Daniel Deronda
乔治.艾略特 George Eliot
CHAPTER VII. Page 1
"_Perigot_. As the bonny lasse passed by,_Willie_. Hey, ho, bonnilasse!_P_. She roode at me with glauncing eye,_W_. As clear as the crystal glasse._P_. All as the sunny beame so bright,_W_. Hey, ho, the sunnebeame!_P_. Glaunceth from Phoebus' face forthright,_W_. So love into thy heart did streame."--SPENSER: _Shepard's Calendar_.
"The kindliest symptom, yet the most alarming crisis in the ticklishstate of youth; the nourisher and destroyer of hopeful wits; * * * theservitude above freedom; the gentle mind's religion; the liberalsuperstition."--CHARLES LAMB.
The first sign of the unimagined snow-storm was like the transparent whitecloud that seems to set off the blue. Anna was in the secret of Rex'sfeeling; though for the first time in their lives he had said nothing toher about what he most thought of, and he only took it for granted thatshe knew it. For the first time, too, Anna could not say to Rex what wascontinually in her mind. Perhaps it might have been a pain which she wouldhave had to conceal, that he should so soon care for some one else morethan for herself, if such a feeling had not been thoroughly neutralized bydoubt and anxiety on his behalf. Anna admired her cousin--would have saidwith simple sincerity, "Gwendolen is always very good to me," and held itin the order of things for herself to be entirely subject to this cousin;but she looked at her with mingled fear and distrust, with a puzzledcontemplation as of some wondrous and beautiful animal whose nature was amystery, and who, for anything Anna knew, might have an appetite fordevouring all the small creatures that were her own particular pets. Andnow Anna's heart was sinking under the heavy conviction which she darednot utter, that Gwendolen would never care for Rex. What she herself heldin tenderness and reverence had constantly seemed indifferent toGwendolen, and it was easier to imagine her scorning Rex than returningany tenderness of his. Besides, she was always thinking of being somethingextraordinary. And poor Rex! Papa would be angry with him if he knew. Andof course he was too young to be in love in that way; and she, Anna hadthought that it would be years and years before any thing of that sortcame, and that she would be Rex's housekeeper ever so long. But what aheart must that be which did not return his love! Anna, in the prospect ofhis suffering, was beginning to dislike her too fascinating cousin.
It seemed to her, as it did to Rex, that the weeks had been filled with atumultuous life evident to all observers: if he had been questioned on thesubject he would have said that he had no wish to conceal what he hopedwould be an engagement which he should immediately tell his father of: andyet for the first time in his life he was reserved not only about hisfeelings but--which was more remarkable to Anna--about certain actions.She, on her side, was nervous each time her father or mother began tospeak to her in private lest they should say anything about Rex andGwendolen. But the elders were not in the least alive to this agitatingdrama, which went forward chiefly in a sort of pantomime extremely lucidin the minds thus expressing themselves, but easily missed by spectatorswho were running their eyes over the _Guardian_ or the _Clerical Gazette_,and regarded the trivialities of the young ones with scarcely moreinterpretation than they gave to the action of lively ants.
"Where are you going, Rex?" said Anna one gray morning when her father hadset off in his carriage to the sessions, Mrs. Gascoigne with him, and shehad observed that her brother had on his antigropelos, the utmost approachhe possessed to a hunting equipment.
"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 aboutthe matter."
"You are going to use his horse?"
"He knows I do that whenever I can."
for you in no time."Let us go on."it. .
"Don't let Gwendolen ride after the hounds, Rex," said Anna, whose fearsgifted 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 notright 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 alittle anger.
"Then she would not mind me," said Rex, perversely making a joke of poorAnna's anxiety.
"Oh Rex, I cannot bear it. You will make yourself very unhappy." Here Annaburst into tears.
"Nannie, Nannie, what on earth is the matter with you?" said Rex, a littleimpatient 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 poorchild in a sobbing whisper. She had lost all control of herself.
Rex reddened and hurried away from her out of the hall door, leaving herto the miserable consciousness of having made herself disagreeable invain.
He did think of her words as he rode along; they had the unwelcomenesswhich all unfavorable fortune-telling has, even when laughed at; but hequickly explained them as springing from little Anna's tenderness, andbegan to be sorry that he was obliged to come away without soothing her.Every other feeling on the subject, however, was quickly merged in aresistant belief to the contrary of hers, accompanied with a newdetermination to prove that he was right. This sort of certainty had justenough kinship to doubt and uneasiness to hurry on a confession which anuntouched security might have delayed.
