homme en particulier.”—LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.
An hour after Grandcourt had left, the important news of Gwendolen’s engagement was known at the rectory, and Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne, with Anna, spent the evening at Offendene.
“My dear, let me congratulate you on having created a strong attachment1,” said the rector. “You look serious, and I don’t wonder at it: a lifelong union is a solemn thing. But from the way Mr. Grandcourt has acted and spoken I think we may already see some good arising out of our adversity. It has given you an opportunity of observing your future husband’s delicate liberality.”
Mr. Gascoigne referred to Grandcourt’s mode of implying that he would provide for Mrs. Davilow—a part of the love-making which Gwendolen had remembered to cite to her mother with perfect accuracy.
“But I have no doubt that Mr. Grandcourt would have behaved quite as handsomely if you had not gone away to Germany, Gwendolen, and had been engaged to him, as you no doubt might have been, more than a month ago,” said Mrs. Gascoigne, feeling that she had to discharge a duty on this occasion. “But now there is no more room for caprice; indeed, I trust you have no inclination2 to any. A woman has a great debt of gratitude3 to a man who perseveres4 in making her such an offer. But no doubt you feel properly.”
“I am not at all sure that I do, aunt,” said Gwendolen, with saucy5 gravity. “I don’t know everything it is proper to feel on being engaged.”
The rector patted her shoulder and smiled as at a bit of innocent naughtiness, and his wife took his behavior as an indication that she was not to be displeased6. As for Anna, she kissed Gwendolen and said, “I do hope you will be happy,” but then sank into the background and tried to keep the tears back too. In the late days she had been imagining a little romance about Rex—how if he still longed for Gwendolen her heart might be softened7 by trouble into love, so that they could by-and-by be married. And the romance had turned to a prayer that she, Anna, might be able to rejoice like a good sister, and only think of being useful in working for Gwendolen, as long as Rex was not rich. But now she wanted grace to rejoice in something else. Miss Merry and the four girls, Alice with the high shoulders, Bertha and Fanny the whisperers, and Isabel the listener, were all present on this family occasion, when everything seemed appropriately turning to the honor and glory of Gwendolen, and real life was as interesting as “Sir Charles Grandison.” The evening passed chiefly in decisive remarks from the rector, in answer to conjectures9 from the two elder ladies. According to him, the case was not one in which he could think it his duty to mention settlements: everything must, and doubtless would safely be left to Mr. Grandcourt.
“I should like to know exactly what sort of places Ryelands and Gadsmere are,” said Mrs. Davilow.
“Gadsmere, I believe, is a secondary place,” said Mr. Gascoigne; “But Ryelands I know to be one of our finest seats. The park is extensive and the woods of a very valuable order. The house was built by Inigo Jones, and the ceilings are painted in the Italian style. The estate is said to be worth twelve thousand a year, and there are two livings, one a rectory, in the gift of the Grandcourts. There may be some burdens on the land. Still, Mr. Grandcourt was an only child.”
“It would be most remarkable,” said Mrs. Gascoigne, “if he were to become Lord Stannery in addition to everything else. Only think: there is the Grandcourt estate, the Mallinger estate, and the baronetcy, and the peerage,”—she was marking off the items on her fingers, and paused on the fourth while she added, “but they say there will be no land coming to him with the peerage.” It seemed a pity there was nothing for the fifth finger.
“The peerage,” said the rector, judiciously11, “must be regarded as a remote chance. There are two cousins between the present peer and Mr. Grandcourt. It is certainly a serious reflection how death and other causes do sometimes concentrate inheritances on one man. But an excess of that kind is to be deprecated. To be Sir Mallinger Grandcourt Mallinger—I suppose that will be his style—with corresponding properties, is a valuable talent enough for any man to have committed to him. Let us hope it will be well used.”
“And what a position for the wife, Gwendolen!” said Mrs. Gascoigne; “a great responsibility indeed. But you must lose no time in writing to Mrs. Mompert, Henry. It is a good thing that you have an engagement of marriage to offer as an excuse, else she might feel offended. She is rather a high woman.”
