Daniel Deronda

Chapter 7

It seemed to her, as it did to Rex, that the weeks had been filled with a

tumultuous life evident to all observers: if he had been questioned on the

subject he would have said that he had no wish to conceal what he hoped

would be an engagement which he should immediately tell his father of: and

yet for the first time in his life he was reserved not only about his

feelings but--which was more remarkable to Anna--about certain actions.

She, on her side, was nervous each time her father or mother began to

speak to her in private lest they should say anything about Rex and

Gwendolen. But the elders were not in the least alive to this agitating

drama, which went forward chiefly in a sort of pantomime extremely lucid

in the minds thus expressing themselves, but easily missed by spectators

who were running their eyes over the _Guardian_ or the _Clerical Gazette_,

and regarded the trivialities of the young ones with scarcely more

interpretation than they gave to the action of lively ants.

"Where are you going, Rex?" said Anna one gray morning when her father had

set off in his carriage to the sessions, Mrs. Gascoigne with him, and she

had observed that her brother had on his antigropelos, the utmost approach

he possessed to a hunting equipment.

"Going to see the hounds throw off at the Three Barns."

"Are you going to take Gwendolen?" said Anna, timidly.

"She told you, did she?"

"No, but I thought--Does papa know you are going?"

"Not that I am aware of. I don't suppose he would trouble himself about

the matter."

"You are going to use his horse?"

"He knows I do that whenever I can."

"Don't let Gwendolen ride after the hounds, Rex," said Anna, whose fears

gifted her with second-sight.

"Why not?" said Rex, smiling rather provokingly.

"Papa and mamma and aunt Davilow all wish her not to. They think it is not

right for her."

"Why should you suppose she is going to do what is not right?"

"Gwendolen minds nobody sometimes," said Anna getting bolder by dint of a

little anger.

"Then she would not mind me," said Rex, perversely making a joke of poor

Anna's anxiety.

"Oh Rex, I cannot bear it. You will make yourself very unhappy." Here Anna

burst into tears.

"Nannie, Nannie, what on earth is the matter with you?" said Rex, a little

impatient at being kept in this way, hat on and whip in hand.

"She will not care for you one bit--I know she never will!" said the poor

child in a sobbing whisper. She had lost all control of herself.

Rex reddened and hurried away from her out of the hall door, leaving her

to the miserable consciousness of having made herself disagreeable in

vain.

He did think of her words as he rode along; they had the unwelcomeness

which all unfavorable fortune-telling has, even when laughed at; but he

quickly explained them as springing from little Anna's tenderness, and

began to be sorry that he was obliged to come away without soothing her.

Every other feeling on the subject, however, was quickly merged in a

resistant belief to the contrary of hers, accompanied with a new

determination to prove that he was right. This sort of certainty had just

enough kinship to doubt and uneasiness to hurry on a confession which an

untouched security might have delayed.

Gwendolen was already mounted and riding up and down the avenue when Rex

appeared at the gate. She had provided herself against disappointment in

case he did not appear in time by having the groom ready behind her, for

she would not have waited beyond a reasonable time. But now the groom was

dismissed, and the two rode away in delightful freedom. Gwendolen was in

her highest spirits, and Rex thought that she had never looked so lovely

before; her figure, her long white throat, and the curves of her cheek and

chin were always set off to perfection by the compact simplicity of her

riding dress. He could not conceive a more perfect girl; and to a youthful

lover like Rex it seems that the fundamental identity of the good, the

true and the beautiful, is already extant and manifest in the object of

his love. Most observers would have held it more than equally accountable

that a girl should have like impressions about Rex, for in his handsome

face there was nothing corresponding to the undefinable stinging quality--

as it were a trace of demon ancestry--which made some beholders hesitate

in their admiration of Gwendolen.

