Chapter Seven
The first sign of the unimagined snow-storm was like the transparent white cloud that sets off the blue. Anna was in the secret of Rex’s feeling; though he had said nothing to her about it, and took it for granted that she knew. For the first time, Anna could not tell Rex what was in her mind: she had to conceal her doubt and anxiety on his behalf. Anna admired her cousin – would have said sincerely, “Gwendolen is always very good to me;” but she looked at her with mingled fear and distrust, as at some wondrous animal whose nature was a mystery, and who, for anything Anna knew, might have an appetite for devouring small creatures.
And now Anna’s heart was sinking under the heavy conviction that Gwendolen would never care for Rex. Poor Rex! Papa would be angry with him if he knew. He was too young to be in love; and Anna had thought that it would be years before anything of that sort, and that she would be Rex’s housekeeper ever so long. But what a heart must that be which did not return his love! Anna, in the prospect of his suffering, was beginning to dislike her too fascinating cousin.
If Rex had been questioned on the subject he would have said that he had no wish to conceal what he hoped would be an engagement: and yet for the first time in his life he was reserved. Anna was nervous each time her father or mother began to speak to her in private lest they should say anything about Rex and Gwendolen. But the elders were not aware of this agitating drama: they regarded the doings of the young ones with scarcely more attention than they gave to the action of lively ants.
“Where are you going, Rex?” said Anna one grey morning when her father had set off in his carriage with Mrs. Gascoigne, and she had observed that her brother had on his hunting gear.
“Going to see the hounds set off at the Three Barns.”
“Are you going to take Gwendolen?” said Anna timidly.
“She told you, did she?”
“No, but – does papa know you are going?”
“No, but I don’t suppose he would mind.”
“You are taking his horse?”
“He knows I do that whenever I can.”
“Don’t let Gwendolen ride after the hounds, Rex,” said Anna, whose fears gifted her with second-sight.
“Why not?” said Rex, smiling rather provokingly.
“Papa and mamma think it is not right.”
“Why should you suppose she is going to do what is not right?”
“Gwendolen minds nobody sometimes,” said Anna.
“Then she would not mind me,” said Rex.
“Oh Rex, I cannot bear it. You will make yourself very unhappy.” Here Anna burst into tears.
“Nannie, Nannie, what on earth is the matter with you?” said Rex, a little impatient.
“She will not care for you one bit – I know she never will!” sobbed the poor child.
Rex reddened and hurried away. He thought of her unwelcome words as he rode along; but he quickly explained them as springing from little Anna’s tenderness, and began to be sorry he had come away without soothing her. While he did not believe she was right, he had just enough doubt and uneasiness to hurry on a confession which he might have delayed.
Gwendolen was already mounted and riding up and down the avenue when Rex appeared. The groom was dismissed, and the two rode away in delightful freedom. Gwendolen was in her highest spirits, and Rex thought that she had never looked so lovely; her figure, her long white throat, and her face were set off to perfection by her riding dress. He could not conceive a more perfect girl.
It was an exquisite January morning, with the charms of a mild winter scene – the hedgerows sprinkled with red berries and haunted with low twitterings, the purple bareness of the elms, the rich brown of the furrows. The horses’ hoofs made a musical chime, accompanying their young voices. She was laughing at his plain equipment, and he was enjoying her laughter; the freshness of the morning mingled with the freshness of their youth; and every sound, every glance flowed from a spring of joy. It was all morning to them.
“Anna got it into her head that you would want to ride after the hounds this morning,” said Rex.
“Did she?” said Gwendolen, laughingly. “What a little clairvoyant she is!”
“Shall you?” said Rex, who had not believed in her intending to do it if the elders objected, but assumed she had good reasons.
“I don’t know. I can’t tell what I shall do till I get there. Clairvoyants foresee what is likely, but I am not fond of what is likely: it is always dull. I do what is unlikely.”
“Ah, there you tell me a secret. Now that I know you would do the opposite of what is likely for people in general, you have come round to a likelihood of your own sort. Now you couldn’t surprise me.”
