Daniel Deronda

Chapter 2

CHAPTER II.

This was the letter Gwendolen found on her table:--

DEAREST CHILD.--I have been expecting to hear from you for a week. In

your last you said the Langens thought of leaving Leubronn and going

to Baden. How could you be so thoughtless as to leave me in

uncertainty about your address? I am in the greatest anxiety lest this

should not reach you. In any case, you were to come home at the end of

September, and I must now entreat you to return as quickly as

possible, for if you spent all your money it would be out of my power

to send you any more, and you must not borrow of the Langens, for I

could not repay them. This is the sad truth, my child--I wish I could

prepare you for it better--but a dreadful calamity has befallen us

all. You know nothing about business and will not understand it; but

Grapnell & Co. have failed for a million, and we are totally ruined--

your aunt Gascoigne as well as I, only that your uncle has his

benefice, so that by putting down their carriage and getting interest

for the boys, the family can go on. All the property our poor father

saved for us goes to pay the liabilities. There is nothing I can call

my own. It is better you should know this at once, though it rends my

heart to have to tell it you. Of course we cannot help thinking what a

pity it was that you went away just when you did. But I shall never

reproach you, my dear child; I would save you from all trouble if I

could. On your way home you will have time to prepare yourself for the

change you will find. We shall perhaps leave Offendene at once, for we

hope that Mr. Haynes, who wanted it before, may be ready to take it

off my hands. Of course we cannot go to the rectory--there is not a

corner there to spare. We must get some hut or other to shelter us,

and we must live on your uncle Gascoigne's charity, until I see what

else can be done. I shall not be able to pay the debts to the

tradesmen besides the servants' wages. Summon up your fortitude, my

dear child; we must resign ourselves to God's will. But it is hard to

resign one's self to Mr. Lassman's wicked recklessness, which they say

was the cause of the failure. Your poor sisters can only cry with me

and give me no help. If you were once here, there might be a break in

the cloud--I always feel it impossible that you can have been meant

for poverty. If the Langens wish to remain abroad, perhaps you can put

yourself under some one else's care for the journey. But come as soon

as you can to your afflicted and loving mamma,

FANNY DAVILOW.

