Chapter Forty-four
And Gwendolen? She was thinking of Deronda much more than he was thinking of her – often wondering about his ideas, and how his life was occupied. But a lap-dog would be at a loss to understand the adventures of doghood at large; and Gwendolen had no conception that Deronda’s life could be determined by the historical destiny of the Jews.
She imagined a larger place for herself in his thoughts than she actually held; but with her youth and solitude, she may be excused for dwelling on any signs of special interest in her shown by the one person who had impressed her into feeling submission.
What would he tell her to do? “He said, I must get more interest in others, and more knowledge – but how am I to begin?” She wondered what books he would tell her to read, recalling the famous writers that she had either not looked into or had found the most unreadable; and carried a selection to her room – Descartes, Bacon, Locke. Knowing from her education that these authors were ornaments of mankind, she felt sure that Deronda had read them, and hoped that by dipping into them, with her rapid understanding she might get a point of view nearer to his level.
But it was astonishing how little time she found for these vast mental excursions. Constantly she had to be on the scene as Mrs. Grandcourt, and to feel herself watched in that part by the exacting eyes of a husband who chose to rule her the more completely the more he discerned any opposing will in her.
And she herself, whatever rebellion might be going on within her, did not wish to fail in playing this part. She dreaded betraying her true feelings to the world: her determination to be silent in every other direction had thrown the more impetuosity into her confidences toward Deronda, to whom her thought continually turned as a help against herself. Her riding, her hunting, her visits, were all performed in a spirit of achievement which served instead of zest and young gladness, so that all around Diplow Mrs. Grandcourt was regarded as wearing her honours with triumph.
To her mother most of all Gwendolen was bent on acting complete satisfaction. Poor Mrs. Davilow was so well deceived that she took the unexpected distance at which she was kept as indifference in her daughter, now that marriage had created new interests. To be fetched to lunch and dinner along with the Gascoignes, to be driven back the next morning, and to have brief calls from Gwendolen while her husband waited for her outside, was all the intercourse allowed to her mother.
The truth was, that the second time Gwendolen proposed to invite her mother with Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne, Grandcourt had drawled, “We can’t be having those people always. Gascoigne talks too much. Country clergy are always bores.”
That speech was full of foreboding for Gwendolen. Still, she could not say to her mother, “Mr. Grandcourt wants to recognize you as little as possible; and it is better you should not see much of my married life, in case you find out that I am miserable.” So she waived as lightly as she could every allusion to the subject; and when Mrs. Davilow again hinted the possibility of moving closer to Ryelands, Gwendolen said,–
“It would not be so nice for you as being near the rectory here, mamma. We shall perhaps be very little at Ryelands. You would miss my aunt and uncle.”
Meanwhile this contemptuous veto of her husband’s on any intimacy with her family was rousing her attachment to them. She had never felt so kindly toward her uncle, so much disposed to look on his cheerful, complacent activity as a greater comfort than the neutral loftiness which was every day chilling her. And here perhaps she was unconsciously finding some of that mental enlargement which it was hard to get from her occasional dashes into difficult authors.
It was a delightful surprise one day, when Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne were at Offendene, for the family to see Gwendolen ride up without her husband. Even the elder ones were not without something of Isabel’s sense that the beautiful sister on the splendid chestnut was a romantic heroine appearing out of her “happiness ever after.”
Gwendolen sprang from her horse with an alacrity which might well signify happiness; for she was particularly bent today on setting her mother’s heart at rest, and her freedom in being able to make this visit alone enabled her to bear up under the pressure of painful facts. The seven family kisses were not so tiresome as they used to be.
“Mr. Grandcourt is gone out, so I decided to fill the time by coming to you, mamma,” said Gwendolen. Sitting next to her mother, she said with a playfully admonitory air, “That is a punishment to you for not wearing better lace. You didn’t think I should detect you – you dreadfully careless-about-yourself mamma!” She gave a caressing touch to the dear head.
