Daniel Deronda
乔治.艾略特 George Eliot
CHAPTER XXX. Page 1
No penitence and no confessional,No priest ordains it, yet they're forced to sitAmid deep ashes of their vanished years.
Imagine a rambling, patchy house, the best part built of gray stone, andred-tiled, a round tower jutting at one of the corners, the mellowdarkness of its conical roof surmounted by a weather-cock making anagreeable object either amidst the gleams and greenth of summer or thelow-hanging clouds and snowy branches of winter: the ground shady withspreading trees: a great tree flourishing on one side, backward someScotch firs on a broken bank where the roots hung naked, and beyond, arookery: on the other side a pool overhung with bushes, where the water-fowl fluttered and screamed: all around, a vast meadow which might becalled a park, bordered by an old plantation and guarded by stone ledgeswhich looked like little prisons. Outside the gate the country, onceentirely rural and lovely, now black with coal mines, was chiefly peopledby men and brethren with candles stuck in their hats, and with a diaboliccomplexion which laid them peculiarly open to suspicion in the eyes of thechildren at Gadsmere--Mrs. Glasher's four beautiful children, who haddwelt there for about three years. Now, in November, when the flower-bedswere empty, the trees leafless, and the pool blackly shivering, one mighthave said that the place was sombrely in keeping with the black roads andblack mounds which seemed to put the district in mourning;--except whenthe children were playing on the gravel with the dogs for theircompanions. But Mrs. Glasher, under her present circumstances, likedGadsmere as well as she would have liked any other abode. The completeseclusion of the place, which the unattractiveness of the country secured,was exactly to her taste. When she drove her two ponies with a waggonetfull of children, there were no gentry in carriages to be met, only men ofbusiness in gigs; at church there were no eyes she cared to avoid, for thecurate's wife and the curate himself were either ignorant of anything toher disadvantage, or ignored it: to them she was simply a widow lady, thetenant of Gadsmere; and the name of Grandcourt was of little interest inthat district compared with the names of Fletcher and Gawcome, the lesseesof the collieries.
It was full ten years since the elopement of an Irish officer's beautifulwife with young Grandcourt, and a consequent duel where the bulletswounded the air only, had made some little noise. Most of those whoremembered the affair now wondered what had become of that Mrs. Glasher,whose beauty and brilliancy had made her rather conspicuous to them inforeign places, where she was known to be living with young Grandcourt.
That he should have disentangled himself from that connection seemed onlynatural and desirable. As to her, it was thought that a woman who wasunderstood to have forsaken her child along with her husband had probablysunk lower. Grandcourt had of course got weary of her. He was much givento the pursuit of women: but a man in his position would by this timedesire to make a suitable marriage with the fair young daughter of a noblehouse. No one talked of Mrs. Glasher now, any more than they talked of thevictim in a trial for manslaughter ten years before: she was a lost vesselafter whom nobody would send out an expedition of search; but Grandcourtwas seen in harbor with his colors flying, registered as seaworthy asever.
Yet, in fact, Grandcourt had never disentangled himself from Mrs. Glasher.His passion for her had been the strongest and most lasting he had everknown; and though it was now as dead as the music of a cracked flute, ithad left a certain dull disposedness, which, on the death of her husbandthree years before, had prompted in him a vacillating notion of marryingher, in accordance with the understanding often expressed between themduring the days of his first ardor. At that early time Grandcourt wouldwillingly have paid for the freedom to be won by a divorce; but thehusband would not oblige him, not wanting to be married again himself, andnot wishing to have his domestic habits printed in evidence.