“Yes, I could. I should turn round and do what was likely for people in general,” said Gwendolen, with a musical laugh.
“You see you can’t escape some sort of likelihood.”
“I shall do what pleases me.” (If Gwendolen had been any less attractive, ten to one her words would have jarred on the sweet-natured Rex. But he saw only humour and pretty banter.) “Girls’ lives are so stupid: they never do what they like.”
“I thought that was more the case of men. They are forced to do hard things, and are often dreadfully bored, and knocked to pieces too. And then, if we love a girl very dearly we want to do as she likes, so after all you have your own way.”
“I don’t believe it. I never saw a married woman who had her own way.”
“What should you like to do?” said Rex guilelessly, and in real anxiety.
“Oh, I don’t know! – go to the North Pole, or ride steeple-chases, or be a queen in the East like Lady Hester Stanhope,” said Gwendolen, flightily. She would have been at a loss to give a deeper answer.
“You don’t mean you would never be married?”
“No; I didn’t say that. Only when I married, I should not do as other women do.”
“You might do as you liked if you married a man who loved you more dearly than anything else in the world,” said Rex. “I know one who does.”
“Don’t talk of Mr. Middleton, for heaven’s sake,” said Gwendolen, hastily, a quick blush spreading over her face; “I hear the hounds. Let us go.”
She put her chestnut to a canter, and Rex had no choice but to follow. Still he felt encouraged. Gwendolen was perfectly aware that he was in love with her; but she had no idea of the importance of the matter to him, having never felt painful love herself. She wished the small romance of Rex’s devotion to fill the time, and to avoid explanations which would bring it to an untimely end. Besides, she objected, with a physical repulsion, to being directly made love to. With all her imaginative delight in being adored, there was a certain fierceness of maidenhood in her.
But all other thoughts were soon lost for her in the excitement of the scene at the Three Barns. Several gentlemen of the hunt knew her, and exchanged pleasant greetings. Rex could not get another word with her. The stir of the field had taken possession of Gwendolen, although she had never yet ridden after the hounds – only said she should like to do it, and been forbidden; her mamma dreading the danger, and her uncle declaring that it was unseemly in a lady.
Some of the most respectable women in the neighbourhood occasionally went to see the hounds throw off; but none of them were present this morning. At the stir of the hounds and horses, Gwendolen felt that excitement of the coming chase, which consists in feeling something like a combination of dog and horse, with the superadded thrill of centaur-power.
Rex would have felt the same enjoyment if he could have kept nearer to Gwendolen, and not seen her constantly occupied with acquaintances on lively horses which veered about and swept the surrounding space.
“Glad to see you here this fine morning, Miss Harleth,” said Lord Brackenshaw, an easy-going, middle-aged peer of aristocratic seediness in stained pink. “We shall have a first-rate run. Have you ever tried your little chestnut at a ditch? you wouldn’t be afraid, eh?”
“No
t at all,” said Gwendolen. Just then the hounds gave tongue, and the whole field was in motion as if the whirl of the earth were carrying it; Gwendolen along with everything else. Rex followed her without a second thought. Under other circumstances he would have enjoyed the run, but he was perturbed by her check on his attempt to utter his love; and hampered by his father’s grey nag, Primrose, a good horse enough in his way, but of sober years and ecclesiastical habits.
Gwendolen on her spirited little chestnut was up with the best, and felt as secure as an immortal goddess, having no idea of risk for herself or her cousin. If she had thought of Rex, it would have struck her as a droll picture: a fine lithe youth falling behind, stuck on a stiff clerical hackney. But Gwendolen was apt to think rather of those who saw her than of those whom she could not see; and Rex was soon so far behind that if she had looked she would not have seen him. For I grieve to say that in the search for a gate, Primrose fell, broke his knees, and threw Rex over his head.