“Scold me, dear,” said Mrs. Davilow, her delicate worn face flushing with delight. “But I wish you would eat after your ride. Let Jocosa make you a cup of chocolate. You used to like that.”
Miss Merry immediately rose and went out, though Gwendolen said, “Oh, no, a piece of bread. I can’t think about eating. I am come to say good-bye.”
“What! going to Ryelands again?” said Mr. Gascoigne.
“No, we are going to town,” said Gwendolen, beginning to break up a piece of bread, but putting none into her mouth.
“It is rather early to go to town,” said Mrs. Gascoigne.
“Oh, there is only one more day’s hunting, and Henleigh has some business in town with lawyers, I think,” said Gwendolen. “I am very glad. I shall like to go to town.”
“You will see your house in Grosvenor Square,” said Mrs. Davilow, devouring Gwendolen’s every movement with her eyes.
“Yes. And there is so much to be done in town.”
“I wish, my dear Gwendolen,” said Mr. Gascoigne cordially, “that you would use your influence with Mr. Grandcourt to induce him to enter Parliament. A man of his position should make his weight felt in politics. And he has now come to that stage of life when a man like him should enter into public affairs. A wife has great influence with her husband. Use yours in that direction, my dear.”
To Gwendolen this speech had the flavour of bitter comedy. The wife’s great influence! She had once believed in her future influence as all-powerful in managing – she did not know exactly what. But her chief concern was to give an appropriate answer.
“I should be very glad, uncle. But I think Mr. Grandcourt would not like the trouble of an election – at least, unless it could be without his making speeches. I thought candidates always made speeches.”
“Not necessarily,” said Mr. Gascoigne. “A man of position can get on without much of it. A county member need have very little trouble in that way, and is liked the better for not being a speechifier. Tell Mr. Grandcourt that I say so.”
“Here comes Jocosa with my chocolate,” said Gwendolen, escaping from a promise that would certainly have been received in a way inconceivable to the good rector. Mr. Gascoigne had concluded that Grandcourt was a proud man, but he was not so selfish as to resent his niece’s husband for keeping him haughtily at a distance. A certain aloofness must be allowed to the representative of an old family. But Mrs. Gascoigne felt Grandcourt’s haughtiness as something a little blameable in Gwendolen.
“Your uncle and Anna will very likely be in town about Easter,” she said. “Dear Rex hopes to come out with honours and a fellowship, and wants his father and Anna to meet him in London, that they may be jolly together, as he says. I shouldn’t wonder if Lord Brackenshaw invited them; he is so very kind.”
“I hope my uncle will bring Anna to stay in Grosvenor Square,” said Gwendolen, in reality wishing that she need never bring any of her family near Grandcourt again. “I am very glad of Rex’s good fortune.”
“We must not be premature, and rejoice too much beforehand,” said the rector, to whom this topic was the happiest in the world, and altogether allowable, now that the result of that little affair about Gwendolen had been so satisfactory. “However, impartial judges have the highest hopes about my son, as a singularly clear-headed young man of excellent disposition and principle.”
“We shall have him a grea
t lawyer some time,” said Mrs. Gascoigne.
“How very nice!” said Gwendolen.
“Talking of Lord Brackenshaw’s kindness,” said Mrs. Davilow, “he has begged me to consider myself his guest in this house till I can get another. But now a house has turned up. Old Mr. Jodson is dead, and we can have his. It is just what I want; small, but with nothing hideous to make you miserable thinking about it. And it is only a mile from the Rectory.”
“But you have no furniture, poor mamma,” said Gwendolen.
“Oh, I am saving money for that. You know who has made me rather rich, dear,” said Mrs. Davilow, laying her hand on Gwendolen’s. “And Jocosa really makes so little do for housekeeping – it is quite wonderful.”
