Daniel Deronda
乔治.艾略特 George Eliot
CHAPTER LVII.
"The unripe grape, the ripe, and the dried. All things are changes,not into nothing, but into that which is not at present."--MARCUSAURELIUS.
Deeds are the pulse of Time, his beating life,And righteous or unrighteous, being done,Must throb in after-throbs till Time itselfBe laid in darkness, and the universeQuiver and breathe upon no mirror more.
In the evening she sent for him again. It was already near the hour atwhich she had been brought in from the sea the evening before, and thelight was subdued enough with blinds drawn up and windows open. She wasseated gazing fixedly on the sea, resting her cheek on her hand, lookingless shattered than when he had left her, but with a deep melancholy inher expression which as Deronda approached her passed into an anxioustimidity. She did not put out her hand, but said, "How long ago it is!"Then, "Will you sit near me again a little while?"
He placed himself by her side as he had done before, and seeing that sheturned to him with that indefinable expression which implies a wish to saysomething, he waited for her to speak. But again she looked toward thewindow silently, and again turned with the same expression, which yet didnot issue in speech. There was some fear hindering her, and Deronda,wishing to relieve her timidity, averted his face. Presently he heard hercry imploringly--
"You will not say that any one else should know?"
"Most decidedly not," said Deronda. "There is no action that ought to betaken in consequence. There is no injury that could be righted in thatway. There is no retribution that any mortal could apportion justly."
She was so still during a pause that she seemed to be holding her breathbefore she said--
"But if I had not had that murderous will--that moment--if I had thrownthe rope on the instant--perhaps it would have hindered death?"
"No--I think not," said Deronda, slowly. "If it were true that he couldswim, he must have been seized with cramp. With your quickest, utmosteffort, it seems impossible that you could have done anything to save him.That momentary murderous will cannot, I think, have altered the course ofevents. Its effect is confined to the motives in your own breast. Withinourselves our evil will is momentous, and sooner or later it works its wayoutside us--it may be in the vitiation that breeds evil acts, but also itmay be in the self-abhorrence that stings us into better striving."
"I am saved from robbing others--there are others--they will haveeverything--they will have what they ought to have. I knew that some timebefore I left town. You do not suspect me of wrong desires about thosethings?" She spoke hesitatingly.
"I had not thought of them," said Deronda; "I was thinking too much of theother things."
"Perhaps you don't quite know the beginning of it all," said Gwendolen,slowly, as if she were overcoming her reluctance. "There was some one elsehe ought to have married. And I knew it, and I told her I would not hinderit. And I went away--that was when you first saw me. But then we becamepoor all at once, and I was very miserable, and I was tempted. I thought,'I shall do as I like and make everything right.' I persuaded myself. Andit was all different. It was all dreadful. Then came hatred and wickedthoughts. That was how it all came. I told you I was afraid of myself. AndI did what you told me--I did try to make my fear a safeguard. I thoughtof what would be if I--I felt what would come--how I should dread themorning--wishing it would be always night--and yet in the darkness alwaysseeing something--seeing death. If you did not know how miserable I was,you might--but now it has all been no use. I can care for nothing butsaving the rest from knowing--poor mamma, who has never been happy."
There was silence again before she said with a repressed sob--"You cannotbear to look at me any more. You think I am too wicked. You do notbelieve that I can become any better--worth anything--worthy enough--Ishall always be too wicked to--" The voice broke off helpless.
Deronda's heart was pierced. He turned his eyes on her poor beseechingface and said, "I believe that you may become worthier than you have everyet been--worthy to lead a life that may be a blessing. No evil dooms ushopelessly except the evil we love, and desire to continue in, and make noeffort to escape from. You _have_ made efforts--you will go on makingthem."
"But you were the beginning of them. You must not forsake me," saidGwendolen, leaning with her clasped hands on the arm of her chair andlooking at him, while her face bore piteous traces of the life-experienceconcentrated in the twenty-four hours--that new terrible life lying on theother side of the deed which fulfills a criminal desire. "I will bear anypenance. I will lead any life you tell me. But you must not forsake me.You must be near. If you had been near me--if I could have said everythingto you, I should have been different. You will not forsake me?"
"It could never be my impulse to forsake you," said Deronda promptly, withthat voice which, like his eyes, had the unintentional effect of makinghis ready sympathy seem more personal and special than it really was. Andin that moment he was not himself quite free from a foreboding of somesuch self-committing effect. His strong feeling for this stricken creaturecould not hinder rushing images of future difficulty. He continued to meether appealing eyes as he spoke, but it was with the painful consciousnessthat to her ear his words might carry a promise which one day would seemunfulfilled: he was making an indefinite promise to an indefinite hope.Anxieties, both immediate and distant, crowded on his thought, and it wasunder their influence that, after a moment's silence, he said--
"I expect Sir Hugh Mallinger to arrive by to-morrow night at least; and Iam not without hope that Mrs. Davilow may shortly follow him. Her presencewill be the greatest comfort to you--it will give you a motive to save herfrom unnecessary pain?"
"Yes, yes--I will try. And you will not go away?"
"Not till after Sir Hugo has come."
"But we shall all go to England?"
"As soon as possible," said Deronda, not wishing to enter intoparticulars.
Gwendolen looked toward the window again with an expression which seemedlike a gradual awakening to new thoughts. The twilight was perceptiblydeepening, but Deronda could see a movement in her eyes and hands such asaccompanies a return of perception in one who has been stunned.
"You will always be with Sir Hugo now!" she said presently, looking athim. "You will always live at the Abbey--or else at Diplow?"
"I am quite uncertain where I shall live," said Deronda, coloring.
She was warned by his changed color that she had spoken too rashly, andfell silent. After a little while she began, again looking away--
"It is impossible to think how my life will go on. I think now it would bebetter for me to be poor and obliged to work."
"New promptings will come as the days pass. When you are among yourfriends again, you will discern new duties," said Deronda. "Make it a tasknow to get as well and calm--as much like yourself as you can, before--"He hesitated.
. And you will not go away?"met!
"Before my mother comes," said Gwendolen. "Ah! I must be changed. I havenot looked at myself. Should you have known me," she added, turning towardhim, "if you had met me now?--should you have known me for the one you sawat Leubronn?"
"Yes, I should have known you," said Deronda, mournfully. "The outsidechange is not great. I should have seen at once that it was you, and thatyou had gone through some great sorrow."
"Don't wish now that you had never seen me; don't wish that," saidGwendolen, imploringly, while the tears gathered.
"I should despise myself for wishing it," said Deronda. "How could I knowwhat I was wishing? We must find our duties in what comes to us, not inwhat we imagine might have been. If I took to foolish wishing of thatsort, I should wish--not that I had never seen you, but that I had beenable to save you from this."
"You have saved me from worse," said Gwendolen, in a sobbing voice. "Ishould have been worse if it had not been for you. If you had not beengood, I should have been more wicked than I am."
"It will be better for me to go now," said Deronda, worn in spirit by theperpetual strain of this scene. "Remember what we said of your task--toget well and calm before other friends come."
He rose as he spoke, and she gave him her hand submissively. But when hehad left her she sank on her knees, in hysterical crying. The distancebetween them was too great. She was a banished soul--beholding a possiblelife which she had sinned herself away from.
She was found in this way, crushed on the floor. Such grief seemed naturalin a poor lady whose husband had been drowned in her presence.