Gwendolen was already mounted and riding up and down the avenue when Rexappeared at the gate. She had provided herself against disappointment incase he did not appear in time by having the groom ready behind her, forshe would not have waited beyond a reasonable time. But now the groom wasdismissed, and the two rode away in delightful freedom. Gwendolen was inher highest spirits, and Rex thought that she had never looked so lovelybefore; her figure, her long white throat, and the curves of her cheek andchin were always set off to perfection by the compact simplicity of herriding dress. He could not conceive a more perfect girl; and to a youthfullover like Rex it seems that the fundamental identity of the good, thetrue and the beautiful, is already extant and manifest in the object ofhis love. Most observers would have held it more than equally accountablethat a girl should have like impressions about Rex, for in his handsomeface there was nothing corresponding to the undefinable stinging quality--as it were a trace of demon ancestry--which made some beholders hesitatein 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 mildwinter scene--the grassy borders of the lanes, the hedgerows sprinkledwith red berries and haunted with low twitterings, the purple bareness ofthe elms, the rich brown of the furrows. The horses' hoofs made a musicalchime, accompanying their young voices. She was laughing at his equipment,for he was the reverse of a dandy, and he was enjoying her laughter; thefreshness of the morning mingled with the freshness of their youth; andevery sound that came from their clear throats, every glance they gaveeach other, was the bubbling outflow from a spring of joy. It was allmorning to them, within and without. And thinking of them in these momentsone is tempted to that futile sort of wishing--if only things could havebeen a little otherwise then, so as to have been greatly otherwise after--if only these two beautiful young creatures could have pledged themselvesto each other then and there, and never through life have swerved fromthat pledge! For some of the goodness which Rex believed in was there.Goodness is a large, often a prospective word; like harvest, which at onestage when we talk of it lies all underground, with an indeterminatefuture; is the germ prospering in the darkness? at another, it has putforth delicate green blades, and by-and-by the trembling blossoms areready to be dashed off by an hour of rough wind or rain. Each stage hasits peculiar blight, and may have the healthy life choked out of it by aparticular action of the foul land which rears or neighbors it, or bydamage brought from foulness afar.
"Anna had got it into her head that you would want to ride after thehounds this morning," said Rex, whose secret associations with Anna'swords made this speech seem quite perilously near the most momentous ofsubjects.
"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 ifthe 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. Clairvoyantsare often wrong: they foresee what is likely. I am not fond of what islikely: it is always dull. I do what is unlikely."
"Ah, there you tell me a secret. When once I knew what people in generalwould be likely to do, I should know you would do the opposite. So youwould have come round to a likelihood of your own sort. I shall be able tocalculate on you. You couldn't surprise me."
"Yes, I could. I should turn round and do what was likely for people ingeneral," said Gwendolen, with a musical laugh.
"You see you can't escape some sort of likelihood. And contradictorinessmakes 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 anyyoung lady incline to imitate Gwendolen, let her consider the set of herhead and neck: if the angle there had been different, the chin protrusive,and the cervical vertebrae a trifle more curved in their position, ten toone Gwendolen's words would have had a jar in them for the sweet-naturedRex. But everything odd in her speech was humor and pretty banter, whichhe 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 worldwere pleasanter, one would only feel what was pleasant. Girls' lives areso stupid: they never do what they like."
"I thought that was more the case of the men. They are forced to do hardthings, and are often dreadfully bored, and knocked to pieces too. Andthen, if we love a girl very dearly we want to do as she likes, so afterall 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 realanxiety.
"Oh, I don't know!--go to the North Pole, or ride steeple-chases, or go tobe 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 aloss 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 otherwomen do."
"You might do just as you liked if you married a man who loved you moredearly than anything else in the world," said Rex, who, poor youth, wasmoving in themes outside the curriculum in which he had promised to windistinction. "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. Ihear 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 cousinwas in love with her; but she had no idea that the matter was of anyconsequence, having never had the slightest visitation of painful loveherself. She wished the small romance of Rex's devotion to fill up thetime of his stay at Pennicote, and to avoid explanations which would bringit to an untimely end. Besides, she objected, with a sort of physicalrepulsion, to being directly made love to. With all her imaginativedelight in being adored, there was a certain fierceness of maidenhood inher.
But all other thoughts were soon lost for her in the excitement of thescene at the Three Barns. Several gentlemen of the hunt knew her, and sheexchanged pleasant greetings. Rex could not get another word with her. Thecolor, the stir of the field had taken possession of Gwendolen with astrength which was not due to habitual associations, for she had never yetridden after the hounds--only said she should like to do it, and so drawnforth a prohibition; her mamma dreading the danger, and her uncledeclaring that for his part he held that kind of violent exercise unseemlyin 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 spokelike one. This last argument had some effect on Gwendolen, and had kepther halting between her desire to assert her freedom and her horror ofbeing classed with Mrs. Gadsby.
