Daniel Deronda

Chapter 30

It was full ten years since the elopement of an Irish officer's beautiful

wife with young Grandcourt, and a consequent duel where the bullets

wounded the air only, had made some little noise. Most of those who

remembered the affair now wondered what had become of that Mrs. Glasher,

whose beauty and brilliancy had made her rather conspicuous to them in

foreign places, where she was known to be living with young Grandcourt.

That he should have disentangled himself from that connection seemed only

natural and desirable. As to her, it was thought that a woman who was

understood to have forsaken her child along with her husband had probably

sunk lower. Grandcourt had of course got weary of her. He was much given

to the pursuit of women: but a man in his position would by this time

desire to make a suitable marriage with the fair young daughter of a noble

house. No one talked of Mrs. Glasher now, any more than they talked of the

victim in a trial for manslaughter ten years before: she was a lost vessel

after whom nobody would send out an expedition of search; but Grandcourt

was seen in harbor with his colors flying, registered as seaworthy as

ever.

Yet, in fact, Grandcourt had never disentangled himself from Mrs. Glasher.

His passion for her had been the strongest and most lasting he had ever

known; and though it was now as dead as the music of a cracked flute, it

had left a certain dull disposedness, which, on the death of her husband

three years before, had prompted in him a vacillating notion of marrying

her, in accordance with the understanding often expressed between them

during the days of his first ardor. At that early time Grandcourt would

willingly have paid for the freedom to be won by a divorce; but the

husband would not oblige him, not wanting to be married again himself, and

not wishing to have his domestic habits printed in evidence.

The altered poise which the years had brought in Mrs. Glasher was just the

reverse. At first she was comparatively careless about the possibility of

marriage. It was enough that she had escaped from a disagreeable husband

and found a sort of bliss with a lover who had completely fascinated her--

young, handsome, amorous, and living in the best style, with equipage and

conversation of the kind to be expected in young men of fortune who have

seen everything. She was an impassioned, vivacious woman, fond of

adoration, exasperated by five years of marital rudeness; and the sense of

release was so strong upon her that it stilled anxiety for more than she

actually 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 spot

which spoiled her vision of her new pleasant world, was the sense that she

left her three-year-old boy, who died two years afterward, and whose first

tones saying "mamma" retained a difference from those of the children that

came after. But now the years had brought many changes besides those in

the contour of her cheek and throat; and that Grandcourt should marry her

had become her dominant desire. The equivocal position which she had not

minded about for herself was now telling upon her through her children,

whom she loved with a devotion charged with the added passion of

atonement. She had no repentance except in this direction. If Grandcourt

married 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 at

no 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 to

Grandcourt's feeling for her; her love for him had long resolved itself

into anxiety that he should give her the unique, permanent claim of a

wife, and she expected no other happiness in marriage than the

satisfaction of her maternal love and pride--including her pride for

herself in the presence of her children. For the sake of that result she

was prepared even with a tragic firmness to endure anything quietly in

marriage; and she had acuteness enough to cherish Grandcourt's flickering

purpose negatively, by not molesting him with passionate appeals and with

scene-making. In her, as in every one else who wanted anything of him, his

incalculable turns, and his tendency to harden under beseeching, had

created a reasonable dread:--a slow discovery, of which no presentiment

had been given in the bearing of a youthful lover with a fine line of face

and the softest manners. But reticence had necessarily cost something to

this impassioned woman, and she was the bitterer for it. There is no

quailing--even that forced on the helpless and injured--which has not an

ugly obverse: the withheld sting was gathering venom. She was absolutely

dependent on Grandcourt; for though he had been always liberal in expenses

for her, he had kept everything voluntary on his part; and with the goal

of marriage before her, she would ask for nothing less. He had said that

he would never settle anything except by will; and when she was thinking

of alternatives for the future it often occurred to her that, even if she

did not become Grandcourt's wife, he might never have a son who would have

a legitimate claim on him, and the end might be that her son would be made

heir to the best part of his estates. No son at that early age could

promise to have more of his father's physique. But her becoming

Grandcourt's wife was so far from being an extravagant notion of

possibility, that even Lush had entertained it, and had said that he would

as soon bet on it as on any other likelihood with regard to his familiar

companion. Lush, indeed, on inferring that Grandcourt had a preconception

of using his residence at Diplow in order to win Miss Arrowpoint, had

thought it well to fan that project, taking it as a tacit renunciation of

the marriage with Mrs. Glasher, which had long been a mark for the

hovering and wheeling of Grandcourt's caprice. But both prospects had been

negatived by Gwendolen's appearance on the scene; and it was natural

enough for Mrs. Glasher to enter with eagerness into Lush's plan of

hindering that new danger by setting up a barrier in the mind of the girl

who was being sought as a bride. She entered into it with an eagerness

which had passion in it as well as purpose, some of the stored-up venom

delivering itself in that way.