“I am rid of that horror,” thought Gwendolen, to whom the name of Mompert had become a sort of Mumbo-jumbo. She was very silent through the evening, and that night could hardly sleep at all in her little white bed. It was a rarity in her strong youth to be wakeful: and perhaps a still greater rarity for her to be careful that her mother should not know of her restlessness. But her state of mind was altogether new: she who had been used to feel sure of herself, and ready to manage others, had just taken a decisive step which she had beforehand thought that she would not take—nay, perhaps, was bound not to take. She could not go backward now; she liked a great deal of what lay before her; and there was nothing for her to like if she went back. But her resolution was dogged by the shadow of that previous resolve which had at first come as the undoubting movement of her whole being. While she lay on her pillow with wide-open eyes, “looking on darkness which the blind do see,” she was appalled12 by the idea that she was going to do what she had once started away from with repugnance13. It was new to her that a question of right or wrong in her conduct should rouse her terror; she had known no compunction that atoning14 caresses15 and presents could not lay to rest. But here had come a moment when something like a new consciousness was awaked. She seemed on the edge of adopting deliberately17, as a notion for all the rest of her life, what she had rashly said in her bitterness, when her discovery had driven her away to Leubronn:—that it did not signify what she did; she had only to amuse herself as best she could. That lawlessness, that casting away of all care for justification18, suddenly frightened her: it came to her with the shadowy array of possible calamity19 behind it—calamity which had ceased to be a mere10 name for her; and all the infiltrated20 influences of disregarded religious teaching, as well as the deeper impressions of something awful and inexorable enveloping21 her, seemed to concentrate themselves in the vague conception of avenging22 power. The brilliant position she had longed for, the imagined freedom she would create for herself in marriage, the deliverance from the dull insignificance23 of her girlhood—all immediately before her; and yet they had come to her hunger like food with the taint25 of sacrilege upon it, which she must snatch with terror. In the darkness and loneliness of her little bed, her more resistant26 self could not act against the first onslaught of dread27 after her irrevocable decision. That unhappy-faced woman and her children—Grandcourt and his relations with her—kept repeating themselves in her imagination like the clinging memory of a disgrace, and gradually obliterated28 all other thought, leaving only the consciousness that she had taken those scenes into her life. Her long wakefulness seemed a delirium29; a faint, faint light penetrated30 beside the window-curtain; the chillness increased. She could bear it no longer, and cried “Mamma!”
“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Davilow, immediately, in a wakeful voice.
“Let me come to you.”
She soon went to sleep on her mother’s shoulder, and slept on till late, when, dreaming of a lit-up ball-room, she opened her eyes on her mother standing31 by the bedside with a small packet in her hand.
“I am sorry to wake you, darling, but I thought it better to give you this at once. The groom32 has brought Criterion; he has come on another horse, and says he is to stay here.”
Gwendolen sat up in bed and opened the packet. It was a delicate enameled33 casket, and inside was a splendid diamond ring with a letter which contained a folded bit of colored paper and these words:
expenses. Of course Mrs. Davilow will remain at Offendene, at least
for some time. I hope, when I come, you will have granted me an early
day, when you may begin to command me at a shorter distance.
H. M. GRANDCOURT.
The check was for five hundred pounds, and Gwendolen turned it toward her mother, with the letter.
“How very kind and delicate!” said Mrs. Davilow, with much feeling. “But I really should like better not to be dependent on a son-in-law. I and the girls could get along very well.”
“Mamma, if you say that again, I will not marry him,” said Gwendolen, angrily.
“My dear child, I trust you are not going to marry only for my sake,” said Mrs. Davilow, deprecatingly.
Gwendolen tossed her head on the pillow away from her mother, and let the ring lie. She was irritated at this attempt to take away a motive37. Perhaps the deeper cause of her irritation38 was the consciousness that she was not going to marry solely39 for her mamma’s sake—that she was drawn toward the marriage in ways against which stronger reasons than her mother’s renunciation were yet not strong enough to hinder her. She had waked up to the signs that she was irrevocably engaged, and all the ugly visions, the alarms, the arguments of the night, must be met by daylight, in which probably they would show themselves weak. “What I long for is your happiness, dear,” continued Mrs. Davilow, pleadingly. “I will not say anything to vex40 you. Will you not put on the ring?”
