Chapter Eight
There was a much more lasting trouble at the rectory. Rex threw himself on his bed in a state of apathy, which the next day began to be interrupted by signs of illness. Nothing could be said about his going to Southampton: instead, the chief thought of his mother and Anna was how to tend this patient who did not want to be well, and from being the brightest, most grateful spirit in the household, was changed into a dull-eyed creature who met all affectionate attempts with a murmur of “Let me alone.”
His father was sorry for his suffering, and sat with him now and then, parting with a “God bless you, my boy.” Anna was always there, and was allowed to hold his unresponding hand. Her soul was divided between anguish for Rex and reproach of Gwendolen. And even Mrs. Gascoigne had an angry feeling toward her niece which she could not refrain from expressing to her husband.
“Really, Henry, I think she is hard; she has the heart of a coquette. And some blame attaches to poor Fanny; she is quite blind about that girl.”
Mr. Gascoigne answered: “I ought to have been more awake myself. Rex may be thankful if nothing worse ever happens to him.”
The rector felt that there had been a great escape. Gwendolen in love with Rex would have made a much harder problem to solve. But he had further difficulty to come.
One fine morning Rex asked for his bath, and dressed himself. Anna, excited at this change, listened for his coming down, and on hearing his step, ran to meet him. For the first time he gave her a faint smile, but such a melancholy one that she could hardly help crying.
“Nannie!” he said gently, taking her hand and leading her slowly to the drawing-room. His mother was there, and when she came to kiss him, he said: “What a plague I am!”
Then he sat still and looked out of the bow-window on the lawn and shrubs covered with hoar-frost. He felt as if he had had a resurrection into a new world, and did not know what to do with himself there. Anna sat near him, pretending to work, but really watching him. After a while, she could not resist the impulse to bring a little stool and seat herself against his knee, looking up at him with an expression which seemed to say, “Do speak to me.” And he spoke.
“Nannie, I think I will go to Canada, or somewhere of that sort.”
“Oh, Rex, not for always!”
“Yes. I should like to build a hut, and work hard at clearing, and have everything wild about me, and a great wide quiet.”
“And not take me with you?” said Anna tearfully.
“How could I?”
“I should like it better than anything; and settlers go with their families. I could make the fires, and mend the clothes, and cook the food. It would be like playing at life as we used to do when we made our tent with the drugget, and had our little plates and dishes.”
“Father and mother would not let you go.”
“Yes, I think they would, when I explained everything. It would save money to bring up the boys with.”
The talk ended in Rex’s consenting that Anna should go with him when he spoke to his father on the subject. They chose a time when the rector was alone in his study.
“Well, my children!” said Mr. Gascoigne, cheerfully, as they entered. It was a comfort to see Rex about again.
“May we sit down with you, papa?” said Anna. “Rex has something to say.”
“With all my heart.”
“You know all about what has upset me, father,” Rex began, and Mr. Gascoigne nodded. “I am quite done up for life in this part of the world. I am sure it will be no use my going back to Oxford. I should fail, and cause you expense for nothing. I want to have your consent to take another course, sir.”
Mr. Gascoigne nodded more slowly, the line on his brow deepening.
“I should like to go to the colonies and work on the land there.” Rex thought the vagueness of “the colonies” less likely to be rebutted than any particular settlement.
“Oh, and with me, papa,” said Anna. “Rex would want someone to take care of him, you know, to keep house. And we shall never, either of us, be married. And I should cost nothing, and I should be so happy. I know it would be hard to leave you and mamma; but there are the others to bring up, and we two should be no trouble to you any more.”
Anna had gone closer to her papa as she spoke. He did not smile, but drew her on his knee and held her there, as if to put her gently out of the question while he spoke to Rex.
“You will admit that my experience means that I can probably guide you in practical matters better than you can guide yourself?”
Rex was obliged to say, “Yes, sir.”
“And perhaps you will admit that you are bound in duty to consider my judgment and wishes?”
“I have never yet opposed you, sir.”
“But you will do so if you persist in following a rash and foolish course. You think, I suppose, that you have had a shock which has stupefied your brains, unfitted you for anything but manual labour, and given you a dislike to society? Is that what you believe?”
“Something like that. I shall never be up to the sort of work I must do in this part of the world. I have not the spirit for it. I shall never be the same again. And I think a young fellow should be allowed to choose his way of life, if he harms nobody.”
“But suppose I am convinced on good evidence that this state of mind is transient, and that you would by-and-by repent, and feel that you had lost the chance of education? Have you not strength of mind enough to see that you had better act on my assurance for a time, and test it? In my opinion you have no right whatever to go abroad until you have honestly endeavoured to turn to account the education you have received here. I say nothing of the grief to your mother and me.”
“I’m very sorry; but what can I do? I can’t study, that’s certain,” said Rex.
“Not just now, perhaps. You will have to miss a term. I have made arrangements for you. But I confess I am disappointed in you, Rex. I thought you had more sense than to suppose that because you have fallen into a common trouble, such as most men have to go through, you are loosened from all bonds of duty – as if your brain had softened and you were no longer a responsible being.”
What could Rex say? Inwardly he rebelled, but he had no arguments to meet his father’s; and it lay in a deep fold of his consciousness that he ought to feel more about his old ties. This is the sort of faith we live by in our soul sicknesses. He got up from his seat.
“You assent to my arrangement, then?” said Mr. Gascoigne.
There was a pause before Rex answered, “I’ll try, sir. I can’t promise.” His thought was, that trying would be of no use.
Her father held Anna, though she wanted to follow Rex out of the room. “Oh, papa,” she said when the door had closed; “it is very hard for him. Doesn’t he look ill?”
“Yes, but he will soon be better; it will all blow over. And now, Anna, be as quiet as a mouse about it. Never let it be mentioned.”
“No, papa.” Anna dared not say that she was disappointed at not being allowed to go to the colonies with Rex; but that was her secret feeling.
George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged Page 9