After that, she had heard from Lush of Gwendolen's departure, and the

probability that all danger from her was got rid of; but there had been no

letter to tell her that the danger had returned and had become a

certainty. She had since then written to Grandcourt, as she did

habitually, and he had been longer than usual in answering. She was

inferring that he might intend coming to Gadsmere at the time when he was

actually on the way; and she was not without hope--what construction of

another's mind is not strong wishing equal to?--that a certain sickening

from that frustrated courtship might dispose him to slip the more easily

into the old track of intention.

Grandcourt had two grave purposes in coming to Gadsmere: to convey the

news of his approaching marriage in person, in order to make this first

difficulty final; and to get from Lydia his mother's diamonds, which long

ago he had confided to her and wished her to wear. Her person suited

diamonds, and made them look as if they were worth some of the money given

for them. These particular diamonds were not mountains of light--they were

mere peas and haricots for the ears, neck and hair; but they were worth

some thousands, and Grandcourt necessarily wished to have them for his

wife. 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 at

the bank, she had quietly but absolutely refused, declaring that they were

quite safe; and at last had said, "If you ever marry another woman I will

give them up to her: are you going to marry another woman?" At that time

Grandcourt had no motive which urged him to persist, and he had this grace

in him, that the disposition to exercise power either by cowing or

disappointing others or exciting in them a rage which they dared not

express--a disposition which was active in him as other propensities

became languid--had always been in abeyance before Lydia. A severe

interpreter might say that the mere facts of their relation to each other,

the melancholy position of this woman who depended on his will, made a

standing banquet for his delight in dominating. But there was something

else than this in his forbearance toward her: there was the surviving

though metamorphosed effect of the power she had had over him; and it was

this effect, the fitful dull lapse toward solicitations that once had the

zest now missing from life, which had again and again inclined him to

espouse a familiar past rather than rouse himself to the expectation of

novelty. But now novelty had taken hold of him and urged him to make the

most of it.

Mrs. Glasher was seated in the pleasant room where she habitually passed

her mornings with her children round her. It had a square projecting

window and looked on broad gravel and grass, sloping toward a little brook

that 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, books

and garden garments, at which a maternal lady in pastel looked down from

the walls with smiling indulgence. The children were all there. The three

girls, seated round their mother near the widow, were miniature portraits

of her--dark-eyed, delicate-featured brunettes with a rich bloom on their

cheeks, their little nostrils and eyebrows singularly finished as if they

were tiny women, the eldest being barely nine. The boy was seated on the

carpet at some distance, bending his blonde head over the animals from a

Noah's 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, with

their 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 said

to herself that Grandcourt might come in. Her head, which, spite of

emaciation, had an ineffaceable beauty in the fine profile, crisp curves

of hair, and clearly-marked eyebrows, rose impressively above her bronze-

colored silk and velvet, and the gold necklace which Grandcourt had first

clasped round her neck years ago. Not that she had any pleasure in her

toilet; her chief thought of herself seen in the glass was, "How

changed!"--but such good in life as remained to her she would keep. If her

chief wish were fulfilled, she could imagine herself getting the

comeliness of a matron fit for the highest rank. The little faces beside

her, almost exact reductions of her own, seemed to tell of the blooming

curves which had once been where now was sunken pallor. But the children

kissed the pale cheeks and never found them deficient. That love was now

the one end of her life.

Suddenly Mrs. Glasher turned away her head from Josephine's book and

listened. "Hush, dear! I think some one is coming."

Henleigh the boy jumped up and said, "Mamma, is it the miller with my

donkey?"

He got no answer, and going up to his mamma's knee repeated his question

in an insistent tone. But the door opened, and the servant announced Mr.

Grandcourt. Mrs. Glasher rose in some agitation. Henleigh frowned at him

in disgust at his not being the miller, and the three little girls lifted

up their dark eyes to him timidly. They had none of them any particular

liking 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 and

kissed, but on the whole it seemed better to send them into the garden,

where they were presently dancing and chatting with the dogs on the

gravel.

"How far are you come?" said Mrs. Glasher, as Grandcourt put away his hat

and overcoat.

