by George Eliot
“Going to see the hounds throw off at the Three Barns.”
“Are you going to take Gwendolen?” said Anna, timidly.
“She told you, did she?”
“No, but I thought—Does papa know you are going?”
“Not that I am aware of. I don’t suppose he would trouble himself about the matter.”
“You are going to use 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 and aunt Davilow all wish her not to. They think it is not right for her.”
“Why should you suppose she is going to do what is not right?”
“Gwendolen minds nobody sometimes,” said Anna getting bolder by dint of a little anger.
“Then she would not mind me,” said Rex, perversely making a joke of poor Anna’s anxiety.
“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 at being kept in this way, hat on and whip in hand.
“She will not care for you one bit—I know she never will!” said the poor child in a sobbing whisper. She had lost all control of herself.
Rex reddened and hurried away from her out of the hall door, leaving her to the miserable consciousness of having made herself disagreeable in vain.
He did think of her words as he rode along; they had the unwelcomeness which all unfavorable fortune-telling has, even when laughed at; but he quickly explained them as springing from little Anna’s tenderness, and began to be sorry that he was obliged to come away without soothing her. Every other feeling on the subject, however, was quickly merged in a resistant belief to the contrary of hers, accompanied with a new determination to prove that he was right. This sort of certainty had just enough kinship to doubt and uneasiness to hurry on a confession which an untouched security might have delayed.
Gwendolen was already mounted and riding up and down the avenue when Rex appeared at the gate. She had provided herself against disappointment in case he did not appear in time by having the groom ready behind her, for she would not have waited beyond a reasonable time. But now 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 before; her figure, her long white throat, and the curves of her cheek and chin were always set off to perfection by the compact simplicity of her riding dress. He could not conceive a more perfect girl; and to a youthful lover like Rex it seems that the fundamental identity of the good, the true and the beautiful, is already extant and manifest in the object of his love. Most observers would have held it more than equally accountable that a girl should have like impressions about Rex, for in his handsome face there was nothing corresponding to the undefinable stinging quality—as it were a trace of demon ancestry—which made some beholders hesitate in their admiration of Gwendolen.
It was an exquisite January morning in which there was no threat of rain, but a gray sky making the calmest background for the charms of a mild winter scene—the grassy borders of the lanes, 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 equipment, for he was the reverse of a dandy, and he was enjoying her laughter; the freshness of the morning mingled with the freshness of their youth; and every sound that came from their clear throats, every glance they gave each other, was the bubbling outflow from a spring of joy. It was all morning to them, within and without. And thinking of them in these moments one is tempted to that futile sort of wishing—if only things could have been a little otherwise then, so as to have been greatly otherwise after—if only these two beautiful young creatures could have pledged themselves to each other then and there, and never through life have swerved from that pledge! For some of the goodness which Rex believed in was there. Goodness is a large, often a prospective word; like harvest, which at one stage when we talk of it lies all underground, with an indeterminate future; is the germ prospering in the darkness? at another, it has put forth delicate green blades, and by-and-by the trembling blossoms are ready to be dashed off by an hour of rough wind or rain. Each stage has its peculiar blight, and may have the healthy life choked out of it by a particular action of the foul land which rears or neighbors it, or by damage brought from foulness afar.
“Anna had got it into her head that you would want to ride after the hounds this morning,” said Rex, whose secret associations with Anna’s words made this speech seem quite perilously near the most momentous of subjects.
“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 confided in her having good reasons.
“I don’t know. I can’t tell what I shall do till I get there. Clairvoyants are often wrong: they foresee what is likely. I am not fond of what is likely: it is always dull. I do what is unlikely.”
“Ah, there you tell me a secret. When once I knew what people in general would be likely to do, I should know you would do the opposite. So you would have come round to a likelihood of your own sort. I shall be able to calculate on you. 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. And contradictoriness makes the strongest likelihood of all. You must give up a plan.”