It was an exquisite January morning in which there was no threat of rain,

but a gray sky making the calmest background for the charms of a mild

winter scene--the grassy borders of the lanes, the hedgerows sprinkled

with red berries and haunted with low twitterings, the purple bareness of

the elms, the rich brown of the furrows. The horses' hoofs made a musical

chime, accompanying their young voices. She was laughing at his equipment,

for he was the reverse of a dandy, and he was enjoying her laughter; the

freshness of the morning mingled with the freshness of their youth; and

every sound that came from their clear throats, every glance they gave

each other, was the bubbling outflow from a spring of joy. It was all

morning to them, within and without. And thinking of them in these moments

one is tempted to that futile sort of wishing--if only things could have

been a little otherwise then, so as to have been greatly otherwise after--

if only these two beautiful young creatures could have pledged themselves

to each other then and there, and never through life have swerved from

that pledge! For some of the goodness which Rex believed in was there.

Goodness is a large, often a prospective word; like harvest, which at one

stage when we talk of it lies all underground, with an indeterminate

future; is the germ prospering in the darkness? at another, it has put

forth delicate green blades, and by-and-by the trembling blossoms are

ready to be dashed off by an hour of rough wind or rain. Each stage has

its peculiar blight, and may have the healthy life choked out of it by a

particular action of the foul land which rears or neighbors it, or by

damage brought from foulness afar.

"Anna had got it into her head that you would want to ride after the

hounds this morning," said Rex, whose secret associations with Anna's

words made this speech seem quite perilously near the most momentous of

subjects.

"Did she?" said Gwendolen, laughingly. "What a little clairvoyant she is!"

"Shall you?" said Rex, who had not believed in her intending to do it if

the elders objected, but confided in her having good reasons.

"I don't know. I can't tell what I shall do till I get there. Clairvoyants

are often wrong: they foresee what is likely. I am not fond of what is

likely: it is always dull. I do what is unlikely."

"Ah, there you tell me a secret. When once I knew what people in general

would be likely to do, I should know you would do the opposite. So you

would have come round to a likelihood of your own sort. I shall be able to

calculate on you. You couldn't surprise me."

"Yes, I could. I should turn round and do what was likely for people in

general," said Gwendolen, with a musical laugh.

"You see you can't escape some sort of likelihood. And contradictoriness

makes the strongest likelihood of all. You must give up a plan."

"No, I shall not. My plan is to do what pleases me." (Here should any

young lady incline to imitate Gwendolen, let her consider the set of her

head and neck: if the angle there had been different, the chin protrusive,

and the cervical vertebrae a trifle more curved in their position, ten to

one Gwendolen's words would have had a jar in them for the sweet-natured

Rex. But everything odd in her speech was humor and pretty banter, which

he was only anxious to turn toward one point.)

"Can you manage to feel only what pleases you?" said he.

"Of course not; that comes from what other people do. But if the world

were pleasanter, one would only feel what was pleasant. Girls' lives are

so stupid: they never do what they like."

"I thought that was more the case of the men. They are forced to do hard

things, and are often dreadfully bored, and knocked to pieces too. And

then, if we love a girl very dearly we want to do as she likes, so after

all you have your own way."

"I don't believe it. I never saw a married woman who had her own way."

"What should you like to do?" said Rex, quite guilelessly, and in real

anxiety.

"Oh, I don't know!--go to the North Pole, or ride steeple-chases, or go to

be a queen in the East like Lady Hester Stanhope," said Gwendolen,

flightily. Her words were born on her lips, but she would have been at a

loss to give an answer of deeper origin.

"You don't mean you would never be married?"

"No; I didn't say that. Only when I married, I should not do as other

women do."

"You might do just as you liked if you married a man who loved you more

dearly than anything else in the world," said Rex, who, poor youth, was

moving in themes outside the curriculum in which he had promised to win

distinction. "I know one who does."

"Don't talk of Mr. Middleton, for heaven's sake," said Gwendolen, hastily,

a quick blush spreading over her face and neck; "that is Anna's chant. I

hear the hounds. Let us go on."

She put her chestnut to a canter, and Rex had no choice but to follow her.

