a pathetic climax, and gave a sudden sob, like a woman's, taking out hastily an old yellow silk handkerchief. He really felt that his daughter had treated him ill--a sort of sensibility which is naturally strong in unscrupulous persons, who put down what is owing to them, without any _per contra_. Mirah, in spite of that sob, had energy enough not to let him suppose that he deceived her. She answered more firmly, though it was the first time she had ever used accusing words to him.

Lapidoth stopped short here, not from lack of invention, but because he had reached a pathetic climax, and gave a sudden sob, taking out an old yellow silk handkerchief. He really felt that his daughter had treated him ill - a sort of feeling which is strong in unscrupulous persons. Mirah, despite that sob, answered firmly, though it was the first time she had ever used accusing words to him.


"You know why I left you, father; and I had reason to distrust you, because I felt sure that you had deceived my mother. If I could have trusted you, I would have stayed with you and worked for you."

"You know why I left you, father; and I had reason to distrust you, because I felt sure that you had deceived my mother."


"I never meant to deceive your mother, Mirah," said Lapidoth, putting back his handkerchief, but beginning with a voice that seemed to struggle against further sobbing. "I meant to take you back to her, but chances hindered me just at the time, and then there came information of her death. It was better for you that I should stay where I was, and your brother could take care of himself. Nobody had any claim on me but you. I had word of your mother's death from a particular friend, who had undertaken to manage things for me, and I sent him over money to pay expenses. There's one chance to be sure--" Lapidoth had quickly conceived that he must guard against something unlikely, yet possible--"he may have written me lies for the sake of getting the money out of me."

"I never meant to deceive your mother, Mirah," said Lapidoth, with a voice that struggled against further sobs. "I meant to take you back to her, but then I had word of her death from a particular friend, and I sent him money to pay necessary expenses. To be sure-" Lapidoth had quickly conceived that he must guard against something unlikely, yet possible - "he may have written me lies for the sake of getting money out of me."


Mirah made no answer; she could not bear to utter the only true one--"I don't believe one word of what you say"--and she simply showed a wish that they should walk on, feeling that their standing still might draw down unpleasant notice. Even as they walked along, their companionship might well have made a passer-by turn back to look at them. The figure of Mirah, with her beauty set off by the quiet, careful dress of an English lady, made a strange pendant to this shabby, foreign-looking, eager, and gesticulating man, who withal had an ineffaceable jauntiness of air, perhaps due to the bushy curls of his grizzled hair, the smallness of his hands and feet, and his light walk.

Mirah made no answer; she could not bear to utter the only true one - "I don't believe one word you say" - and she simply walked on. They might well have caused passers-by to turn to look at them: the figure of Mirah, with her beauty set off by the quiet, careful dress of an English lady, made a strange pendant to this shabby, foreign-looking, eagerly gesticulating man, with his light, jaunty walk.


"You seem to have done well for yourself, Mirah? _You_ are in no want, I see," said the father, looking at her with emphatic examination.

"You seem to have done well for yourself, Mirah? You are in no want, I see," he said.


"Good friends who found me in distress have helped me to get work," said Mirah, hardly knowing what she actually said, from being occupied with what she would presently have to say. "I give lessons. I have sung in private houses. I have just been singing at a private concert." She paused, and then added, with significance, "I have very good friends, who know all about me."

"Good friends who found me in distress have helped me to get work," said Mirah, "I give lessons. I have just been singing at a private concert." She paused, and then added, with significance, "I have very good friends, who know all about me."