The first effect of this letter on Gwendolen was half-stupefying. The

implicit confidence that her destiny must be one of luxurious ease, where

any trouble that occurred would be well clad and provided for, had been

stronger in her own mind than in her mamma's, being fed there by her

youthful blood and that sense of superior claims which made a large part

of her consciousness. It was almost as difficult for her to believe

suddenly that her position had become one of poverty and of humiliating

dependence, as it would have been to get into the strong current of her

blooming life the chill sense that her death would really come. She stood

motionless for a few minutes, then tossed off her hat and automatically

looked in the glass. The coils of her smooth light-brown hair were still

in order perfect enough for a ball-room; and as on other nights, Gwendolen

might have looked lingeringly at herself for pleasure (surely an allowable

indulgence); but now she took no conscious note of her reflected beauty,

and simply stared right before her as if she had been jarred by a hateful

sound and was waiting for any sign of its cause. By-and-by she threw

herself in the corner of the red velvet sofa, took up the letter again and

read it twice deliberately, letting it at last fall on the ground, while

she rested her clasped hands on her lap and sat perfectly still, shedding

no tears. Her impulse was to survey and resist the situation rather than

to wail over it. There was no inward exclamation of "Poor mamma!" Her

mamma had never seemed to get much enjoyment out of life, and if Gwendolen

had been at this moment disposed to feel pity she would have bestowed it

on herself--for was she not naturally and rightfully the chief object of

her mamma's anxiety too? But it was anger, it was resistance that

possessed her; it was bitter vexation that she had lost her gains at

roulette, whereas if her luck had continued through this one day she would

have had a handsome sum to carry home, or she might have gone on playing

and won enough to support them all. Even now was it not possible? She had

only four napoleons left in her purse, but she possessed some ornaments

which she could sell: a practice so common in stylish society at German

baths that there was no need to be ashamed of it; and even if she had not

received her mamma's letter, she would probably have decided to get money

for an Etruscan necklace which she happened not to have been wearing since

her arrival; nay, she might have done so with an agreeable sense that she

was living with some intensity and escaping humdrum. With ten louis at her

disposal and a return of her former luck, which seemed probable, what

could she do better than go on playing for a few days? If her friends at

home disapproved of the way in which she got the money, as they certainly

would, still the money would be there. Gwendolen's imagination dwelt on

this course and created agreeable consequences, but not with unbroken

confidence and rising certainty as it would have done if she had been

touched with the gambler's mania. She had gone to the roulette-table not

because of passion, but in search of it: her mind was still sanely capable

of picturing balanced probabilities, and while the chance of winning

allured her, the chance of losing thrust itself on her with alternate

strength and made a vision from which her pride sank sensitively. For she

was resolved not to tell the Langens that any misfortune had befallen her

family, or to make herself in any way indebted to their compassion; and if

she were to part with her jewelry to any observable extent, they would

interfere by inquiries and remonstrances. The course that held the least

risk of intolerable annoyance was to raise money on her necklace early in

the morning, tell the Langens that her mother desired her immediate return

without giving a reason, and take the train for Brussels that evening. She

had no maid with her, and the Langens might make difficulties about her

returning home, but her will was peremptory.

Instead of going to bed she made as brilliant a light as she could and

began to pack, working diligently, though all the while visited by the

scenes that might take place on the coming day--now by the tiresome

explanations and farewells, and the whirling journey toward a changed

home, now by the alternative of staying just another day and standing

again at the roulette-table. But always in this latter scene there was the

presence of that Deronda, watching her with exasperating irony, and--the

two keen experiences were inevitably revived together--beholding her again

forsaken by luck. This importunate image certainly helped to sway her

resolve on the side of immediate departure, and to urge her packing to the

point which would make a change of mind inconvenient. It had struck twelve

when she came into her room, and by the time she was assuring herself that

she had left out only what was necessary, the faint dawn was stealing

through the white blinds and dulling her candles. What was the use of

going to bed? Her cold bath was refreshment enough, and she saw that a

slight trace of fatigue about the eyes only made her look the more

interesting. Before six o'clock she was completely equipped in her gray

traveling dress even to her felt hat, for she meant to walk out as soon as

she could count on seeing other ladies on their way to the springs. And

happening to be seated sideways before the long strip of mirror between

her two windows she turned to look at herself, leaning her elbow on the

back of the chair in an attitude that might have been chosen for her

portrait. It is possible to have a strong self-love without any self-

satisfaction, rather with a self-discontent which is the more intense

because one's own little core of egoistic sensibility is a supreme care;

but Gwendolen knew nothing of such inward strife. She had a _na***_

delight in her fortunate self, which any but the harshest saintliness will

have some indulgence for in a girl who had every day seen a pleasant

reflection of that self in her friends' flattery as well as in the

looking-glass. And even in this beginning of troubles, while for lack of

anything else to do she sat gazing at her image in the growing light, her

face gathered a complacency gradual as the cheerfulness of the morning.

Her beautiful lips curled into a more and more decided smile, till at last

she took off her hat, leaned forward and kissed the cold glass which had

looked so warm. How could she believe in sorrow? If it attacked her, she

felt the force to crush it, to defy it, or run away from it, as she had

done already. Anything seemed more possible than that she could go on

bearing miseries, great or small.

Madame von Langen never went out before breakfast, so that Gwendolen could

safely end her early walk by taking her way homeward through the Obere

Strasse in which was the needed shop, sure to be open after seven. At that

hour any observers whom she minded would be either on their walks in the

region of the springs, or would be still in their bedrooms; but certainly

there was one grand hotel, the _Czarina_ from which eyes might follow her

up to Mr. Wiener's door. This was a chance to be risked: might she not be

going in to buy something which had struck her fancy? This implicit

falsehood passed through her mind as she remembered that the _Czarina_ was

Deronda's hotel; but she was then already far up the Obere Strasse, and

she walked on with her usual floating movement, every line in her figure

and drapery falling in gentle curves attractive to all eyes except those

which discerned in them too close a resemblance to the serpent, and

objected to the revival of serpent-worship. She looked neither to the

right hand nor to the left, and transacted her business in the shop with a

coolness which gave little Mr. Weiner nothing to remark except her proud

grace of manner, and the superior size and quality of the three central

turquoises in the necklace she offered him. They had belonged to a chain

once her father's: but she had never known her father; and the necklace

was in all respects the ornament she could most conveniently part with.