Still he felt encouraged. Gwendolen was perfectly aware that her cousin

was in love with her; but she had no idea that the matter was of any

consequence, having never had the slightest visitation of painful love

herself. She wished the small romance of Rex's devotion to fill up the

time of his stay at Pennicote, and to avoid explanations which would bring

it to an untimely end. Besides, she objected, with a sort of physical

repulsion, to being directly made love to. With all her imaginative

delight in being adored, there was a certain fierceness of maidenhood in

her.

But all other thoughts were soon lost for her in the excitement of the

scene at the Three Barns. Several gentlemen of the hunt knew her, and she

exchanged pleasant greetings. Rex could not get another word with her. The

color, the stir of the field had taken possession of Gwendolen with a

strength which was not due to habitual associations, for she had never yet

ridden after the hounds--only said she should like to do it, and so drawn

forth a prohibition; her mamma dreading the danger, and her uncle

declaring that for his part he held that kind of violent exercise unseemly

in a woman, and that whatever might be done in other parts of the country,

no lady of good position followed the Wessex hunt: no one but Mrs. Gadsby,

the yeomanry captain's wife, who had been a kitchenmaid and still spoke

like one. This last argument had some effect on Gwendolen, and had kept

her halting between her desire to assert her freedom and her horror of

being classed with Mrs. Gadsby.

Some of the most unexceptionable women in the neighborhood occasionally

went to see the hounds throws off; but it happened that none of them were

present this morning to abstain from following, while Mrs. Gadsby, with

her doubtful antecedents, grammatical and otherwise, was not visible to

make following seem unbecoming. Thus Gwendolen felt no check on the animal

stimulus that came from the stir and tongue of the hounds, the pawing of

the horses, the varying voices of men, the movement hither and thither of

vivid color on the background of green and gray stillness:--that utmost

excitement of the coming chase which consists in feeling something like a

combination of dog and horse, with the superadded thrill of social

vanities and consciousness of centaur-power which belongs to humankind.

Rex would have felt more of the same enjoyment if he could have kept

nearer to Gwendolen, and not seen her constantly occupied with

acquaintances, or looked at by would-be acquaintances, all on lively

horses which veered about and swept the surrounding space as effectually

as a revolving lever.

"Glad to see you here this fine morning, Miss Harleth," said Lord

Brackenshaw, a middle-aged peer of aristocratic seediness in stained pink,

with easy-going manners which would have made the threatened deluge seem

of no consequence. "We shall have a first-rate run. A pity you didn't go

with us. Have you ever tried your little chestnut at a ditch? you wouldn't

be afraid, eh?"

"Not the least in the world," said Gwendolen. And that was true: she was

never fearful in action and companionship. "I have often taken him at some

rails and a ditch too, near--"

"Ah, by Jove!" said his lordship, quietly, in notation that something was

happening which must break off the dialogue: and as he reined off his

horse, Rex was bringing his sober hackney up to Gwendolen's side when--the

hounds gave tongue, and the whole field was in motion as if the whirl of

the earth were carrying it; Gwendolen along with everything else; no word

of notice to Rex, who without a second thought followed too. Could he let

Gwendolen go alone? under other circumstances he would have enjoyed the

run, but he was just now perturbed by the check which had been put on the

impetus to utter his love, and get utterance in return, an impetus which

could not at once resolve itself into a totally different sort of chase,

at least with the consciousness of being on his father's gray nag, a good

horse enough in his way, but of sober years and ecclesiastical habits.

Gwendolen on her spirited little chestnut was up with the best, and felt

as secure as an immortal goddess, having, if she had thought of risk, a

core of confidence that no ill luck would happen to her. But she thought

of no such thing, and certainly not of any risk there might be for her

cousin. If she had thought of him, it would have struck her as a droll

picture that he should be gradually falling behind, and looking round in

search of gates: a fine lithe youth, whose heart must be panting with all

the spirit of a beagle, stuck as if under a wizard's spell on a stiff

clerical hackney, would have made her laugh with a sense of fun much too

strong for her to reflect on his mortification. But Gwendolen was apt to

think rather of those who saw her than of those whom she could not see;

and Rex was soon so far behind that if she had looked she would not have

seen him. For I grieve to say that in the search for a gate, along a lane

lately mended, Primrose fell, broke his knees, and undesignedly threw Rex

over his head.