"From Diplow," he answered slowly, seating himself opposite her and

looking 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 are

always a confounded bore. But I had coffee and smoked."

Grandcourt drew out his handkerchief, rubbed his face, and in returning

the handkerchief to his pocket looked at his crossed knee and blameless

boot, as if any stranger were opposite to him, instead of a woman

quivering with a suspense which every word and look of his was to incline

toward hope or dread. But he was really occupied with their interview and

what it was likely to include. Imagine the difference in rate of emotion

between this woman whom the years had worn to a more conscious dependence

and sharper eagerness, and this man whom they were dulling into a more

neutral obstinacy.

"I expected to see you--it was so long since I had heard from you. I

suppose the weeks seem longer at Gadsmere than they do at Diplow," said

Mrs. Glasher. She had a quick, incisive way of speaking that seemed to go

with 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. Always

before--at least she fancied so--Grandcourt had taken more notice of her

and the children than he did to-day.

"Yes," he resumed, playing with his whisker, and at first not looking at

her, "the time has gone on at rather a rattling pace with me; generally it

is 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 was

thinking of marrying. You saw Miss Harleth?"

"_She_ told you that?"

The pale cheeks looked even paler, perhaps from the fierce brightness in

the eyes above them.

"No. Lush told me," was the slow answer. It was as if the thumb-screw and

the iron boot were being placed by creeping hands within sight of the

expectant 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 pain

worse.

"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 a

resistance as if her thin fingers had been pushing at a fast shut iron

door. 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 see

the 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 of

chill sickness in it as of thought and emotion. The defeated clutch of

struggling hope gave her in these first moments a horrible sensation. At

last she rose, with a spasmodic effort, and, unconscious of every thing

but her wretchedness, pressed her forehead against the hard, cold glass of

the window. The children, playing on the gravel, took this as a sign that

she wanted them, and, running forward, stood in front of her with their

sweet faces upturned expectantly. This roused her: she shook her head at

them, waved them off, and overcome with this painful exertion, sank back

in the nearest chair.

Grandcourt had risen too. He was doubly annoyed--at the scene itself, and

at the sense that no imperiousness of his could save him from it; but the

task had to be gone through, and there was the administrative necessity of

arranging things so that there should be as little annoyance as possible

in the future. He was leaning against the corner of the fire-place. She

looked up at him and said, bitterly--

"All this is of no consequence to you. I and the children are importunate

creatures. 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 of

no use to harp on things that can't be Altered. Of course, its deucedly

disagreeable to me to see you making yourself miserable. I've taken this

journey to tell you what you must make up your mind to:--you and the

children 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 had

had the iron of the mother's anguish in her soul, and it had made her

sometimes capable of a repression harder than shrieking and struggle. But

underneath the silence there was an outlash of hatred and vindictiveness:

she wished that the marriage might make two others wretched, besides

herself. 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 where

you like. There will be nothing for you to complain of then. Whatever

happens, you will feel secure. Nothing could be done beforehand. Every

thing has gone on in a hurry."

Grandcourt ceased his slow delivery of sentences. He did not expect her to

thank him, but he considered that she might reasonably be contented; if it

were possible for Lydia to be contented. She showed no change, and after a

minute he said--

"You have never had any reason to fear that I should be illiberal. I don't

care a curse about the money."

"If you did care about it, I suppose you would not give it us," said

Lydia. The sarcasm was irrepressible.

"That's a devilishly unfair thing to say," Grandcourt replied, in a lower

tone; "and I advise you not to say that sort of thing again."

"Should you punish me by leaving the children in beggary?" In spite of

herself, the one outlet of venom had brought the other.

"There is no question about leaving the children in beggary," said

Grandcourt, still in his low voice. "I advise you not to say things that

you will repent of."

"I am used to repenting," said she, bitterly. "Perhaps you will repent.

You have already repented of loving me."

"All this will only make it uncommonly difficult for us to meet again.

What friend have you besides me?"

"Quite true."

The words came like a low moan. At the same moment there flashed through

her the wish that after promising himself a better happiness than that he

had had with her, he might feel a misery and loneliness which would drive

him back to her to find some memory of a time when he was young, glad, and

hopeful. But no! he would go scathless; it was she that had to suffer.