For a few moments Gwendolen did not answer, but her thoughts were active. At last she raised herself with a determination to do as she would do if she had started on horseback, and go on with spirit, whatever ideas might be running in her head.
“I thought the lover always put on the betrothal ring himself,” she said laughingly, slipping the ring on her finger, and looking at it with a charming movement of her head. “I know why he has sent it,” she added, nodding at her mamma.
“Why?”
“He would rather make me put it on than ask me to let him do it. Aha! he is very proud. But so am I. We shall match each other. I should hate a man who went down on his knees, and came fawning41 on me. He really is not disgusting.”
“That is very moderate praise, Gwen.”
“No, it is not, for a man,” said Gwendolen gaily42. “But now I must get up and dress. Will you come and do my hair, mamma, dear,” she went on, drawing down her mamma’s face to caress16 it with her own cheeks, “and not be so naughty any more as to talk of living in poverty? You must bear to be made comfortable, even if you don’t like it. And Mr. Grandcourt behaves perfectly43, now, does he not?”
“Certainly he does,” said Mrs. Davilow, encouraged, and persuaded that after all Gwendolen was fond of her betrothed44. She herself thought him a man whose attentions were likely to tell on a girl’s feeling. Suitors must often be judged as words are, by the standing and the figure they make in polite society: it is difficult to know much else of them. And all the mother’s anxiety turned not on Grandcourt’s character, but on Gwendolen’s mood in accepting him.
The mood was necessarily passing through a new phase this morning. Even in the hour of making her toilet, she had drawn on all the knowledge she had for grounds to justify45 her marriage. And what she most dwelt on was the determination, that when she was Grandcourt’s wife, she would urge him to the most liberal conduct toward Mrs. Glasher’s children.
“Of what use would it be to her that I should not marry him? He could have married her if he liked; but he did not like. Perhaps she is to blame for that. There must be a great deal about her that I know nothing of. And he must have been good to her in many ways, else she would not have wanted to marry him.”
But that last argument at once began to appear doubtful. Mrs. Glasher naturally wished to exclude other children who would stand between Grandcourt and her own: and Gwendolen’s comprehension of this feeling prompted another way of reconciling claims.
“Perhaps we shall have no children. I hope we shall not. And he might leave the estate to the pretty little boy. My uncle said that Mr. Grandcourt could do as he liked with the estates. Only when Sir Hugo Mallinger dies there will be enough for two.”
This made Mrs. Glasher appear quite unreasonable46 in demanding that her boy should be sole heir; and the double property was a security that Grandcourt’s marriage would do her no wrong, when the wife was Gwendolen Harleth with all her proud resolution not to be fairly accused. This maiden47 had been accustomed to think herself blameless; other persons only were faulty.
It was striking, that in the hold which this argument of her doing no wrong to Mrs. Glasher had taken on her mind, her repugnance to the idea of Grandcourt’s past had sunk into a subordinate feeling. The terror she had felt in the night-watches at overstepping the border of wickedness by doing what she had at first felt to be wrong, had dulled any emotions about his conduct. She was thinking of him, whatever he might be, as a man over whom she was going to have indefinite power; and her loving him having never been a question with her, any agreeableness he had was so much gain. Poor Gwendolen had no awe48 of unmanageable forces in the state of matrimony, but regarded it as altogether a matter of management, in which she would know how to act. In relation to Grandcourt’s past she encouraged new doubts whether he were likely to have differed much from other men; and she devised little schemes for learning what was expected of men in general.
But whatever else might be true in the world, her hair was dressed suitably for riding, and she went down in her riding-habit, to avoid delay before getting on horseback. She wanted to have her blood stirred once more with the intoxication49 of youth, and to recover the daring with which she had been used to think of her course in life. Already a load was lifted off her; for in daylight and activity it was less oppressive to have doubts about her choice, than to feel that she had no choice but to endure insignificance and servitude.
“Go back and make yourself look like a duchess, mamma,” she said, turning suddenly as she was going down-stairs. “Put your point-lace over your head. I must have you look like a duchess. You must not take things humbly50.”