“No, I shall not. My plan is to do what pleases me.” (Here should any young lady incline to imitate Gwendolen, let her consider the set of her head and neck: if the angle there had been different, the chin protrusive, and the cervical vertebrae a trifle more curved in their position, ten to one Gwendolen’s words would have had a jar in them for the sweet-natured Rex. But everything odd in her speech was humor and pretty banter, which he was only anxious to turn toward one point.)
“Can you manage to feel only what pleases you?” said he.
“Of course not; that comes from what other people do. But if the world were pleasanter, one would only feel what was pleasant. Girls’ lives are so stupid: they never do what they like.”
“I thought that was more the case of the 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, quite guilelessly, and in real anxiety.
“Oh, I don’t know!—go to the North Pole, or ride steeple-chases, or go to be a queen in the East like Lady Hester Stanhope,” said Gwendolen, flightily. Her words were born on her lips, but she would have been at a loss to give an answer of deeper origin.
“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 just as you liked if you married a man who loved you more dearly than anything else in the world,” said Rex, who, poor youth, was moving in themes outside the curriculum in which he had promised to win distinction. “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 and neck; “that is Anna’s chant. I hear the hounds. Let us go on.”
She put her chestnut to a canter, and Rex had no choice but to follow her. Still he felt encouraged. Gwendolen was perfectly aware that her cousin was in love with her; but she had no idea that the
matter was of any consequence, having never had the slightest visitation of painful love herself. She wished the small romance of Rex’s devotion to fill up the time of his stay at Pennicote, and to avoid explanations which would bring it to an untimely end. Besides, she objected, with a sort of 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 she exchanged pleasant greetings. Rex could not get another word with her. The color, the stir of the field had taken possession of Gwendolen with a strength which was not due to habitual associations, for she had never yet ridden after the hounds—only said she should like to do it, and so drawn forth a prohibition; her mamma dreading the danger, and her uncle declaring that for his part he held that kind of violent exercise unseemly in a woman, and that whatever might be done in other parts of the country, no lady of good position followed the Wessex hunt: no one but Mrs. Gadsby, the yeomanry captain’s wife, who had been a kitchenmaid and still spoke like one. This last argument had some effect on Gwendolen, and had kept her halting between her desire to assert her freedom and her horror of being classed with Mrs. Gadsby.
Some of the most unexceptionable women in the neighborhood occasionally went to see the hounds throw off; but it happened that none of them were present this morning to abstain from following, while Mrs. Gadsby, with her doubtful antecedents, grammatical and otherwise, was not visible to make following seem unbecoming. Thus Gwendolen felt no check on the animal stimulus that came from the stir and tongue of the hounds, the pawing of the horses, the varying voices of men, the movement hither and thither of vivid color on the background of green and gray stillness:—that utmost excitement of the coming chase which consists in feeling something like a combination of dog and horse, with the superadded thrill of social vanities and consciousness of centaur-power which belongs to humankind.
Rex would have felt more of the same enjoyment if he could have kept nearer to Gwendolen, and not seen her constantly occupied with acquaintances, or looked at by would-be acquaintances, all on lively horses which veered about and swept the surrounding space as effectually as a revolving lever.
“Glad to see you here this fine morning, Miss Harleth,” said Lord Brackenshaw, a middle-aged peer of aristocratic seediness in stained pink, with easy-going manners which would have made the threatened deluge seem of no consequence. “We shall have a first-rate run. A pity you didn’t go with us. Have you ever tried your little chestnut at a ditch? you wouldn’t be afraid, eh?”