“Oh, please let me go upstairs with you and arrange my hat, mamma,” said Gwendolen, suddenly putting her hand to her hair. Her heart was swelling, and she was ready to cry. Her mother must have been worse off, if it had not been for Grandcourt.
As they entered the bedroom, she looked around, saying, “I suppose I shall never see all this again,” and then throwing herself into a chair in front of the glass with a little groan. In the resolve not to cry she had become very pale.
“You are not well, dear?” said Mrs. Davilow.
“No; that chocolate has made me sick,” said Gwendolen, putting up her hand to be taken.
“I should be allowed to come to you if you were ill, darling,” said Mrs. Davilow, rather timidly, as she pressed the hand. Something had made her sure today that her child loved and needed her as much as ever.
“Oh, yes,” said Gwendolen, leaning her head against her mother, though speaking lightly. “But I never am ill. I am as strong as possible; and you must not fret about me, but make yourself happy with the girls. They are better children to you than I have been, you know.” She turned up her face with a smile.
“You have always been good, my darling.”
“Why, what did I ever do that was good to you, except marry Mr. Grandcourt?” said Gwendolen, with a desperate resolve to be playful. “And I should not have done that unless it had pleased myself.”
“God forbid, child! I would not have had you marry for my sake. Your happiness by itself is half mine.”
“Very well,” said Gwendolen, arranging her hat, “then please consider yourself half happy, which is more than I am used to seeing you.” She turned with her old playful smile to her mother. “Oh, mamma, Mr. Grandcourt gives me a quantity of money, and expects me to spend it, and I can’t; so here are thirty pounds. I wish the girls would spend it on little things for themselves when you go to the new house. Tell them so.” Gwendolen put the notes into her mother’s hands and moved hastily toward the door.
“God bless you, dear,” said Mrs. Davilow. “It will please them so that you should have thought of them.”
“Oh, they are troublesome things; but they don’t trouble me now,” said Gwendolen. She hardly understood her own feeling in this act toward her sisters, but did not wish it to be taken as anything serious. She was glad to get out of the bedroom without showing more emotion, and she went through the rest of her visit with a quiet propriety that made her say to herself sarcastically as she rode away, “I think I am making a very good Mrs. Grandcourt.”
She believed that her husband had gone to Gadsmere that day; and the strange conflict of feeling within her had sent her to Offendene with a tightened resolve. She wondered at her own contradictions. Why should she be bitter that Grandcourt showed concern for the beings on whose account she herself was undergoing remorse? Had she not before her marriage inwardly determined to speak on their behalf? – and since he had lately implied that he wanted to be in town to make arrangements about his will, she ought to have been glad of any sign that he kept a conscience awake toward those at Gadsmere.
Yet the sense that he was gone to Gadsmere was like a burn. She had brought on herself this indignity – this humiliating terror lest her husband should discover with what knowledge she had married him; and as she had said to Deronda, she “must go on.” After the intense moments of secret hatred toward this husband who cowed her, there always came back the spiritual pressure which made submission inevitable. Any effort at freedom would bring worse humiliation. It still seemed that the worst result would be that she should make a spectacle of herself; and her humiliation was lightened by her thinking that only Mrs. Glasher was aware of the cause.
For Gwendolen did not know about Lush’s involvement; she had never considered how news had been conveyed to Mrs. Glasher. To her mind the secret lay with Mrs. Glasher only, and she thought the horrible letter implied that Mrs. Glasher would dread disclosure to Grandcourt.
Something else, too, she thought of as more secret from her husband than it really was – namely, that suppressed struggle of desperate rebellion within her. Grandcourt could not fully imagine how things affected Gwendolen: he had no imagination of anything in her but what affected the gratification of his own will; but on this point he had the sensibility which seems like divination. What we see exclusively we are apt to see with some mistake of proportions; and Grandcourt was not infallible in his judgments concerning this wife who was governed by many shadowy powers unknown to him. He magnified her inward resistance, but that did not lessen his satisfaction in the mastery of it.
George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged Page 47