With this the scorching words were ended. Grandcourt had meant to stay

till evening; he wished to curtail his visit, but there was no suitable

train earlier than the one he had arranged to go by, and he had still to

speak to Lydia on the second object of his visit, which like a second

surgical operation seemed to require an interval. The hours had to go by;

there was eating to be done; the children came in--all this mechanism of

life had to be gone through with the dreary sense of constraint which is

often felt in domestic quarrels of a commoner kind. To Lydia it was some

slight relief for her stifled fury to have the children present: she felt

a savage glory in their loveliness, as if it would taunt Grandcourt with

his indifference to her and them--a secret darting of venom which was

strongly imaginative. He acquitted himself with all the advantage of a man

whose grace of bearing has long been moulded on an experience of boredom--

nursed the little Antonia, who sat with her hands crossed and eyes

upturned to his bald head, which struck her as worthy of observation--and

propitiated Henleigh by promising him a beautiful saddle and bridle. It

was only the two eldest girls who had known him as a continual presence;

and the intervening years had overlaid their infantine memories with a

bashfulness which Grandcourt's bearing was not likely to dissipate. He and

Lydia occasionally, in the presence of the servants, made a conventional

remark; otherwise they never spoke; and the stagnant thought in

Grandcourt's mind all the while was of his own infatuation in having given

her those diamonds, which obliged him to incur the nuisance of speaking

about them. He had an ingrained care for what he held to belong to his

caste, and about property he liked to be lordly; also he had a

consciousness of indignity to himself in having to ask for anything in the

world. But however he might assert his independence of Mrs. Glasher's

past, he had made a past for himself which was a stronger yoke than any he

could impose. He must ask for the diamonds which he had promised to

Gwendolen.

At last they were alone again, with the candles above them, face to face

with each other. Grandcourt looked at his watch, and then said, in an

apparently indifferent drawl, "There is one thing I had to mention, Lydia.

My diamonds--you have them."

"Yes, I have them," she answered promptly, rising and standing with her

arms thrust down and her fingers threaded, while Grandcourt sat still. She

had expected the topic, and made her resolve about it. But she meant to

carry out her resolve, if possible, without exasperating him. During the

hours of silence she had longed to recall the words which had only widened

the breach between them.

"They are in this house, I suppose?"

"No; not in this house."

"I thought you said you kept them by you."

"When I said so it was true. They are in the bank at Dudley."

"Get them away, will you? I must make an arrangement for your delivering

them to some one."

"Make no arrangement. They shall be delivered to the person you intended

them for. _I_ will make the arrangement."

"What do you mean?"

"What I say. I have always told you that I would give them up to your

wife. I shall keep my word. She is not your wife yet."

"This is foolery," said Grandcourt, with undertoned disgust. It was too

irritating that this indulgence of Lydia had given her a sort of mastery

over him in spite of dependent condition.

She did not speak. He also rose now, but stood leaning against the mantle-

piece with his side-face toward her.

"The diamonds must be delivered to me before my marriage," he began again.

"What is your wedding-day?"

"The tenth. There is no time to be lost."

"And where do you go after the marriage?"

He did not reply except by looking more sullen. Presently he said, "You

must appoint a day before then, to get them from the bank and meet me--or

somebody else I will commission;--it's a great nuisance, Mention a day."

"No; I shall not do that. They shall be delivered to her safely. I shall

keep my word."

"Do you mean to say," said Grandcourt, just audibly, turning to face her,

"that you will not do as I tell you?"

"Yes, I mean that," was the answer that leaped out, while her eyes flashed

close to him. The poor creature was immediately conscious that if her

words had any effect on her own lot, the effect must be mischievous, and

might nullify all the remaining advantage of her long patience. But the

word had been spoken.

He was in a position the most irritating to him. He could not shake her

nor touch her hostilely; and if he could, the process would not bring his

mother's diamonds. He shrank from the only sort of threat that would

frighten her--if she believed it. And in general, there was nothing he

hated more than to be forced into anything like violence even in words:

his will must impose itself without trouble. After looking at her for a

moment, he turned his side-face toward her again, leaning as before, and

said--

"Infernal idiots that women are!"

"Why will you not tell me where you are going after the marriage? I could

be at the wedding if I liked, and learn in that way," said Lydia, not

shrinking from the one suicidal form of threat within her power.

"Of course, if you like, you can play the mad woman," said Grandcourt,

with _sotto voce_ scorn. "It is not to be supposed that you will wait to

think what good will come of it--or what you owe to me."