“Not the least in the world,” said Gwendolen. And that was true: she was never fearful in action and companionship. “I have often taken him at some rails and a ditch too, near—”
“Ah, by Jove!” said his lordship, quietly, in notation that something was happening which must break off the dialogue: and as he reined off his horse, Rex was bringing his sober hackney up to Gwendolen’s side when—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; no word of notice to Rex, who without a second thought followed too. Could he let Gwendolen go alone? under other circumstances he would have enjoyed the run, but he was just now perturbed by the check which had been put on the impetus to utter his love, and get utterance in return, an impetus which could not at once resolve itself into a totally different sort of chase, at least with the consciousness of being on his father’s gray nag, 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, if she had thought of risk, a core of confidence that no ill luck would happen to her. But she thought of no such thing, and certainly not of any risk there might be for her cousin. If she had thought of him, it would have struck her as a droll picture that he should be gradually falling behind, and looking round in search of gates: a fine lithe youth, whose heart must be panting with all the spirit of a beagle, stuck as if under a wizard’s spell on a stiff clerical hackney, would have made her laugh with a sense of fun much too strong for her to reflect on his mortification. 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, along a lane lately mended, Primrose fell, broke his knees, and undesignedly threw Rex over his head.
Fortunately a blacksmith’s son who also followed the hounds under disadvantages, namely, on foot (a loose way of hunting which had struck some even frivolous minds as immoral), was naturally also in the rear, and happened to be within sight of Rex’s misfortune. He ran to give help which was greatly needed, for Rex was a great deal stunned, and the complete recovery of sensation came in the form of pain. Joel Dagge on this occasion showed himself that most useful of personages, whose knowledge is of a kind suited to the immediate occasion: he not only knew perfectly well what was the matter with the horse, how far they were both from the nearest public-house and from Pennicote Rectory, and could certify to Rex that his shoulder was only a bit out of joint, but also 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 twice over. It’s all one and the same, shoulders is. 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 considerable expense of pain to his patient, who turned so pitiably pale while tightening his mind, 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. I see a man with his eye pushed out once—that was a rum go as ever I see. You can’t have a bit o’ fun wi’out such sort o’ things. But it went in again. I’s swallowed three teeth mysen, as sure as I’m alive. Now, sirrey” (this was addressed to Primrose), “come alonk—you musn’t make believe as you can’t.”
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. There was no alternative but to get home, though all the while he was in anxiety about Gwendolen, and more miserable in the thought that she, too, might have had an accident, than in the pain of his own bruises and the annoyance he was about to cause his father. He comforted himself about her by reflecting that every one would be anxious to take care of her, and that some acquaintance would be sure to conduct her home.
Mr. Gascoigne was already at home, and was writing letters in his study, when he was interrupted by seeing poor Rex come in with a face which was not the less handsome and ingratiating for being pale and a little distressed. He was secretly the favorite son, and a young portrait of the father; who, however, never treated him with any partiality—rather, with an extra rigor. Mr. Gascoigne having inquired of Anna, knew that Rex had gone with Gwendolen to the meet at the Three Barns.
“What is the matter?” he said hastily, not laying down his pen.
“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. He rarely gave way to temper.
“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; I knew it would be a vexatio
n to you.”
“And what has become of Gwendolen?” said Mr. Gascoigne, abruptly. Rex, who did not imagine that his father had made any inquiries about him, answered at first with a blush, which was the more remarkable for his previous paleness. Then he said, nervously—
“I am anxious to know—I should like to go or send at once to Offendene—but she rides so well, and I think she would keep up—there would most likely be many round her.”
“I suppose it was she who led you on, eh?” said Mr. Gascoigne, laying down his pen, leaning back in his chair, and looking at Rex with more marked examination.
“It was natural for her to want to go: 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 left a brief interval of silence, and then said, with quiet irony,—”But now you observe, young gentleman, 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. That will be good for your bruises as well as your studies.”
Poor Rex felt his heart swelling and comporting itself as if it had been no better than a girl’s.
“I hope you will not insist on my going immediately, sir.”
“Do you feel too ill?”
“No, not that—but—” here Rex bit his lips and felt the tears starting, to his great vexation; then he rallied and tried to say more firmly, “I want to go to Offendene, but I can go this evening.”
“I am going there myself. I can bring word about Gwendolen, if that is what you want.”
Rex broke down. He thought he discerned an intention fatal to his happiness, nay, his life. He was accustomed to believe in his father’s penetration, and to expect firmness. “Father, I can’t go away without telling her that I love her, and knowing that she loves me.”