Fortunately a blacksmith's son who also followed the hounds under

disadvantages, namely, on foot (a loose way of hunting which had struck

some even frivolous minds as immoral), was naturally also in the rear, and

happened to be within sight of Rex's misfortune. He ran to give help which

was greatly needed, for Rex was a great deal stunned, and the complete

recovery of sensation came in the form of pain. Joel Dagge on this

occasion showed himself that most useful of personages, whose knowledge is

of a kind suited to the immediate occasion: he not only knew perfectly

well what was the matter with the horse, how far they were both from the

nearest public-house and from Pennicote Rectory, and could certify to Rex

that his shoulder was only a bit out of joint, but also offered

experienced surgical aid.

"Lord, sir, let me shove it in again for you! I's seen Nash, the bone-

setter, do it, and done it myself for our little Sally twice over. It's

all one and the same, shoulders is. If you'll trusten to me and tighten

your mind up a bit, I'll do it for you in no time."

"Come then, old fellow," said Rex, who could tighten his mind better than

his seat in the saddle. And Joel managed the operation, though not without

considerable expense of pain to his patient, who turned so pitiably pale

while tightening his mind, that Joel remarked, "Ah, sir, you aren't used

to it, that's how it is. I's see lots and lots o' joints out. I see a man

with his eye pushed out once--that was a rum go as ever I see. You can't

have a bit o' fun wi'out such sort o' things. But it went in again. I's

swallowed three teeth mysen, as sure as I'm alive. Now, sirrey" (this was

addressed to Primrose), "come alonk--you musn't make believe as you

can't."

Joel being clearly a low character, it is, happily, not necessary to say

more of him to the refined reader, than that he helped Rex to get home

with as little delay as possible. There was no alternative but to get

home, though all the while he was in anxiety about Gwendolen, and more

miserable in the thought that she, too, might have had an accident, than

in the pain of his own bruises and the annoyance he was about to cause his

father. He comforted himself about her by reflecting that every one would

be anxious to take care of her, and that some acquaintance would be sure

to conduct her home.

Mr. Gascoigne was already at home, and was writing letters in his study,

when he was interrupted by seeing poor Rex come in with a face which was

not the less handsome and ingratiating for being pale and a little

distressed. He was secretly the favorite son, and a young portrait of the

father; who, however, never treated him with any partiality--rather, with

an extra rigor. Mr. Gascoigne having inquired of Anna, knew that Rex had

gone with Gwendolen to the meet at the Three Barns.

"What is the matter?" he said hastily, not laying down his pen.

"I'm very sorry, sir; Primrose has fallen down and broken his knees."

"Where have you been with him?" said Mr. Gascoigne, with a touch of

severity. He rarely gave way to temper.

"To the Three Barns to see the hounds throw off."

"And you were fool enough to follow?"

"Yes, sir. I didn't go at any fences, but the horse got his leg into a

hole."

"And you got hurt yourself, I hope, eh!"

"I got my shoulder put out, but a young blacksmith put it in again for me.

I'm just a little battered, that's all."

"Well, sit down."

"I'm very sorry about the horse, sir; I knew it would be a vexation to

you."

"And what has become of Gwendolen?" said Mr. Gascoigne, abruptly. Rex, who

did not imagine that his father had made any inquiries about him, answered

at first with a blush, which was the more remarkable for his previous

paleness. Then he said, nervously--

"I am anxious to know--I should like to go or send at once to Offendene--

but she rides so well, and I think she would keep up--there would most

likely be many round her."

"I suppose it was she who led you on, eh?" said Mr. Gascoigne, laying down

his pen, leaning back in his chair, and looking at Rex with more marked

examination.

"It was natural for her to want to go: she didn't intend it beforehand--

she was led away by the spirit of the thing. And, of course, I went when

she went."

