Daniel Deronda by George Eliot (ebook pdf reader for pc .txt) 📕

“It was nothing, mamma,” said Gwendolen, thinking that her mother had been moved in this way simply by finding her in distress. “It is all over now.”

But Mrs. Davilow had withdrawn her arms, and Gwendolen perceived a letter in her hand.

“What is that letter?⁠—worse news still?” she asked, with a touch of bitterness.

“I don’t know what you will think it, dear,” said Mrs. Davilow, keeping the letter in her hand. “You will hardly guess where it comes from.”

“Don’t ask me to guess anything,” said Gwendolen, rather impatiently, as if a bruise were being pressed.

“It is addressed to you, dear.”

Gwendolen gave the slightest perceptible toss of the head.

“It comes from Diplow,” said Mrs. Davilow, giving her the letter.

She knew Grandcourt’s indistinct handwriting, and her mother was not surprised to see her blush deeply; but watching her as she read, and wondering much what was the purport of the letter, she saw the color die out. Gwendolen’s lips even were pale as she turned the open note toward her mother. The words were few and formal:

Mr. Grandcourt presents his compliments to Miss Harleth, and begs to know whether he may be permitted to call at Offendene tomorrow after two and to see her alone. Mr. Grandcourt has just returned from Leubronn, where he had hoped to find Miss Harleth.

Mrs. Davilow read, and then looked at her daughter inquiringly, leaving the note in her hand. Gwendolen let it fall to the floor, and turned away.

“It must be answered, darling,” said Mrs. Davilow, timidly. “The man waits.”

Gwendolen sank on the settee, clasped her hands, and looked straight before her, not at her mother. She had the expression of one who had been startled by a sound and was listening to know what would come of it. The sudden change of the situation was bewildering. A few minutes before she was looking along an inescapable path of repulsive monotony, with hopeless inward rebellion against the imperious lot which left her no choice: and lo, now, a moment of choice was come. Yet⁠—was it triumph she felt most or terror? Impossible for Gwendolen not to feel some triumph in a tribute to her power at a time when she was first tasting the bitterness of insignificance: again she seemed to be getting a sort of empire over her own life. But how to use it? Here came the terror. Quick, quick, like pictures in a book beaten open with a sense of hurry, came back vividly, yet in fragments, all that she had gone through in relation to Grandcourt⁠—the allurements, the vacillations, the resolve to accede, the final repulsion; the incisive face of that dark-eyed lady with the lovely boy: her own pledge (was it a pledge not to marry him?)⁠—the new disbelief in the worth of men and things for which that scene of disclosure had become a symbol. That unalterable experience made a vision at which in the first agitated moment, before tempering reflections could suggest themselves, her native terror shrank.

Where was the good of choice coming again? What did she wish? Anything different? No! And yet in the dark seed-growths of consciousness a new wish was forming itself⁠—“I wish I had never known it!” Something, anything she wished for that would have saved her from the dread to let Grandcourt come.

It was no long while⁠—yet it seemed long to Mrs. Davilow, before she thought it well to say, gently,

“It will be necessary for you to write, dear. Or shall I write an answer for you⁠—which you will dictate?”

“No, mamma,” said Gwendolen, drawing a deep breath. “But please lay me out the pen and paper.”

That was gaining time. Was she to decline Grandcourt’s visit⁠—close the shutters⁠—not even look out on what would happen?⁠—though with the assurance that she should remain just where she was? The young activity within her made a warm current through her terror and stirred toward something that would be an event⁠—toward an opportunity in which she could look and speak with the former effectiveness. The interest of the morrow was no longer at a deadlock.

“There is really no reason on earth why you should be so alarmed at the man’s waiting a few minutes, mamma,” said Gwendolen, remonstrantly, as Mrs. Davilow, having prepared the writing materials, looked toward her expectantly. “Servants expect nothing else than to wait. It is not to be supposed that I must write on the instant.”

“No, dear,” said Mrs. Davilow, in the tone of one corrected, turning to sit down and take up a bit of work that lay at hand; “he can wait another quarter of an hour, if you like.”

It was very simple speech and action on her part, but it was what might have been subtly calculated. Gwendolen felt a contradictory desire to be hastened: hurry would save her from deliberate choice.

“I did not mean him to wait long enough for that needlework to be finished,” she said, lifting her hands to stroke the backward curves of her hair, while she rose from her seat and stood still.

“But if you don’t feel able to decide?” said Mrs. Davilow, sympathizingly.

“I must decide,” said Gwendolen, walking to the writing-table and seating herself. All the while there was a busy undercurrent in her, like the thought of a man who keeps up a dialogue while he is considering how he can slip away. Why should she not let him come? It bound her to nothing. He had been to Leubronn after her: of course he meant a direct unmistakable renewal of the suit which before had been only implied. What then? She could reject him. Why was she to deny herself the freedom of doing this⁠—which she would like to do?

“If Mr. Grandcourt has only just returned from Leubronn,” said Mrs. Davilow, observing that Gwendolen leaned back in her chair after taking the pen in her hand⁠—“I wonder whether he has heard of our misfortunes?”

“That could make no difference to a man in his position,” said Gwendolen, rather contemptuously,

“It would to some men,” said Mrs. Davilow. “They would not like to take a wife from a