by George Eliot
Mr. Gascoigne was inwardly going through some self-rebuke for not being more wary, and was now really sorry for the lad; but every consideration was subordinate to that of using the wisest tactics in the case. He had quickly made up his mind and to answer the more quietly—
“My dear boy, you are too young to be taking momentous, decisive steps of that sort. This is a fancy which you have got into your head during an idle week or two: you must set to work at something and dismiss it. There is every reason against it. An engagement at your age would be totally rash and unjustifiable; 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. I shouldn’t mind anything, if it were settled between us. I could do anything then,” said Rex, impetuously. “But it’s of no use to pretend that I will obey you. I can’t do it. If I said I would, I should be sure to break my word. I should see Gwendolen again.”
“Well, wait till tomorrow morning, that we may talk of the matter again—you will promise me that,” said Mr. Gascoigne, quietly; and Rex did not, could not refuse.
The rector did not even tell his wife that he had any other reason for going to Offendene that evening than his desire to ascertain that Gwendolen had got home safely. He found her more than safe—elated. Mr. Quallon, who had won the brush, had delivered the trophy to her, and she had brought it before her, fastened on the saddle; more than that, Lord Brackenshaw had conducted her home, and had shown himself delighted with her spirited riding. All this was told at once to her uncle, that he might see how well justified she had been in acting against his advice; and the prudential rector did feel himself in a slight difficulty, for at that moment he was particularly sensible that it was his niece’s serious interest to be well regarded by the Brackenshaws, and their opinion as to her following the hounds really touched the essence of his objection. However, he was not obliged to say anything immediately, for Mrs. Davilow followed up Gwendolen’s brief triumphant phrases with—
“Still, 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.”
Here Mrs. Davilow had turned away from Gwendolen, and looked at Mr. Gascoigne.
“Mamma, dear,” said Gwendolen, kissing her merrily, and passing over the question of the fears which Mrs. Davilow had meant to account for, “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,” and it could not be denied that this was fortunate so far as it made way for Lord Brackenshaw’s bringing her home. But now Mr. Gascoigne said, with some emphasis, looking at Gwendolen—
“Well, the exploit has ended better for you than for Rex.”
“Yes, I dare say he had to make a terrible round. You have not taught Primrose to take the fences, uncle,” said Gwendolen, without the faintest shade of alarm in her looks and tone.
“Rex has had a fall,” said Mr. Gascoigne, curtly, throwing himself into an armchair resting his elbows and fitting his palms and fingers together, while he closed his lips and looked at Gwendolen, who said—
“Oh, poor fellow! he is not hurt, I hope?” with a correct look of anxiety such as elated mortals try to super-induce when their pulses are all the while quick with triumph; and Mrs. Davilow, in the same moment, uttered a low “Good heavens! There!”
Mr. Gascoigne went on: “He put his shoulder out, and got some bruises, I believe.” Here he made another little pause of observation; but Gwendolen, instead of any such symptoms as pallor and silence, had only deepened the compassionateness of her brow and eyes, and said again, “Oh, poor fellow! it is nothing serious, then?” and Mr. Gascoigne held his diagnosis complete. But he wished to make assurance doubly sure, and went on still with a purpose.
“He got his arm set again rather oddly. Some blacksmith—not a parishioner of mine—was on the field—a loose fish, I suppose, but handy, and set the arm for him immediately. So after all, I believe, I and Primrose come off worst. The horse’s knees are cut to pieces. He came down in a hole, it seems, and pitched Rex over his head.”
Gwendolen’s face had allowably become contented again, since Rex’s arm had been reset; and now, at the descriptive suggestions in the latter part of her uncle’s speech, her elated spirits made her features less unmanageable than usual; the smiles broke forth, and finally a descending scale of laughter.
“You are a pretty young lady—to laugh at other people’s calamities,” said Mr. Gascoigne, with a milder sense of disapprobation than if he had not had counteracting reasons to be glad that Gwendolen showed no deep feeling on the occasion.
“Pray forgive me, uncle. Now Rex is safe, it is so droll to fancy the figure he and Primrose would cut—in a lane all by themselves—only a blacksmith running up. 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, the laughter became her person so well that her opinion of its gracefulness was often shared by others; and it even entered into her uncle’s course of thought at this moment, that it was no wonder a boy should be fascinated by this young witch—who, however, was more mischievous than could be desired.
“How can you laugh at broken bones, child?” said Mrs. Davilow, still under her dominant anxiety. “I wish we had never allowed you to have the horse. You will see that we were wrong,” she added, looking with a grave nod at Mr. Gascoigne—”at least I was, to encourage her in asking for it.”