Mr. Gascoigne left a brief interval of silence, and then said, with quiet

irony,--"But now you observe, young gentleman, that you are not furnished

with a horse which will enable you to play the squire to your cousin. You

must give up that amusement. You have spoiled my nag for me, and that is

enough mischief for one vacation. I shall beg you to get ready to start

for Southampton to-morrow and join Stilfox, till you go up to Oxford with

him. That will be good for your bruises as well as your studies."

Poor Rex felt his heart swelling and comporting itself as if it had been

no better than a girl's.

"I hope you will not insist on my going immediately, sir."

"Do you feel too ill?"

"No, not that--but--" here Rex bit his lips and felt the tears starting,

to his great vexation; then he rallied and tried to say more firmly, "I

want to go to Offendene, but I can go this evening."

"I am going there myself. I can bring word about Gwendolen, if that is

what you want."

Rex broke down. He thought he discerned an intention fatal to his

happiness, nay, his life. He was accustomed to believe in his father's

penetration, and to expect firmness. "Father, I can't go away without

telling her that I love her, and knowing that she loves me."

Mr. Gascoigne was inwardly going through some self-rebuke for not being

more wary, and was now really sorry for the lad; but every consideration

was subordinate to that of using the wisest tactics in the case. He had

quickly made up his mind and to answer the more quietly--

"My dear boy, you are too young to be taking momentous, decisive steps of

that sort. This is a fancy which you have got into your head during an

idle week or two: you must set to work at something and dismiss it. There

is every reason against it. An engagement at your age would be totally

rash and unjustifiable; and moreover, alliances between first cousins are

undesirable. Make up your mind to a brief disappointment. Life is full of

them. We have all got to be broken in; and this is a mild beginning for

you."

"No, not mild. I can't bear it. I shall be good for nothing. I shouldn't

mind anything, if it were settled between us. I could do anything then,"

said Rex, impetuously. "But it's of no use to pretend that I will obey

you. I can't do it. If I said I would, I should be sure to break my word.

I should see Gwendolen again."

"Well, wait till to-morrow morning, that we may talk of the matter again--

you will promise me that," said Mr. Gascoigne, quietly; and Rex did not,

could not refuse.

The rector did not even tell his wife that he had any other reason for

going to Offendene that evening than his desire to ascertain that

Gwendolen had got home safely. He found her more than safe--elated. Mr.

Quallon, who had won the brush, had delivered the trophy to her, and she

had brought it before her, fastened on the saddle; more than that, Lord

Brackenshaw had conducted her home, and had shown himself delighted with

her spirited riding. All this was told at once to her uncle, that he might

see how well justified she had been in acting against his advice; and the

prudential rector did feel himself in a slight difficulty, for at that

moment he was particularly sensible that it was his niece's serious

interest to be well regarded by the Brackenshaws, and their opinion as to

her following the hounds really touched the essence of his objection.

However, he was not obliged to say anything immediately, for Mrs. Davilow

followed up Gwendolen's brief triumphant phrases with--

"Still, I do hope you will not do it again, Gwendolen. I should never have

a moment's quiet. Her father died by an accident, you know."

Here Mrs. Davilow had turned away from Gwendolen, and looked at Mr.

Gascoigne.

"Mamma, dear," said Gwendolen, kissing her merrily, and passing over the

question of the fears which Mrs. Davilow had meant to account for,

"children don't take after their parents in broken legs."

Not one word had yet been said about Rex. In fact there had been no

anxiety about him at Offendene. Gwendolen had observed to her mamma, "Oh,

he must have been left far behind, and gone home in despair," and it could

not be denied that this was fortunate so far as it made way for Lord

Brackenshaw's bringing her home. But now Mr. Gascoigne said, with some

emphasis, looking at Gwendolen--

"Well, the exploit has ended better for you than for Rex."

"Yes, I dare say he had to make a terrible round. You have not taught

Primrose to take the fences, uncle," said Gwendolen, without the faintest

shade of alarm in her looks and tone.

