Part 41 (1/2)

”It's no use objecting,” said Gwendolen, coldly. She was resisting to the utmost her temptation to tell him that she suspected to whom he was going--the temptation to make a clean breast, speaking without restraint.

”Yes it is,” said Grandcourt, enfolding her hand. ”I will put off going. And I will travel at night, so as only to be away one day.” He thought that he knew the reason of what he inwardly called this bit of temper, and she was particularly fascinating to him at this moment.

”Then don't put off going, but travel at night,” said Gwendolen, feeling that she could command him, and finding in this peremptoriness a small outlet for her irritation.

”Then you will go to Diplow to-morrow?”

”Oh, yes, if you wish it,” said Gwendolen, in a high tone of careless a.s.sent. Her concentration in other feelings had really hindered her from taking notice that her hand was being held.

”How you treat us poor devils of men!” said Grandcourt, lowering his tone. ”We are always getting the worst of it.”

”_Are_ you?” said Gwendolen, in a tone of inquiry, looking at him more navely than usual. She longed to believe this commonplace _badinage_ as the serious truth about her lover: in that case, she too was justified. If she knew everything, Mrs. Glasher would appear more blamable than Grandcourt. ”_Are_ you always getting the worst?”

”Yes. Are you as kind to me as I am to you?” said Grandcourt, looking into her eyes with his narrow gaze.

Gwendolen felt herself stricken. She was conscious of having received so much, that her sense of command was checked, and sank away in the perception that, look around her as she might, she could not turn back: it was as if she had consented to mount a chariot where another held the reins; and it was not in her nature to leap out in the eyes of the world. She had not consented in ignorance, and all she could say now would be a confession that she had not been ignorant. Her right to explanation was gone. All she had to do now was to adjust herself, so that the spikes of that unwilling penance which conscience imposed should not gall her. With a sort of mental s.h.i.+ver, she resolutely changed her mental att.i.tude. There had been a little pause, during which she had not turned away her eyes; and with a sudden break into a smile, she said--

”If I were as kind to you as you are to me, that would spoil your generosity: it would no longer be as great as it could be--and it is that now.”

”Then I am not to ask for one kiss,” said Grandcourt, contented to pay a large price for this new kind of love-making, which introduced marriage by the finest contrast.

”Not one?” said Gwendolen, getting saucy, and nodding at him defiantly.

He lifted her little left hand to his lips, and then released it respectfully. Clearly it was faint praise to say of him that he was not disgusting: he was almost charming; and she felt at this moment that it was not likely she could ever have loved another man better than this one. His reticence gave her some inexplicable, delightful consciousness.

”Apropos,” she said, taking up her work again, ”is there any one besides Captain and Mrs. Torrington at Diplow?--or do you leave them _tete-a-tete_? I suppose he converses in cigars, and she answers with her chignon.”

”She has a sister with her,” said Grandcourt, with his shadow of a smile, ”and there are two men besides--one of them you know, I believe.”

”Ah, then, I have a poor opinion of him,” said Gwendolen, shaking her head.

”You saw him at Leubronn--young Deronda--a young fellow with the Mallingers.”

Gwendolen felt as if her heart were making a sudden gambol, and her fingers, which tried to keep a firm hold on her work, got cold.

”I never spoke to him,” she said, dreading any discernible change in herself. ”Is he not disagreeable?”

”No, not particularly,” said Grandcourt, in his most languid way. ”He thinks a little too much of himself. I thought he had been introduced to you.”

”No. Some one told me his name the evening before I came away. That was all. What is he?”

”A sort of ward of Sir Hugo Mallinger's. Nothing of any consequence.”

”Oh, poor creature! How very unpleasant for him!” said Gwendolen, speaking from the lip, and not meaning any sarcasm. ”I wonder if it has left off raining!” she added, rising and going to look out of the window.

Happily it did not rain the next day, and Gwendolen rode to Diplow on Criterion as she had done on that former day when she returned with her mother in the carriage. She always felt the more daring for being in her riding-dress; besides having the agreeable belief that she looked as well as possible in it--a sustaining consciousness in any meeting which seems formidable. Her anger toward Deronda had changed into a superst.i.tious dread--due, perhaps, to the coercion he had exercised over her thought--lest the first interference of his in her life might foreshadow some future influence. It is of such stuff that superst.i.tions are commonly made: an intense feeling about ourselves which makes the evening star s.h.i.+ne at us with a threat, and the blessing of a beggar encourage us. And superst.i.tions carry consequences which often verify their hope or their foreboding.

The time before luncheon was taken up for Gwendolen by going over the rooms with Mrs. Torrington and Mrs. Davilow; and she thought it likely that if she saw Deronda, there would hardly be need for more than a bow between them. She meant to notice him as little as possible.

And after all she found herself under an inward compulsion too strong for her pride. From the first moment of their being in the room together, she seemed to herself to be doing nothing but notice him; everything else was automatic performance of an habitual part.

When he took his place at lunch, Grandcourt had said, ”Deronda, Miss Harleth tells me you were not introduced to her at Leubronn?”