When Grandcourt raised her left hand gently and looked at the ring, she said gravely, “It was very good of you to think of everything and send me that packet.”
“You will tell me if there is anything I forget?” he said, keeping the hand softly within his own. “I will do anything you wish.”
“But I am very unreasonable in my wishes,” said Gwendolen, smiling.
“Yes, I expect that. Women always are.”
“Then I will not be unreasonable,” said Gwendolen, taking away her hand and tossing her head saucily51. “I will not be told that I am what women always are.”
“I did not say that,” said Grandcourt, looking at her with his usual gravity. “You are what no other woman is.”
“And what is that, pray?” said Gwendolen, moving to a distance with a little air of menace.
Grandcourt made his pause before he answered. “You are the woman I love.”
“Oh, what nice speeches!” said Gwendolen, laughing. The sense of that love which he must once have given to another woman under strange circumstances was getting familiar.
“Give me a nice speech in return. Say when we are to be married.”
“Not yet. Not till we have had a gallop52 over the downs. I am so thirsty for that, I can think of nothing else. I wish the hunting had begun. Sunday the twentieth, twenty-seventh, Monday, Tuesday.” Gwendolen was counting on her fingers with the prettiest nod while she looked at Grandcourt, and at last swept one palm over the other while she said triumphantly53, “It will begin in ten days!”
“Let us be married in ten days, then,” said Grandcourt, “and we shall not be bored about the stables.”
“What do women always say in answer to that?” said Gwendolen, mischievously54.
“They agree to it,” said the lover, rather off his guard.
“Then I will not!” said Gwendolen, taking up her gauntlets and putting them on, while she kept her eyes on him with gathering55 fun in them.
The scene was pleasant on both sides. A cruder lover would have lost the view of her pretty ways and attitudes, and spoiled all by stupid attempts at caresses, utterly56 destructive of drama. Grandcourt preferred the drama; and Gwendolen, left at ease, found her spirits rising continually as she played at reigning57. Perhaps if Klesmer had seen more of her in this unconscious kind of acting58, instead of when she was trying to be theatrical59, he might have rated her chance higher.
When they had had a glorious gallop, however, she was in a state of exhilaration that disposed her to think well of hastening the marriage which would make her life all of apiece with this splendid kind of enjoyment60. She would not debate any more about an act to which she had committed herself; and she consented to fix the wedding on that day three weeks, notwithstanding the difficulty of fulfilling the customary laws of the trousseau.
Lush, of course, was made aware of the engagement by abundant signs, without being formally told. But he expected some communication as a consequence of it, and after a few days he became rather impatient under Grandcourt’s silence, feeling sure that the change would affect his personal prospects61, and wishing to know exactly how. His tactics no longer included any opposition—which he did not love for its own sake. He might easily cause Grandcourt a great deal of annoyance62, but it would be to his own injury, and to create annoyance was not a motive with him. Miss Gwendolen he would certainly not have been sorry to frustrate63 a little, but—after all there was no knowing what would come. It was nothing new that Grandcourt should show a perverse64 wilfulness65; yet in his freak about this girl he struck Lush rather newly as something like a man who was fey—led on by an ominous66 fatality67; and that one born to his fortune should make a worse business of his life than was necessary, seemed really pitiable. Having protested against the marriage, Lush had a second-sight for its evil consequences. Grandcourt had been taking the pains to write letters and give orders himself instead of employing Lush, and appeared to be ignoring his usefulness, even choosing, against the habit of years, to breakfast alone in his dressing-room. But a tete-à-tete was not to be avoided in a house empty of guests; and Lush hastened to use an opportunity of saying—it was one day after dinner, for there were difficulties in Grandcourt’s dining at Offendene,
“And when is the marriage to take place?”
Grandcourt, who drank little wine, had left the table and was lounging, while he smoked, in an easy chair near the hearth68, where a fire of oak boughs69 was gaping70 to its glowing depths, and edging them with a delicate tint71 of ashes delightful72 to behold73. The chair of red-brown velvet74 brocade was a becoming back-ground for his pale-tinted, well-cut features and exquisite75 long hands. Omitting the cigar, you might have imagined him a portrait by Moroni, who would have rendered wonderfully the impenetrable gaze and air of distinction; and a portrait by that great master would have been quite as lively a companion as Grandcourt was disposed to be. But he answered without unusual delay.