"Rex has had a fall," said Mr. Gascoigne, curtly, throwing himself into an

arm-chair resting his elbows and fitting his palms and fingers together,

while he closed his lips and looked at Gwendolen, who said--

"Oh, poor fellow! he is not hurt, I hope?" with a correct look of anxiety

such as elated mortals try to super-induce when their pulses are all the

while quick with triumph; and Mrs. Davilow, in the same moment, uttered a

low "Good heavens! There!"

Mr. Gascoigne went on: "He put his shoulder out, and got some bruises, I

believe." Here he made another little pause of observation; but Gwendolen,

instead of any such symptoms as pallor and silence, had only deepened the

compassionateness of her brow and eyes, and said again, "Oh, poor fellow!

it is nothing serious, then?" and Mr. Gascoigne held his diagnosis

complete. But he wished to make assurance doubly sure, and went on still

with a purpose.

"He got his arm set again rather oddly. Some blacksmith--not a parishioner

of mine--was on the field--a loose fish, I suppose, but handy, and set the

arm for him immediately. So after all, I believe, I and Primrose come off

worst. The horse's knees are cut to pieces. He came down in a hole, it

seems, and pitched Rex over his head."

Gwendolen's face had allowably become contented again, since Rex's arm had

been reset; and now, at the descriptive suggestions in the latter part of

her uncle's speech, her elated spirits made her features less unmanageable

than usual; the smiles broke forth, and finally a descending scale of

laughter.

"You are a pretty young lady--to laugh at other people's calamities," said

Mr. Gascoigne, with a milder sense of disapprobation than if he had not

had counteracting reasons to be glad that Gwendolen showed no deep feeling

on the occasion.

"Pray forgive me, uncle. Now Rex is safe, it is so droll to fancy the

figure he and Primrose would cut--in a lane all by themselves--only a

blacksmith running up. It would make a capital caricature of 'Following

the Hounds.'"

Gwendolen rather valued herself on her superior freedom in laughing where

others might only see matter for seriousness. Indeed, the laughter became

her person so well that her opinion of its gracefulness was often shared

by others; and it even entered into her uncle's course of thought at this

moment, that it was no wonder a boy should be fascinated by this young

witch--who, however, was more mischievous than could be desired.

"How can you laugh at broken bones, child?" said Mrs. Davilow, still under

her dominant anxiety. "I wish we had never allowed you to have the horse.

You will see that we were wrong," she added, looking with a grave nod at

Mr. Gascoigne--"at least I was, to encourage her in asking for it."

"Yes, seriously, Gwendolen," said Mr. Gascoigne, in a judicious tone of

rational advice to a person understood to be altogether rational, "I

strongly recommend you--I shall ask you to oblige me so far--not to repeat

your adventure of to-day. Lord Brackenshaw is very kind, but I feel sure

that he would concur with me in what I say. To be spoken of as 'the young

lady who hunts' by way of exception, would give a tone to the language

about you which I am sure you would not like. Depend upon it, his lordship

would not choose that Lady Beatrice or Lady Maria should hunt in this part

of the country, if they were old enough to do so. When you are married, it

will be different: you may do whatever your husband sanctions. But if you

intend to hunt, you must marry a man who can keep horses."

"I don't know why I should do anything so horrible as to marry without

_that_ prospect, at least," said Gwendolen, pettishly. Her uncle's speech

had given her annoyance, which she could not show more directly; but she

felt that she was committing herself, and after moving carelessly to

another part of the room, went out.

"She always speaks in that way about marriage," said Mrs. Davilow; "but it

will be different when she has seen the right person."

"Her heart has never been in the least touched, that you know of?" said

Mr. Gascoigne.

Mrs. Davilow shook her head silently. "It was only last night she said to

me, 'Mamma, I wonder how girls manage to fall in love. It is easy to make

them do it in books. But men are too ridiculous.'"

Mr. Gascoigne laughed a little, and made no further remark on the subject.

The next morning at breakfast he said--

"How are your bruises, Rex?"

"Oh, not very mellow yet, sir; only beginning to turn a little."