Fortunately a blacksmith’s son following the hounds on foot happened to see Rex’s misfortune. He ran to give help which was greatly needed, for Rex was stunned and in considerable pain. Joel Dagge assured Rex that his shoulder was only a bit out of joint, and offered experienced surgical aid.
“Lord, sir, let me shove it in again for you! I’s seen Nash, the bone-setter, do it, and done it myself for our little Sally. If you’ll trusten to me and tighten your mind up a bit, I’ll do it for you in no time.”
“Come then, old fellow,” said Rex, who could tighten his mind better than his seat in the saddle. And Joel managed the operation, though not without much pain to his patient, who turned so pale that Joel remarked, “Ah, sir, you aren’t used to it, that’s how it is. I’s see lots and lots o’ joints out. Now, sirrey” (this was addressed to Primrose), “you come alonk.”
Joel being clearly a low character, it is, happily, not necessary to say more of him to the refined reader, than that he helped Rex to get home with as little delay as possible. All the while Rex was anxious about Gwendolen. He comforted himself by reflecting that everyone would take care of her, and that some acquaintance would be sure to conduct her home.
Mr. Gascoigne was at home writing in his study, having learnt from Anna that Rex and Gwendolen had gone to the meet, when he was interrupted by seeing poor Rex come in looking pale and distressed.
“What is the matter?” he said hastily.
“I’m very sorry, sir; Primrose has fallen down and broken his knees.”
“Where have you been with him?” said Mr. Gascoigne, with a touch of severity.
“To the Three Barns to see the hounds throw off.”
“And you were fool enough to follow?”
“Yes, sir. I didn’t go at any fences, but the horse got his leg into a hole.”
“And you got hurt yourself, I hope, eh!”
“I got my shoulder put out, but a young blacksmith put it in again for me. I’m just a little battered, that’s all.”
“Well, sit down.”
“I’m very sorry about the horse, sir.”
“And what has become of Gwendolen?” said Mr. Gascoigne, abruptly. Rex answered with a nervous blush that was the more remarkable for his previous paleness–
“I am anxious to know – I would like to go to Offendene – but she rides so well, and there would most likely be many round her.”
“I suppose it was she who led you on, eh?” said Mr. Gascoigne, looking at Rex with more marked examination.
“She didn’t intend it beforehand – she was led away by the spirit of the thing. And, of course, I went when she went.”
Mr. Gascoigne, after a brief interval of silence, said, with quiet irony, “But now you see that you are not furnished with a horse which will enable you to play the squire to your cousin. You must give up that amusement. You have spoiled my nag for me, and that is enough mischief for one vacation. I shall beg you to get ready to start for Southampton tomorrow and join Stilfox, till you go up to Oxford with him.”
Poor Rex felt his heart swelling.
“I hope you will not insist on my going immediately, sir.” He bit his lips and felt the tears starting, to his great vexation; then he tried to say more firmly, “I want to go to Offendene.”
“I am going there myself. I can bring word about Gwendolen, if that is what you want.”
Rex broke down. “Father, I can’t go away without telling her that I love her, and knowing that she loves me.”
Mr. Gascoigne was inwardly going through some self-rebuke for not being more wary, and was now really sorry for the lad; but deciding on the wisest tactics in the case, he answered quietly–
“My dear boy, you are too young to be taking momentous steps of that sort. This is the fancy of an idle week or two: you must dismiss it. There is every reason against it. An engagement at your age would be totally rash; and moreover, alliances between first cousins are undesirable. Make up your mind to a brief disappointment. Life is full of them. We have all got to be broken in; and this is a mild beginning for you.”
“No, not mild. I can’t bear it. I shall be good for nothing. If it were settled between us, I could do anything,” said Rex, impetuously. “But it’s of no use to pretend that I will obey you, and never see Gwendolen again.”
“Well, wait till tomorrow morning, that we may talk of it again,” said Mr. Gascoigne; and Rex could not refuse.