“On the tenth.”
“I suppose you intend to remain here.”
“We shall go to Ryelands for a little while; but we shall return here for the sake of the hunting.”
After this word there was the languid inarticulate sound frequent with Grandcourt when he meant to continue speaking, and Lush waited for something more. Nothing came, and he was going to put another question, when the inarticulate sound began again and introduced the mildly uttered suggestion,
“You had better make some new arrangement for yourself.”
“What! I am to cut and run?” said Lush, prepared to be good-tempered on the occasion.
“Something of that kind.”
“The bride objects to me. I hope she will make up to you for the want of my services.”
“I can’t help your being so damnably disagreeable to women,” said Grandcourt, in soothing77 apology.
“To one woman, if you please.”
“It makes no difference since she is the one in question.”
“I suppose I am not to be turned adrift after fifteen years without some provision.”
“You must have saved something out of me.”
“Deuced little. I have often saved something for you.”
“You can have three hundred a year. But you must live in town and be ready to look after things when I want you. I shall be rather hard up.”
“If you are not going to be at Ryelands this winter, I might run down there and let you know how Swinton goes on.”
“If you like. I don’t care a toss where you are, so that you keep out of sight.”
“Much obliged,” said Lush, able to take the affair more easily than he had expected. He was supported by the secret belief that he should by-and-by be wanted as much as ever.
“Perhaps you will not object to packing up as soon as possible,” said Grandcourt. “The Torringtons are coming, and Miss Harleth will be riding over here.”
“With all my heart. Can’t I be of use in going to Gadsmere?”
“No. I am going myself.”
“About your being rather hard up. Have you thought of that plan—”
“Just leave me alone, will you?” said Grandcourt, in his lowest audible tone, tossing his cigar into the fire, and rising to walk away.
He spent the evening in the solitude78 of the smaller drawing-room, where, with various new publications on the table of the kind a gentleman may like to have on hand without touching79, he employed himself (as a philosopher might have done) in sitting meditatively80 on the sofa and abstaining81 from literature—political, comic, cynical82, or romantic. In this way hours may pass surprisingly soon, without the arduous83 invisible chase of philosophy; not from love of thought, but from hatred84 of effort—from a state of the inward world, something like premature85 age, where the need for action lapses86 into a mere image of what has been, is, and may or might be; where impulse is born and dies in a phantasmal world, pausing in rejection87 of even a shadowy fulfillment. That is a condition which often comes with whitening hair; and sometimes, too, an intense obstinacy88 and tenacity89 of rule, like the main trunk of an exorbitant90 egoism, conspicuous91 in proportion as the varied92 susceptibilities of younger years are stripped away.
But Grandcourt’s hair, though he had not much of it, was of a fine, sunny blonde, and his moods were not entirely93 to be explained as ebbing94 energy. We mortals have a strange spiritual chemistry going on within us, so that a lazy stagnation95 or even a cottony milkiness96 may be preparing one knows not what biting or explosive material. The navvy waking from sleep and without malice97 heaving a stone to crush the life out of his still sleeping comrade, is understood to lack the trained motive which makes a character fairly calculable in its actions; but by a roundabout course even a gentleman may make of himself a chancy personage, raising an uncertainty98 as to what he may do next, that sadly spoils companionship.