Who supposes that it is an impossible contradiction to be superstitious

and rationalizing at the same time? Roulette encourages a romantic

superstition as to the chances of the game, and the most prosaic

rationalism as to human sentiments which stand in the way of raising

needful money. Gwendolen's dominant regret was that after all she had only

nine louis to add to the four in her purse: these Jew dealers were so

unscrupulous in taking advantage of Christians unfortunate at play! But

she was the Langens' guest in their hired apartment, and had nothing to

pay there: thirteen louis would do more than take her home; even if she

determined on risking three, the remaining ten would more than suffice,

since she meant to travel right on, day and night. As she turned homeward,

nay, entered and seated herself in the _salon_ to await her friends and

breakfast, she still wavered as to her immediate departure, or rather she

had concluded to tell the Langens simply that she had had a letter from

her mamma desiring her return, and to leave it still undecided when she

should start. It was already the usual breakfast-time, and hearing some

one enter as she was leaning back rather tired and hungry with her eyes

shut, she rose expecting to see one or other of the Langens--the words

which might determine her lingering at least another day, ready-formed to

pass her lips. But it was the servant bringing in a small packet for Miss

Harleth, which had at that moment been left at the door. Gwendolen took it

in her hand and immediately hurried into her own room. She looked paler

and more agitated than when she had first read her mamma's letter.

Something--she never quite knew what--revealed to her before she opened

the packet that it contained the necklace she had just parted with.

Underneath the paper it was wrapped in a cambric handkerchief, and within

this was a scrap of torn-off note-paper, on which was written with a

pencil, in clear but rapid handwriting--"_A stranger who has found Miss

Harleth's necklace returns it to her with the hope that she will not again

risk the loss of it._"

Gwendolen reddened with the vexation of wounded pride. A large corner of

the handkerchief seemed to have been recklessly torn off to get rid of a

mark; but she at once believed in the first image of "the stranger" that

presented itself to her mind. It was Deronda; he must have seen her go

into the shop; he must have gone in immediately after and repurchased the

necklace. He had taken an unpardonable liberty, and had dared to place her

in a thoroughly hateful position. What could she do?--Not, assuredly, act

on her conviction that it was he who had sent her the necklace and

straightway send it back to him: that would be to face the possibility

that she had been mistaken; nay, even if the "stranger" were he and no

other, it would be something too gross for her to let him know that she

had divined this, and to meet him again with that recognition in their

minds. He knew very well that he was entangling her in helpless

humiliation: it was another way of smiling at her ironically, and taking

the air of a supercilious mentor. Gwendolen felt the bitter tears of

mortification rising and rolling down her cheeks. No one had ever before

dared to treat her with irony and contempt. One thing was clear: she must

carry out her resolution to quit this place at once; it was impossible for

her to reappear in the public _salon_, still less stand at the gaming-

table with the risk of seeing Deronda. Now came an importunate knock at

the door: breakfast was ready. Gwendolen with a passionate movement thrust

necklace, cambric, scrap of paper, and all into her _n*********_, pressed

her handkerchief against her face, and after pausing a minute or two to

summon back her proud self-control, went to join her friends. Such signs

of tears and fatigue as were left seemed accordant enough with the account

she at once gave of her having sat up to do her packing, instead of

waiting for help from her friend's maid. There was much protestation, as

she had expected, against her traveling alone, but she persisted in

refusing any arrangements for companionship. She would be put into the

ladies' compartment and go right on. She could rest exceedingly well in

the train, and was afraid of nothing.

In this way it happened that Gwendolen never reappeared at the roulette-

table, but that Thursday evening left Leubronn for Brussels, and on

Saturday morning arrived at Offendene, the home to which she and her

family were soon to say a last good-bye.