Some of the most unexceptionable women in the neighborhood occasionallywent to see the hounds throws off; but it happened that none of them werepresent this morning to abstain from following, while Mrs. Gadsby, withher doubtful antecedents, grammatical and otherwise, was not visible tomake following seem unbecoming. Thus Gwendolen felt no check on the animalstimulus that came from the stir and tongue of the hounds, the pawing ofthe horses, the varying voices of men, the movement hither and thither ofvivid color on the background of green and gray stillness:--that utmostexcitement of the coming chase which consists in feeling something like acombination of dog and horse, with the superadded thrill of socialvanities and consciousness of centaur-power which belongs to humankind.
Rex would have felt more of the same enjoyment if he could have keptnearer to Gwendolen, and not seen her constantly occupied withacquaintances, or looked at by would-be acquaintances, all on livelyhorses which veered about and swept the surrounding space as effectuallyas a revolving lever.
"Glad to see you here this fine morning, Miss Harleth," said LordBrackenshaw, a middle-aged peer of aristocratic seediness in stained pink,with easy-going manners which would have made the threatened deluge seemof no consequence. "We shall have a first-rate run. A pity you didn't gowith us. Have you ever tried your little chestnut at a ditch? you wouldn'tbe afraid, eh?"
"Not the least in the world," said Gwendolen. And that was true: she wasnever fearful in action and companionship. "I have often taken him at somerails and a ditch too, near--"
"Ah, by Jove!" said his lordship, quietly, in notation that something washappening which must break off the dialogue: and as he reined off hishorse, Rex was bringing his sober hackney up to Gwendolen's side when--thehounds gave tongue, and the whole field was in motion as if the whirl ofthe earth were carrying it; Gwendolen along with everything else; no wordof notice to Rex, who without a second thought followed too. Could he letGwendolen go alone? under other circumstances he would have enjoyed therun, but he was just now perturbed by the check which had been put on theimpetus to utter his love, and get utterance in return, an impetus whichcould 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 goodhorse enough in his way, but of sober years and ecclesiastical habits.Gwendolen on her spirited little chestnut was up with the best, and feltas secure as an immortal goddess, having, if she had thought of risk, acore of confidence that no ill luck would happen to her. But she thoughtof no such thing, and certainly not of any risk there might be for hercousin. If she had thought of him, it would have struck her as a drollpicture that he should be gradually falling behind, and looking round insearch of gates: a fine lithe youth, whose heart must be panting with allthe spirit of a beagle, stuck as if under a wizard's spell on a stiffclerical hackney, would have made her laugh with a sense of fun much toostrong for her to reflect on his mortification. But Gwendolen was apt tothink 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 haveseen him. For I grieve to say that in the search for a gate, along a lanelately mended, Primrose fell, broke his knees, and undesignedly threw Rexover his head.
Fortunately a blacksmith's son who also followed the hounds underdisadvantages, namely, on foot (a loose way of hunting which had strucksome even frivolous minds as immoral), was naturally also in the rear, andhappened to be within sight of Rex's misfortune. He ran to give help whichwas greatly needed, for Rex was a great deal stunned, and the completerecovery of sensation came in the form of pain. Joel Dagge on thisoccasion showed himself that most useful of personages, whose knowledge isof a kind suited to the immediate occasion: he not only knew perfectlywell what was the matter with the horse, how far they were both from thenearest public-house and from Pennicote Rectory, and could certify to Rexthat his shoulder was only a bit out of joint, but also offeredexperienced 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'sall one and the same, shoulders is. If you'll trusten to me and tightenyour 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 thanhis seat in the saddle. And Joel managed the operation, though not withoutconsiderable expense of pain to his patient, who turned so pitiably palewhile tightening his mind, that Joel remarked, "Ah, sir, you aren't usedto it, that's how it is. I's see lots and lots o' joints out. I see a manwith his eye pushed out once--that was a rum go as ever I see. You can'thave a bit o' fun wi'out such sort o' things. But it went in again. I'sswallowed three teeth mysen, as sure as I'm alive. Now, sirrey" (this wasaddressed to Primrose), "come alonk--you musn't make believe as youcan't."
Joel being clearly a low character, it is, happily, not necessary to saymore of him to the refined reader, than that he helped Rex to get homewith as little delay as possible. There was no alternative but to gethome, though all the while he was in anxiety about Gwendolen, and moremiserable in the thought that she, too, might have had an accident, thanin the pain of his own bruises and the annoyance he was about to cause hisfather. He comforted himself about her by reflecting that every one wouldbe anxious to take care of her, and that some acquaintance would be sureto 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 wasnot the less handsome and ingratiating for being pale and a littledistressed. He was secretly the favorite son, and a young portrait of thefather; who, however, never treated him with any partiality--rather, withan extra rigor. Mr. Gascoigne having inquired of Anna, knew that Rex hadgone with Gwendolen to the meet at the Three Barns.