The altered poise which the years had brought in Mrs. Glasher was just thereverse. At first she was comparatively careless about the possibility ofmarriage. It was enough that she had escaped from a disagreeable husbandand found a sort of bliss with a lover who had completely fascinated her--young, handsome, amorous, and living in the best style, with equipage andconversation of the kind to be expected in young men of fortune who haveseen everything. She was an impassioned, vivacious woman, fond ofadoration, exasperated by five years of marital rudeness; and the sense ofrelease was so strong upon her that it stilled anxiety for more than sheactually enjoyed. An equivocal position was of no importance to her then;she had no envy for the honors of a dull, disregarded wife: the one spotwhich spoiled her vision of her new pleasant world, was the sense that sheleft her three-year-old boy, who died two years afterward, and whose firsttones saying "mamma" retained a difference from those of the children thatcame after. But now the years had brought many changes besides those inthe contour of her cheek and throat; and that Grandcourt should marry herhad become her dominant desire. The equivocal position which she had notminded about for herself was now telling upon her through her children,whom she loved with a devotion charged with the added passion ofatonement. She had no repentance except in this direction. If Grandcourtmarried her, the children would be none the worse off for what had passed:they would see their mother in a dignified position, and they would be atno disadvantage with the world: her son could be made his father's heir.It was the yearning for this result which gave the supreme importance toGrandcourt's feeling for her; her love for him had long resolved itselfinto anxiety that he should give her the unique, permanent claim of awife, and she expected no other happiness in marriage than thesatisfaction of her maternal love and pride--including her pride forherself in the presence of her children. For the sake of that result shewas prepared even with a tragic firmness to endure anything quietly inmarriage; and she had acuteness enough to cherish Grandcourt's flickeringpurpose negatively, by not molesting him with passionate appeals and withscene-making. In her, as in every one else who wanted anything of him, hisincalculable turns, and his tendency to harden under beseeching, hadcreated a reasonable dread:--a slow discovery, of which no presentimenthad been given in the bearing of a youthful lover with a fine line of faceand the softest manners. But reticence had necessarily cost something tothis impassioned woman, and she was the bitterer for it. There is noquailing--even that forced on the helpless and injured--which has not anugly obverse: the withheld sting was gathering venom. She was absolutelydependent on Grandcourt; for though he had been always liberal in expensesfor her, he had kept everything voluntary on his part; and with the goalof marriage before her, she would ask for nothing less. He had said thathe would never settle anything except by will; and when she was thinkingof alternatives for the future it often occurred to her that, even if shedid not become Grandcourt's wife, he might never have a son who would havea legitimate claim on him, and the end might be that her son would be madeheir to the best part of his estates. No son at that early age couldpromise to have more of his father's physique. But her becomingGrandcourt's wife was so far from being an extravagant notion ofpossibility, that even Lush had entertained it, and had said that he wouldas soon bet on it as on any other likelihood with regard to his familiarcompanion. Lush, indeed, on inferring that Grandcourt had a preconceptionof using his residence at Diplow in order to win Miss Arrowpoint, hadthought it well to fan that project, taking it as a tacit renunciation ofthe marriage with Mrs. Glasher, which had long been a mark for thehovering and wheeling of Grandcourt's caprice. But both prospects had beennegatived by Gwendolen's appearance on the scene; and it was naturalenough for Mrs. Glasher to enter with eagerness into Lush's plan ofhindering that new danger by setting up a barrier in the mind of the girlwho was being sought as a bride. She entered into it with an eagernesswhich had passion in it as well as purpose, some of the stored-up venomdelivering itself in that way.
After that, she had heard from Lush of Gwendolen's departure, and theprobability that all danger from her was got rid of; but there had been noletter to tell her that the danger had returned and had become acertainty. She had since then written to Grandcourt, as she didhabitually, and he had been longer than usual in answering. She wasinferring that he might intend coming to Gadsmere at the time when he wasactually on the way; and she was not without hope--what construction ofanother's mind is not strong wishing equal to?--that a certain sickeningfrom that frustrated courtship might dispose him to slip the more easilyinto the old track of intention.