"You don't feel quite ready for a journey to Southampton?"

"Not quite," answered Rex, with his heart metaphorically in his mouth.

"Well, you can wait till to-morrow, and go to say goodbye to them at

Offendene."

Mrs. Gascoigne, who now knew the whole affair, looked steadily at her

coffee lest she also should begin to cry, as Anna was doing already.

Mr. Gascoigne felt that he was applying a sharp remedy to poor Rex's acute

attack, but he believed it to be in the end the kindest. To let him know

the hopelessness of his love from Gwendolen's own lips might be curative

in more ways than one.

"I can only be thankful that she doesn't care about him," said Mrs.

Gascoigne, when she joined her husband in his study. "There are things in

Gwendolen I cannot reconcile myself to. My Anna is worth two of her, with

all her beauty and talent. It looks very ill in her that she will not help

in the schools with Anna--not even in the Sunday-school. What you or I

advise is of no consequence to her: and poor Fannie is completely under

her thumb. But I know you think better of her," Mrs. Gascoigne ended with

a deferential hesitation.

"Oh, my dear, there is no harm in the girl. It is only that she has a high

spirit, and it will not do to hold the reins too tight. The point is, to

get her well married. She has a little too much fire in her for her

present life with her mother and sisters. It is natural and right that she

should be married soon--not to a poor man, but one who can give her a

fitting position."

Presently Rex, with his arm in a sling, was on his two miles' walk to

Offendene. He was rather puzzled by the unconditional permission to see

Gwendolen, but his father's real ground of action could not enter into his

conjectures. If it had, he would first have thought it horribly cold-

blooded, and then have disbelieved in his father's conclusions.

When he got to the house, everybody was there but Gwendolen. The four

girls, hearing him speak in the hall, rushed out of the library, which was

their school-room, and hung round him with compassionate inquiries about

his arm. Mrs. Davilow wanted to know exactly what had happened, and where

the blacksmith lived, that she might make him a present; while Miss Merry,

who took a subdued and melancholy part in all family affairs, doubted

whether it would not be giving too much encouragement to that kind of

character. Rex had never found the family troublesome before, but just now

he wished them all away and Gwendolen there, and he was too uneasy for

good-natured feigning. When at last he had said, "Where is Gwendolen?" and

Mrs. Davilow had told Alice to go and see if her sister were come down,

adding, "I sent up her breakfast this morning. She needed a long rest."

Rex took the shortest way out of his endurance by saying, almost

impatiently, "Aunt, I want to speak to Gwendolen--I want to see her

alone."

"Very well, dear; go into the drawing-room. I will send her there," said

Mrs. Davilow, who had observed that he was fond of being with Gwendolen,

as was natural, but had not thought of this as having any bearing on the

realities of life: it seemed merely part of the Christmas holidays which

were spinning themselves out.

Rex for his part thought that the realities of life were all hanging on

this interview. He had to walk up and down the drawing-room in expectation

for nearly ten minutes--ample space for all imaginative fluctuations; yet,

strange to say, he was unvaryingly occupied in thinking what and how much

he could do, when Gwendolen had accepted him, to satisfy his father that

the engagement was the most prudent thing in the world, since it inspired

him with double energy for work. He was to be a lawyer, and what reason

was there why he should not rise as high as Eldon did? He was forced to

look at life in the light of his father's mind.

But when the door opened and she whose presence he was longing for

entered, there came over him suddenly and mysteriously a state of tremor

and distrust which he had never felt before. Miss Gwendolen, simple as she

stood there, in her black silk, cut square about the round white pillar of

her throat, a black band fastening her hair which streamed backward in

smooth silky abundance, seemed more queenly than usual. Perhaps it was

that there was none of the latent fun and tricksiness which had always

pierced in her greeting of Rex. How much of this was due to her

presentiment from what he had said yesterday that he was going to talk of

love? How much from her desire to show regret about his accident?