“Yes, seriously, Gwendolen,” said Mr. Gascoigne, in a judicious tone of rational advice to a person understood to be altogether rational, “I strongly recommend you—I shall ask you to oblige me so far—not to repeat your adventure of to-day. Lord Brackenshaw is very kind, but I feel sure that he would concur with me in what I say. To be spoken of as ‘the young lady who hunts’ by way of exception, would give a tone to the language about you which I am sure you would not like. Depend upon it, his lordship would not choose that Lady Beatrice or Lady Maria should hunt in this part of the country, if they were old enough to do so. When you are married, it will be different: you may do whatever your husband sanctions. But if you intend to hunt, you must marry a man who can keep horses.”
“I don’t know why I should do anything so horrible as to marry without that prospect, at least,” said Gwendolen, pettishly. Her uncle’s speech had given her annoyance, which she could not show more directly; but she felt that she was committing herself, and after moving carelessly to another part of the room, 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 in the least touched, that you know of?” said Mr. Gascoigne.
Mrs. Davilow shook her head silently. “It was only last night she said to me, ‘Mamma, I wonder how girls manage to fall in love. It is easy to make them do it in books. But men are too ridiculous.’”
Mr. Gascoigne laughed a little, and made no further remark on the subject. The next morning at breakfast he said—
“How are your bruises, Rex?”
“Oh, not very mellow yet, sir; only beginning to turn a little.”
“You don’t feel quite ready for a journey to Southampton?”
“Not quite,” answered Rex, with his heart metaphorically 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 also should begin to cry, as Anna was doing already.
Mr. Gascoigne felt that he was applying a shar
p remedy to poor Rex’s acute attack, but he believed it to be in the end the kindest. To let him know the hopelessness of his love from Gwendolen’s own lips might be curative in more ways than one.
“I can only be thankful that she doesn’t care about him,” said Mrs. Gascoigne, when she joined her husband in his study. “There are things in Gwendolen I cannot reconcile myself to. My Anna is worth two of her, with all her beauty and talent. It looks very ill in her that she will not help in the schools with Anna—not even in the Sunday-school. What you or I advise is of no consequence to her: and poor Fannie is completely under her thumb. But I know you think better of her,” Mrs. Gascoigne ended with a deferential hesitation.
“Oh, my dear, there is no harm in the girl. It is only that she has a high spirit, and it will not do to hold the reins too tight. The point is, to get her well married. She has a little too much fire in her for her present life with her mother and sisters. It is natural and right that she should be married soon—not to a poor man, but one who can give her a fitting position.”
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 ground of action could not enter into his conjectures. If it had, he would first have thought it horribly cold-blooded, and then have disbelieved in his father’s conclusions.
When he got to the house, everybody was there but Gwendolen. The four girls, hearing him speak in the hall, rushed out of the library, which was their school-room, and hung round him with compassionate inquiries about his arm. Mrs. Davilow wanted to know exactly what had happened, and where the blacksmith lived, that she might make him a present; while Miss Merry, who took a subdued and melancholy part in all family affairs, doubted whether it would not be giving too much encouragement to that kind of character. Rex had never found the family troublesome before, but just now he wished them all away and Gwendolen there, and he was too uneasy for good-natured feigning. When at last he had said, “Where is Gwendolen?” and Mrs. Davilow had told Alice to go and see if her sister were come down, adding, “I sent up her breakfast this morning. She needed a long rest.” Rex took the shortest way out of his endurance by saying, almost impatiently, “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, as was natural, but had not thought of this as having any bearing on the realities of life: it seemed merely part of the Christmas holidays which were spinning themselves out.
Rex for his part thought that the realities of life were all hanging on this interview. He had to walk up and down the drawing-room in expectation for nearly ten minutes—ample space for all imaginative fluctuations; yet, strange to say, he was unvaryingly occupied in thinking what and how much he could do, when Gwendolen had accepted him, to satisfy his father that the engagement was the most prudent thing in the world, since it inspired him with double energy for work. He was to be a lawyer, and what reason was there why he should not rise as high as Eldon did? He was forced to look at life in the light of his father’s mind.
But when the door opened and she whose presence he was longing for entered, there came over him suddenly and mysteriously a state of tremor and distrust which he had never felt before. Miss Gwendolen, simple as she stood there, in her black silk, cut square about the round white pillar of her throat, a black band fastening her hair which streamed backward in smooth silky abundance, seemed more queenly than usual. Perhaps it was that there was none of the latent fun and tricksiness which had always pierced in her greeting of Rex. How much of this was due to her presentiment from what he had said yesterday that he was going to talk of love? How much from her desire to show regret about his accident? Something of both. But the wisdom of ages has hinted that there is a side of the bed which has a malign influence if you happen to get out on it; and this accident befalls some charming persons rather frequently. Perhaps it had befallen Gwendolen this morning. The hastening of her toilet, the way in which Bugle used the brush, the quality of the shilling serial mistakenly written for her amusement, the probabilities of the coming day, and, in short, social institutions generally, were all objectionable to her. It was not that she was out of temper, but that the world was not equal to the demands of her fine organism.