He was in a state of disgust and embitterment quite new in the history of

their relation to each other. It was undeniable that this woman, whose

life he had allowed to send such deep suckers into his, had a terrible

power of annoyance in her; and the rash hurry of his proceedings had left

her opportunities open. His pride saw very ugly possibilities threatening

it, and he stood for several minutes in silence reviewing the situation--

considering how he could act upon her. Unlike himself she was of a direct

nature, with certain simple strongly-colored tendencies, and there was one

often-experienced effect which he thought he could count upon now. As Sir

Hugo had said of him, Grandcourt knew how to play his cards upon occasion.

He did not speak again, but looked at his watch, rang the bell, and

ordered the vehicle to be brought round immediately. Then he removed

farther from her, walked as if in expectation of a summons, and remained

silent without turning his eyes upon her.

She was suffering the horrible conflict of self-reproach and tenacity. She

saw beforehand Grandcourt leaving her without even looking at her again--

herself left behind in lonely uncertainty--hearing nothing from him--not

knowing whether she had done her children harm--feeling that she had

perhaps made him hate her;--all the wretchedness of a creature who had

defeated her own motives. And yet she could not bear to give up a purpose

which was a sweet morsel to her vindictiveness. If she had not been a

mother she would willingly have sacrificed herself to her revenge--to what

she felt to be the justice of hindering another from getting happiness by

willingly giving her over to misery. The two dominant passions were at

struggle. She must satisfy them both.

"Don't let us part in anger, Henleigh," she began, without changing her

voice or attitude: "it is a very little thing I ask. If I were refusing to

give anything up that you call yours it would be different: that would be

a reason for treating me as if you hated me. But I ask such a little

thing. If you will tell me where you are going on the wedding-day I will

take care that the diamonds shall be delivered to her without scandal.

Without scandal," she repeated entreatingly.

"Such preposterous whims make a woman odious," said Grandcourt, not giving

way in look or movement. "What is the use of talking to mad people?"

"Yes, I am foolish--loneliness has made me foolish--indulge me." Sobs rose

as she spoke. "If you will indulge me in this one folly I will be very

meek--I will never trouble you." She burst into hysterical crying, and

said again almost with a scream--"I will be very meek after that."

There was a strange mixture of acting and reality in this passion. She

kept hold of her purpose as a child might tighten its hand over a small

stolen thing, crying and denying all the while. Even Grandcourt was

wrought upon by surprise: this capricious wish, this childish violence,

was as unlike Lydia's bearing as it was incongruous with her person. Both

had always had a stamp of dignity on them. Yet she seemed more manageable

in this state than in her former attitude of defiance. He came close up to

her again, and said, in his low imperious tone, "Be quiet, and hear what I

tell you, I will never forgive you if you present yourself again and make

a scene."

She pressed her handkerchief against her face, and when she could speak

firmly said, in the muffled voice that follows sobbing, "I will not--if

you will let me have my way--I promise you not to thrust myself forward

again. I have never broken my word to you--how many have you broken to me?

When you gave me the diamonds to wear you were not thinking of having

another wife. And I now give them up--I don't reproach you--I only ask you

to let me give them up in my own way. Have I not borne it well? Everything

is to be taken away from me, and when I ask for a straw, a chip--you deny

it me." She had spoken rapidly, but after a little pause she said more

slowly, her voice freed from its muffled tone: "I will not bear to have it

denied me."

Grandcourt had a baffling sense that he had to deal with something like

madness; he could only govern by giving way. The servant came to say the

fly was ready. When the door was shut again Grandcourt said sullenly, "We

are going to Ryelands then."

"They shall be delivered to her there," said Lydia, with decision.

"Very well, I am going." He felt no inclination even to take her hand: she

had annoyed him too sorely. But now that she had gained her point, she was

prepared to humble herself that she might propitiate him.

"Forgive me; I will never vex you again," she said, with beseeching looks.

Her inward voice said distinctly--"It is only I who have to forgive." Yet

she was obliged to ask forgiveness.

"You had better keep that promise. You have made me feel uncommonly ill

with your folly," said Grandcourt, apparently choosing this statement as

the strongest possible use of language.

"Poor thing!" cried Lydia, with a faint smile;--was he aware of the minor

fact that he made her feel ill this morning?

But with the quick transition natural to her, she was now ready to coax

him if he would let her, that they might part in some degree reconciled.

She ventured to lay her hand on his shoulder, and he did not move away

from her: she had so far succeeded in alarming him, that he was not sorry

for these proofs of returned subjection.

"Light a cigar," she said, soothingly, taking the case from his breast-

pocket and opening it.

Amidst such caressing signs of mutual fear they parted. The effect that

clung and gnawed within Grandcourt was a sense of imperfect mastery.