When the rector went to Offendene that evening, he found Gwendolen not only safe, but elated. She had been given the fox’s brush, and had fastened it on her saddle; and Lord Brackenshaw had conducted her home, and had shown himself delighted with her spirited riding. All this was told to her uncle, to justify her acting against his advice; and the rector did feel himself in a slight difficulty, for he wished his niece to be well-regarded by the Brackenshaws. Mrs. Davilow put in–
“I do hope you will not do it again, Gwendolen. I should never have a moment’s quiet. Her father died by an accident, you know.”
“Mamma, dear,” said Gwendolen merrily, “children don’t take after their parents in broken legs.”
Not one word had yet been said about Rex. In fact there had been no anxiety about him at Offendene. Gwendolen had observed to her mamma, “Oh, he must have been left far behind, and gone home in despair.” But now Mr. Gascoigne said, with some emphasis–
“Well, the exploit has ended better for you than for Rex.”
“Yes, I dare say he had a terrible round.” said Gwendolen, without the faintest sign of alarm.
“Rex has had a fall,” said Mr. Gascoigne, curtly, throwing himself into an arm-chair while he watched Gwendolen, who said–
“Oh, poor fellow! he is not hurt, I hope?” with a correct look of superficial anxiety.
“He put his shoulder out, and got some bruises.” Here Mr Gascoigne made another pause of observation; but Gwendolen, instead of turning pale and silent, only said again,
“Oh, poor fellow! it is nothing serious, then?” and Mr. Gascoigne held his diagnosis complete. But wishing to make assurance doubly sure, he went on.
“He got his arm set again rather oddly. Some blacksmith set it for him immediately. I believe Primrose came off worst. His knees are cut to pieces. He came down in a hole, and pitched Rex over his head.”
Gwendolen’s face had become contented again, since Rex’s arm had been reset; and now laughter broke forth.
“Pray forgive me, uncle,” she said. “Now Rex is safe, it is so droll to fancy the scene. It would make a capital caricature of ‘Following the Hounds.’“
Gwendolen rather valued herself on her superior freedom in laughing where others might only see matter for seriousness. Indeed, she laughed so gracefully that her opinion was often shared by others; and it even entered into her uncle’s head that it was no wonder a boy should be fascinated by this young witch.
“How can you laugh at broken bones, child?” said Mrs. Davilow. “I was wrong to encourage you in asking for that horse.”
�
��Yes, seriously, Gwendolen,” said Mr. Gascoigne, in a judicious tone, “I strongly recommend you not to repeat today’s adventure. Lord Brackenshaw is very kind, but I feel sure he would agree. Depend upon it, his lordship would not let his daughters hunt, if they were old enough to do so. When you are married, you may do whatever your husband sanctions. But if you intend to hunt, you must marry a man who can keep horses.”
“I should certainly not marry without that prospect, at least,” said Gwendolen, pettishly. Her uncle’s speech had annoyed her, and she went out.
“She always speaks in that way about marriage,” said Mrs. Davilow; “but it will be different when she has seen the right person.”
“Her heart has never been touched?” said Mr. Gascoigne.
Mrs. Davilow shook her head. “It was only last night she said to me, ‘Mamma, I wonder how girls manage to fall in love. Men are too ridiculous.’“
Mr. Gascoigne laughed a little, and made no further remark.
The next morning at breakfast he said–
“How are your bruises, Rex? Do you feel ready for a journey to Southampton?”
“Not quite,” answered Rex, with his heart in his mouth.
“Well, you can wait till tomorrow, and go to say goodbye to them at Offendene.”
Mrs. Gascoigne, who now knew the whole affair, looked steadily at her coffee lest she should begin to cry, as Anna was doing already. Mr. Gascoigne felt that he was applying a sharp remedy to poor Rex, but he believed it to be kindest to let him know the hopelessness of his love from Gwendolen’s own lips.
Presently Rex, with his arm in a sling, was on his two miles’ walk to Offendene. He was rather puzzled by the unconditional permission to see Gwendolen, but his father’s real reason never entered his head.