Grandcourt’s thoughts this evening were like the circlets one sees in a dark pool, continually dying out and continually started again by some impulse from below the surface. The deeper central impulse came from the image of Gwendolen; but the thoughts it stirred would be imperfectly illustrated99 by a reference to the amatory poets of all ages. It was characteristic that he got none of his satisfaction from the belief that Gwendolen was in love with him; and that love had overcome the jealous resentment100 which had made her run away from him. On the contrary, he believed that this girl was rather exceptional in the fact that, in spite of his assiduous attention to her, she was not in love with him; and it seemed to him very likely that if it had not been for the sudden poverty which had come over her family, she would not have accepted him. From the very first there had been an exasperating101 fascination102 in the tricksiness with which she had—not met his advances, but—wheeled away from them. She had been brought to accept him in spite of everything—brought to kneel down like a horse under training for the arena103, though she might have an objection to it all the while. On the whole, Grandcourt got more pleasure out of this notion than he could have done out of winning a girl of whom he was sure that she had a strong inclination for him personally. And yet this pleasure in mastering reluctance104 flourished along with the habitual105 persuasion106 that no woman whom he favored could be quite indifferent to his personal influence; and it seemed to him not unlikely that by-and-by Gwendolen might be more enamored of him than he of her. In any case, she would have to submit; and he enjoyed thinking of her as his future wife, whose pride and spirit were suited to command every one but himself. He had no taste for a woman who was all tenderness to him, full of petitioning solicitude107 and willing obedience108. He meant to be master of a woman who would have liked to master him, and who perhaps would have been capable of mastering another man.
Lush, having failed in his attempted reminder109 to Grandcourt, thought it well to communicate with Sir Hugo, in whom, as a man having perhaps interest enough to command the bestowal110 of some place where the work was light, gentlemanly, and not ill-paid, he was anxious to cultivate a sense of friendly obligation, not feeling at all secure against the future need of such a place. He wrote the following letter, and addressed it to Park Lane, whither he knew the family had returned from Leubronn:
MY DEAR SIR HUGO—Since we came home the marriage has been absolutely
far the worse for him that her mother has lately lost all her fortune,
and he will have to find supplies. Grandcourt, I know, is feeling the
want of cash; and unless some other plan is resorted to, he will be
raising money in a foolish way. I am going to leave Diplow
immediately, and I shall not be able to start the topic. What I should
advise is, that Mr. Deronda, who I know has your confidence, should
propose to come and pay a short visit here, according to invitation
(there are going to be other people in the house), and that you should
your offer. Then, that he should introduce the subject to Grandcourt
so as not to imply that you suspect any particular want of money on
his part, but only that there is a strong wish on yours. What I have
might be willing to give a good sum for his chance of Diplow; but if
Mr. Deronda came armed with a definite offer, that would take another
sort of hold. Ten to one he will not close for some time to come; but
the proposal will have got a stronger lodgment in his mind; and though
at present he has a great notion of the hunting here, I see a
likelihood, under the circumstances, that he will get a distaste for
the neighborhood, and there will be the notion of the money sticking
by him without being urged. I would bet on your ultimate success. As I
am not to be exiled to Siberia, but am to be within call, it is
possible that, by and by, I may be of more service to you. But at
present I can think of no medium so good as Mr. Deronda. Nothing puts
Grandcourt in worse humor than having the lawyers thrust their paper
under his nose uninvited.
Trusting that your visit to Leubronn has put you in excellent
condition for the winter, I remain, my dear Sir Hugo,
Yours very faithfully,
THOMAS CRANMER LUSH.
Sir Hugo, having received this letter at breakfast, handed it to Deronda, who, though he had chambers113 in town, was somehow hardly ever in them, Sir Hugo not being contented114 without him. The chatty baronet would have liked a young companion even if there had been no peculiar115 reasons for attachment between them: one with a fine harmonious116 unspoiled face fitted to keep up a cheerful view of posterity117 and inheritance generally, notwithstanding particular disappointments; and his affection for Deronda was not diminished by the deep-lying though not obtrusive118 difference in their notions and tastes. Perhaps it was all the stronger; acting as the same sort of difference does between a man and a woman in giving a piquancy119 to the attachment which subsists120 in spite of it. Sir Hugo did not think unapprovingly of himself; but he looked at men and society from a liberal-menagerie point of view, and he had a certain pride in Deronda’s differing from him, which, if it had found voice, might have said—“You see this fine young fellow—not such as you see every day, is he?—he belongs to me in a sort of way. I brought him up from a child; but you would not ticket him off easily, he has notions of his own, and he’s as far as the poles asunder121 from what I was at his age.” This state of feeling was kept up by the mental balance in Deronda, who was moved by an affectionateness such as we are apt to call feminine, disposing him to yield in ordinary details, while he had a certain inflexibility122 of judgment123, and independence of opinion, held to be rightfully masculine.