Grandcourt had two grave purposes in coming to Gadsmere: to convey thenews of his approaching marriage in person, in order to make this firstdifficulty final; and to get from Lydia his mother's diamonds, which longago he had confided to her and wished her to wear. Her person suiteddiamonds, and made them look as if they were worth some of the money givenfor them. These particular diamonds were not mountains of light--they weremere peas and haricots for the ears, neck and hair; but they were worthsome thousands, and Grandcourt necessarily wished to have them for hiswife. Formerly when he had asked Lydia to put them into his keeping again,simply on the ground that they would be safer and ought to be deposited atthe bank, she had quietly but absolutely refused, declaring that they werequite safe; and at last had said, "If you ever marry another woman I willgive them up to her: are you going to marry another woman?" At that timeGrandcourt had no motive which urged him to persist, and he had this gracein him, that the disposition to exercise power either by cowing ordisappointing others or exciting in them a rage which they dared notexpress--a disposition which was active in him as other propensitiesbecame languid--had always been in abeyance before Lydia. A severeinterpreter might say that the mere facts of their relation to each other,the melancholy position of this woman who depended on his will, made astanding banquet for his delight in dominating. But there was somethingelse than this in his forbearance toward her: there was the survivingthough metamorphosed effect of the power she had had over him; and it wasthis effect, the fitful dull lapse toward solicitations that once had thezest now missing from life, which had again and again inclined him toespouse a familiar past rather than rouse himself to the expectation ofnovelty. But now novelty had taken hold of him and urged him to make themost of it.
Mrs. Glasher was seated in the pleasant room where she habitually passedher mornings with her children round her. It had a square projectingwindow and looked on broad gravel and grass, sloping toward a little brookthat entered the pool. The top of a low, black cabinet, the old oak table,the chairs in tawny leather, were littered with the children's toys, booksand garden garments, at which a maternal lady in pastel looked down fromthe walls with smiling indulgence. The children were all there. The threegirls, seated round their mother near the widow, were miniature portraitsof her--dark-eyed, delicate-featured brunettes with a rich bloom on theircheeks, their little nostrils and eyebrows singularly finished as if theywere tiny women, the eldest being barely nine. The boy was seated on thecarpet at some distance, bending his blonde head over the animals from aNoah ark, admonishing them separately in a voice of threatening command,and occasionally licking the spotted ones to see if the colors would hold.Josephine, the eldest, was having her French lesson; and the others, withtheir dolls on their laps, sat demurely enough for images of the Madonna.Mrs. Glasher's toilet had been made very carefully--each day now she saidto herself that Grandcourt might come in. Her head, which, spite ofemaciation, had an ineffaceable beauty in the fine profile, crisp curvesof hair, and clearly-marked eyebrows, rose impressively above her bronze-colored silk and velvet, and the gold necklace which Grandcourt had firstclasped round her neck years ago. Not that she had any pleasure in hertoilet; her chief thought of herself seen in the glass was, "Howchanged!"--but such good in life as remained to her she would keep. If herchief wish were fulfilled, she could imagine herself getting thecomeliness of a matron fit for the highest rank. The little faces besideher, almost exact reductions of her own, seemed to tell of the bloomingcurves which had once been where now was sunken pallor. But the childrenkissed the pale cheeks and never found them deficient. That love was nowthe one end of her life.
Suddenly Mrs. Glasher turned away her head from Josephine's book andlistened. "Hush, dear! I think some one is coming."
Henleigh the boy jumped up and said, "Mamma, is it the miller with mydonkey?"
He got no answer, and going up to his mamma's knee repeated his questionin an insistent tone. But the door opened, and the servant announced Mr.Grandcourt. Mrs. Glasher rose in some agitation. Henleigh frowned at himin disgust at his not being the miller, and the three little girls liftedup their dark eyes to him timidly. They had none of them any particularliking for this friend of mamma's--in fact, when he had taken Mrs.Glasher's hand and then turned to put his other hand on Henleigh's head,that energetic scion began to beat the friend's arm away with his fists.The little girls submitted bashfully to be patted under the chin andkissed, but on the whole it seemed better to send them into the garden,where they were presently dancing and chatting with the dogs on thegravel.
"How far are you come?" said Mrs. Glasher, as Grandcourt put away his hatand overcoat.
"From Diplow," he answered slowly, seating himself opposite her andlooking at her with an unnoting gaze which she noted.
"You are tired, then."
"No, I rested at the Junction--a hideous hole. These railway journeys arealways a confounded bore. But I had coffee and smoked."