When he got to the house, the four younger girls rushed out and hung round him with compassionate inquiries about his arm, while Mrs. Davilow wanted to know exactly what had happened. Rex had never found the family troublesome before, but just now he wished them all away and Gwendolen there.
“Where is Gwendolen?” he said. “Aunt, I want to speak to Gwendolen – I want to see her alone.”
“Very well, dear; go into the drawing-room. I will send her there,” said Mrs. Davilow, who had observed that he was fond of being with Gwendolen, but had not thought of this as significant.
Rex for his part felt that his life was hanging on this interview. He had to walk up and down the drawing-room in expectation for nearly ten minutes; yet, strange to say, he was occupied only in thinking how, once Gwendolen had accepted him, he could satisfy his father that the engagement was prudent.
But when the door opened and Gwendolen entered, he felt suddenly a tremor and distrust which he had never felt before. Miss Gwendolen, in her black silk, a black band fastening her silky abundance of hair, seemed more queenly than usual, with none of her usual latent fun. How much of this was due to her fear that he was going to talk of love? How much from her desire to show regret about his accident? Something of both. But perhaps Gwendolen was also out of temper – or not exactly that, but felt the world unequal to her demands.
However it might be, Rex saw an awful majesty about her as she entered and put out her hand without a smile. She said with perfect propriety, “I hope you are not much hurt, Rex. You should reproach me for your accident.”
“Not at all,” said Rex, feeling the soul within him spreading like an attack of illness. “There is hardly any thing the matter with me. I am so glad you had the pleasure, only I was sorry to break the horse’s knees.”
Gwendolen walked to the hearth and stood looking at the fire.
“My father wants me to go to Southampton,” said Rex, his voice trembling a little.
“Southampton! That’s a stupid place to go to, isn’t it?” said Gwendolen, chilly.
“It would be to me, because you would not be there.” Silence. “Should you mind about me going away?”
“Of course. All company matters in this dreary country,” she said curtly. The perception that poor Rex wanted to be tender made her curl up and harden.
“Are you angry with me, Gwendolen? Why do you treat me in this way?” said Rex, flushing, and with spirit.
Gwendolen looked round at him and smiled. “Treat you? Nonsense! I am only rather cross.”
“Be as cross as you like – only don’t treat me with indifference,” implored Rex. “All the happiness of my life depends on your loving me.”
He tried to take her hand, but she hastily eluded his grasp and moved away.
“Pray don’t make love to me! I hate it!” she said fiercely.
Rex turned pale and was silent, but could not take his eyes off her. Gwendolen herself had not foreseen that she should feel this way. It was all a sudden, new experience to her. The day before she had been quite aware that her cousin was in love with her; she did not mind, so long as he said nothing about it. But now she felt passionately averse to this volunteered love.
To Rex the joy of life seemed at an end.
“Is that last word you have to say to me, Gwendolen? Will it always be so?”
She could not help feeling a little regret for the old Rex. Decisively, but yet with some return of kindness, she said–
“About making love? Yes. But I don’t dislike you for anything else.”
There was a pause before he said a low “good-bye” and left the room. She heard the heavy hall door bang behind him.
Mrs. Davilow, too, heard it, and came into the drawing-room, where she found Gwendolen seated on the low couch, her face buried, sobbing bitterly.
“My child, my child, what is it?” cried the mother, who had never before seen her darling struck down in this way, and felt an alarmed anguish; for this child had been her ruler. She pressed her cheek against Gwendolen’s, and Gwendolen, letting her head rest against her mother, cried out sobbingly, “Oh, mamma, what can become of my life? there is nothing worth living for! I shall never love anybody. I can’t love people. I hate them.”
“The time will come, dear, the time will come.”
Gwendolen was convulsed with sobbing; but putting her arms round her mother’s neck with an almost painful clinging, she said brokenly, “I can’t bear anyone to be very near me but you.”
Then the mother began to sob, for this spoiled child had never shown such dependence on her before: and so they clung to each other.
George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged Page 8