However it might be, Rex saw an awful majesty about her as she entered and put out her hand to him, without the least approach to a smile in eyes or mouth. The fun which had moved her in the evening had quite evaporated from the image of his accident, and the whole affair seemed stupid to her. But she said with perfect propriety, “I hope you are not much hurt, Rex; I deserve that you should reproach me for your accident.”
“Not at all,” said Rex, feeling the soul within him spreading itself like an attack of illness. “There is hardly any thing the matter with me. I am so glad you had the pleasure: I would willingly pay for it by a tumble, only I was sorry to break the horse’s knees.”
Gwendolen walked to the hearth and stood looking at the fire in the most inconvenient way for conversation, so that he could only get a side view of her face.
“My father wants me to go to Southampton for the rest of the vacation,” said Rex, his baritone 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, Gwendolen?”
“Of course. Every one is of consequence in this dreary country,” said Gwendolen, curtly. The perception that poor Rex wanted to be tender made her curl up and harden like a sea-anemone at the touch of a finger.
“Are you angry with me, Gwendolen? Why do you treat me in this way all at once?” said Rex, flushing, and with more spirit in his voice, as if he too were capable of being angry.
Gwendolen looked round at him and smiled. “Treat you? Nonsense! I am only rather cross. Why did you come so very early? You must expect to find tempers in dishabille.”
“Be as cross with me as you like—only don’t treat me with indifference,” said Rex, imploringly. “All the happiness of my life depends on your loving me—if only a little—better than any one else.”
He tried to take her hand, but she hastily eluded his grasp and moved to the other end of the hearth, facing him.
“Pray don’t make love to me! I hate it!” she looked at him fiercely.
Rex turned pale and was silent, but could not take his eyes off her, and the impetus was not yet exhausted that made hers dart death at him. Gwendolen herself could not have foreseen that she should feel in 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 how much, so that he said nothing about it; and if any one had asked her why she objected to love-making speeches, she would have said, laughingly, “Oh I am tired of them all in the books.” But now the life of passion had begun negatively in her. She felt passionately averse to this volunteered love.
To Rex at twenty the joy of life seemed at an end more absolutely than it can do to a man at forty. But before they had ceased to look at each other, he did speak again.
“Is that last word you have to say to me, Gwendolen? Will it always be so?”
She could not help seeing his wretchedness and feeling a little regret for the old Rex who had not offended her. 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 just a perceptible pause before he said a low “goodbye.” and passed out of the room. Almost immediately after, she heard the heavy hall door bang behind him.
Mrs. Davilow, too, had heard Rex’s hasty departure, and presently came into the drawing-room, where she found Gwendolen seated on the low couch, her face buried, and her hair fal
ling over her figure like a garment. She was 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 something of the alarmed anguish that women, feel at the sight of overpowering sorrow in a strong man; for this child had been her ruler. Sitting down by her with circling arms, she pressed her cheek against Gwendolen’s head, and then tried to draw it upward. Gwendolen gave way, and letting her head rest against her mother, cried out sobbingly, “Oh, mamma, what can become of my life? there is nothing worth living for!”
“Why, dear?” said Mrs. Davilow. Usually she herself had been rebuked by her daughter for involuntary signs of despair.
“I shall never love anybody. I can’t love people. I hate them.”
“The time will come, dear, the time will come.”
Gwendolen was more and more convulsed with sobbing; but putting her arms round her mother’s neck with an almost painful clinging, she said brokenly, “I can’t bear any one 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.
CHAPTER VIII.
What name doth Joy most borrow When life is fair? “Tomorrow.” What name doth best fit Sorrow In young despair? “Tomorrow.”
There was a much more lasting trouble at the rectory. Rex arrived there only to throw himself on his bed in a state of apparent apathy, unbroken till the next day, when it began to be interrupted by more positive signs of illness. Nothing could be said about his going to Southampton: instead of that, 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 metamorphosed into an irresponsive, dull-eyed creature who met all affectionate attempts with a murmur of “Let me alone.” His father looked beyond the crisis, and believed it to be the shortest way out of an unlucky affair; but he was sorry for the inevitable suffering, and went now and then to sit by him in silence for a few minutes, parting with a gentle pressure of his hand on Rex’s blank brow, and a “God bless you, my boy.” Warham and the younger children used to peep round the edge of the door to see this incredible thing of their lively brother being laid low; but fingers were immediately shaken at them to drive them back. The guardian who was always there was Anna, and her little hand was allowed to rest within her brother’s, though he never gave it a welcoming pressure. Her soul was divided between anguish for Rex and reproach of Gwendolen.