Grandcourt drew out his handkerchief, rubbed his face, and in returningthe handkerchief to his pocket looked at his crossed knee and blamelessboot, as if any stranger were opposite to him, instead of a womanquivering with a suspense which every word and look of his was to inclinetoward hope or dread. But he was really occupied with their interview andwhat it was likely to include. Imagine the difference in rate of emotionbetween this woman whom the years had worn to a more conscious dependenceand sharper eagerness, and this man whom they were dulling into a moreneutral obstinacy.
"I expected to see you--it was so long since I had heard from you. Isuppose the weeks seem longer at Gadsmere than they do at Diplow," saidMrs. Glasher. She had a quick, incisive way of speaking that seemed to gowith her features, as the tone and _timbre_ of a violin go with its form.
"Yes," drawled Grandcourt. "But you found the money paid into the bank."
"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Glasher, curtly, tingling with impatience. Alwaysbefore--at least she fancied so--Grandcourt had taken more notice of herand the children than he did to-day.
"Yes," he resumed, playing with his whisker, and at first not looking ather, "the time has gone on at rather a rattling pace with me; generally itis slow enough. But there has been a good deal happening, as you know"--here he turned his eyes upon her.
"What do I know?" said she, sharply.
He left a pause before he said, without change of manner, "That I wasthinking of marrying. You saw Miss Harleth?"
"_She_ told you that?"
The pale cheeks looked even paler, perhaps from the fierce brightness inthe eyes above them.
"No. Lush told me," was the slow answer. It was as if the thumb-screw andthe iron boot were being placed by creeping hands within sight of theexpectant victim.
"Good God! say at once that you are going to marry her," she burst out,passionately, her knees shaking and her hands tightly clasped.
"Of course, this kind of thing must happen some time or other, Lydia,"said he; really, now the thumb-screw was on, not wishing to make the painworse.
"You didn't always see the necessity."
"Perhaps not. I see it now."
In those few under-toned words of Grandcourt's she felt as absolute aresistance as if her thin fingers had been pushing at a fast shut irondoor. She knew her helplessness, and shrank from testing it by any appeal--shrank from crying in a dead ear and clinging to dead knees, only to seethe immovable face and feel the rigid limbs. She did not weep nor speak;she was too hard pressed by the sudden certainty which had as much ofchill sickness in it as of thought and emotion. The defeated clutch ofstruggling hope gave her in these first moments a horrible sensation. Atlast she rose, with a spasmodic effort, and, unconscious of every thingbut her wretchedness, pressed her forehead against the hard, cold glass ofthe window. The children, playing on the gravel, took this as a sign thatshe wanted them, and, running forward, stood in front of her with theirsweet faces upturned expectantly. This roused her: she shook her head atthem, waved them off, and overcome with this painful exertion, sank backin the nearest chair.
Grandcourt had risen too. He was doubly annoyed--at the scene itself, andat the sense that no imperiousness of his could save him from it; but thetask had to be gone through, and there was the administrative necessity ofarranging things so that there should be as little annoyance as possiblein the future. He was leaning against the corner of the fire-place. Shelooked up at him and said, bitterly--
"All this is of no consequence to you. I and the children are importunatecreatures. You wish to get away again and be with Miss Harleth."
"Don't make the affair more disagreeable than it need be. Lydia. It is ofno use to harp on things that can't be Altered. Of course, its deucedlydisagreeable to me to see you making yourself miserable. I've taken thisjourney to tell you what you must make up your mind to:--you and thechildren will be provided for as usual;--and there's an end of it."
Silence. She dared not answer. This woman with the intense, eager look hadhad the iron of the mother's anguish in her soul, and it had made hersometimes capable of a repression harder than shrieking and struggle. Butunderneath the silence there was an outlash of hatred and vindictiveness:she wished that the marriage might make two others wretched, besidesherself. Presently he went on--
"It will be better for you. You may go on living here. But I think of by-and-by settling a good sum on you and the children, and you can live whereyou like. There will be nothing for you to complain of then. Whateverhappens, you will feel secure. Nothing could be done beforehand. Everything has gone on in a hurry."