When he had read the letter, he returned it without speaking, inwardly wincing124 under Lush’s mode of attributing a neutral usefulness to him in the family affairs.
“What do you say, Dan? It would be pleasant enough for you. You have not seen the place for a good many years now, and you might have a famous run with the harriers if you went down next week,” said Sir Hugo.
“I should not go on that account,” said Deronda, buttering his bread attentively125. He had an objection to this transparent126 kind of persuasiveness127, which all intelligent animals are seen to treat with indifference128. If he went to Diplow he should be doing something disagreeable to oblige Sir Hugo.
“I think Lush’s notion is a good one. And it would be a pity to lose the occasion.”
“That is a different matter—if you think my going of importance to your object,” said Deronda, still with that aloofness129 of manner which implied some suppression. He knew that the baronet had set his heart on the affair.
“Why, you will see the fair gambler, the Leubronn Diana, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Sir Hugo, gaily. “We shall have to invite her to the Abbey, when they are married,” he added, turning to Lady Mallinger, as if she too had read the letter.
“I cannot conceive whom you mean,” said Lady Mallinger, who in fact had not been listening, her mind having been taken up with her first sips131 of coffee, the objectionable cuff132 of her sleeve, and the necessity of carrying Theresa to the dentist—innocent and partly laudable preoccupations, as the gentle lady’s usually were. Should her appearance be inquired after, let it be said that she had reddish blonde hair (the hair of the period), a small Roman nose, rather prominent blue eyes and delicate eyelids133, with a figure which her thinner friends called fat, her hands showing curves and dimples like a magnified baby’s.
“I mean that Grandcourt is going to marry the girl you saw at Leubronn—don’t you remember her—the Miss Harleth who used to play at roulette.”
“Dear me! Is that a good match for him?”
“That depends on the sort of goodness he wants,” said Sir Hugo, smiling. “However, she and her friends have nothing, and she will bring him expenses. It’s a good match for my purposes, because if I am willing to fork out a sum of money, he may be willing to give up his chance of Diplow, so that we shall have it out and out, and when I die you will have the consolation134 of going to the place you would like to go to—wherever I may go.”
“I wish you would not talk of dying in that light way, dear.”
“It’s rather a heavy way, Lou, for I shall have to pay a heavy sum—forty thousand, at least.”
“But why are we to invite them to the Abbey?” said Lady Mallinger. “I do not like women who gamble, like Lady Cragstone.”
“Oh, you will not mind her for a week. Besides, she is not like Lady Cragstone because she gambled a little, any more than I am like a broker135 because I’m a Whig. I want to keep Grandcourt in good humor, and to let him see plenty of this place, that he may think the less of Diplow. I don’t know yet whether I shall get him to meet me in this matter. And if Dan were to go over on a visit there, he might hold out the bait to him. It would be doing me a great service.” This was meant for Deronda.
“Daniel is not fond of Mr. Grandcourt, I think, is he?” said Lady Mallinger, looking at Deronda inquiringly.
“There is no avoiding everybody one doesn’t happen to be fond of,” said Deronda. “I will go to Diplow—I don’t know that I have anything better to do—since Sir Hugo wishes it.”
“That’s a trump136!” said Sir Hugo, well pleased. “And if you don’t find it very pleasant, it’s so much experience. Nothing used to come amiss to me when I was young. You must see men and manners.”
“Yes; but I have seen that man, and something of his manners too,” said Deronda.
“Not nice manners, I think,” said Lady Mallinger.
“Well, you see they succeed with your sex,” said Sir Hugo, provokingly. “And he was an uncommonly137 good-looking fellow when he was two or three and twenty—like his father. He doesn’t take after his father in marrying the heiress, though. If he had got Miss Arrowpoint and my land too, confound him, he would have had a fine principality.”
Deronda, in anticipating the projected visit, felt less disinclination than when consenting to it. The story of that girl’s marriage did interest him: what he had heard through Lush of her having run away from the suit of the man she was now going to take as a husband, had thrown a new sort of light on her gambling138; and it was probably the transition from that fevered worldliness into poverty which had urged her acceptance where she must in some way have felt repulsion. All this implied a nature liable to difficulty and struggle—elements of life which had a predominant attraction for his sympathy, due perhaps to his early pain in dwelling139 on the conjectured140 story of his own existence. Persons attracted him, as Hans Meyrick had done, in proportion to the possibility of his defending them, rescuing them, telling upon their lives with some sort of redeeming141 influence; and he had to resist an inclination, easily accounted for, to withdraw coldly from the fortunate. But in the movement which had led him to repurchase Gwendolen’s necklace for her, and which was at work in him still, there was something beyond his habitual compassionate142 fervor—something due to the fascination of her womanhood. He was very open to that sort of charm, and mingled144 it with the consciously Utopian pictures of his own future; yet any one able to trace the folds of his character might have conceived that he would be more likely than many less passionate143 men to love a woman without telling her of it. Sprinkle food before a delicate-eared bird: there is nothing he would more willingly take, yet he keeps aloof130, because of his sensibility to checks which to you are imperceptible. And one man differs from another, as we all differ from the Bosjesman, in a sensibility to checks, that come from variety of needs, spiritual or other. It seemed to foreshadow that capability145 of reticence146 in Deronda that his imagination was much occupied with two women, to neither of whom would he have held it possible that he should ever make love. Hans Meyrick had laughed at him for having something of the knight-errant in his disposition147; and he would have found his proof if he had known what was just now going on in Deronda’s mind about Mirah and Gwendolen.
Deronda wrote without delay to announce his visit to Diplow, and received in reply a polite assurance that his coming would give great pleasure. That was not altogether untrue. Grandcourt thought it probable that the visit was prompted by Sir Hugo’s desire to court him for a purpose which he did not make up his mind to resist; and it was not a disagreeable idea to him that this fine fellow, whom he believed to be his cousin under the rose, would witness, perhaps with some jealousy148, Henleigh Mallinger Grandcourt play the commanding part of betrothed lover to a splendid girl whom the cousin had already looked at with admiration149.
Grandcourt himself was not jealous of anything unless it threatened his mastery—which he did not think himself likely to lose.
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1
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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3
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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perseveres
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的第三人称单数 ) | |
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saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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7
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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10
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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12
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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13
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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14
atoning
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的现在分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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16
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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17
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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18
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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19
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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20
infiltrated
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| adj.[医]浸润的v.（使）渗透，（指思想）渗入人的心中( infiltrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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22
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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23
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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24
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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25
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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resistant
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| adj.(to)抵抗的，有抵抗力的 | |
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27
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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28
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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29
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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31
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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32
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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enameled
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| 涂瓷釉于，给…上瓷漆，给…上彩饰( enamel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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35
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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36
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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37
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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38
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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39
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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40
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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41
fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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42
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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43
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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44
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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45
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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46
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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47
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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48
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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49
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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50
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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51
saucily
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| adv.傲慢地，莽撞地 | |
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52
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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53
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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54
mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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55
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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56
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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57
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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58
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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59
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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60
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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61
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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62
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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63
frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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64
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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65
wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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66
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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67
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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68
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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69
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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70
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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71
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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72
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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73
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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74
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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75
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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76
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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77
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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78
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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79
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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80
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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81
abstaining
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| 戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的现在分词 )； 弃权（不投票） | |
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82
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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83
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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84
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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85
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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86
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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87
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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88
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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89
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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90
exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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91
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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92
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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93
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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94
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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95
stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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96
milkiness
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| 乳状； 乳白色； 浑浊； 软弱 | |
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97
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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98
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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99
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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100
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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101
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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102
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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103
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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104
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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105
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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106
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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107
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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108
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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109
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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110
bestowal
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| 赠与，给与； 贮存 | |
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111
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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112
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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113
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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114
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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115
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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116
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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117
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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118
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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119
piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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120
subsists
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的第三人称单数 ) | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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inflexibility
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| n.不屈性，顽固，不变性；不可弯曲；非挠性；刚性 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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persuasiveness
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| 说服力 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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sips
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| n.小口喝，一小口的量( sip的名词复数 )v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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132
cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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133
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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135
broker
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| n.中间人，经纪人；v.作为中间人来安排 | |
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136
trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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144
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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145
capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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