Something of both. But the wisdom of ages has hinted that there is a side

of the bed which has a malign influence if you happen to get out on it;

and this accident befalls some charming persons rather frequently. Perhaps

it had befallen Gwendolen this morning. The hastening of her toilet, the

way in which Bugle used the brush, the quality of the shilling serial

mistakenly written for her amusement, the probabilities of the coming day,

and, in short, social institutions generally, were all objectionable to

her. It was not that she was out of temper, but that the world was not

equal to the demands of her fine organism.

However it might be, Rex saw an awful majesty about her as she entered and

put out her hand to him, without the least approach to a smile in eyes or

mouth. The fun which had moved her in the evening had quite evaporated

from the image of his accident, and the whole affair seemed stupid to her.

But she said with perfect propriety, "I hope you are not much hurt, Rex; I

deserve that you should reproach me for your accident."

"Not at all," said Rex, feeling the soul within him spreading itself like

an attack of illness. "There is hardly any thing the matter with me. I am

so glad you had the pleasure: I would willingly pay for it by a tumble,

only I was sorry to break the horse's knees."

Gwendolen walked to the hearth and stood looking at the fire in the most

inconvenient way for conversation, so that he could only get a side view

of her face.

"My father wants me to go to Southampton for the rest of the vacation,"

said Rex, his baritone trembling a little.

"Southampton! That's a stupid place to go to, isn't it?" said Gwendolen,

chilly.

"It would be to me, because you would not be there." Silence.

"Should you mind about me going away, Gwendolen?"

"Of course. Every one is of consequence in this dreary country," said

Gwendolen, curtly. The perception that poor Rex wanted to be tender made

her curl up and harden like a sea-anemone at the touch of a finger.

"Are you angry with me, Gwendolen? Why do you treat me in this way all at

once?" said Rex, flushing, and with more spirit in his voice, as if he too

were capable of being angry.

Gwendolen looked round at him and smiled. "Treat you? Nonsense! I am only

rather cross. Why did you come so very early? You must expect to find

tempers in dishabille."

"Be as cross with me as you like--only don't treat me with indifference,"

said Rex, imploringly. "All the happiness of my life depends on your

loving me--if only a little--better than any one else."

He tried to take her hand, but she hastily eluded his grasp and moved to

the other end of the hearth, facing him.

"Pray don't make love to me! I hate it!" she looked at him fiercely.

Rex turned pale and was silent, but could not take his eyes off her, and

the impetus was not yet exhausted that made hers dart death at him.

Gwendolen herself could not have foreseen that she should feel in this

way. It was all a sudden, new experience to her. The day before she had

been quite aware that her cousin was in love with her; she did not mind

how much, so that he said nothing about it; and if any one had asked her

why she objected to love-making speeches, she would have said, laughingly,

"Oh I am tired of them all in the books." But now the life of passion had

begun negatively in her. She felt passionately averse to this volunteered

love.

To Rex at twenty the joy of life seemed at an end more absolutely than it

can do to a man at forty. But before they had ceased to look at each

other, he did speak again.

"Is that last word you have to say to me, Gwendolen? Will it always be

so?"

She could not help seeing his wretchedness and feeling a little regret for

the old Rex who had not offended her. Decisively, but yet with some return

of kindness, she said--

"About making love? Yes. But I don't dislike you for anything else."

There was just a perceptible pause before he said a low "good-bye." and

passed out of the room. Almost immediately after, she heard the heavy hall

door bang behind him.

Mrs. Davilow, too, had heard Rex's hasty departure, and presently came

into the drawing-room, where she found Gwendolen seated on the low couch,

her face buried, and her hair falling over her figure like a garment. She

was sobbing bitterly. "My child, my child, what is it?" cried the mother,

who had never before seen her darling struck down in this way, and felt

something of the alarmed anguish that women, feel at the sight of

overpowering sorrow in a strong man; for this child had been her ruler.

Sitting down by her with circling arms, she pressed her cheek against

Gwendolen's head, and then tried to draw it upward. Gwendolen gave way,

and letting her head rest against her mother, cried out sobbingly, "Oh,

mamma, what can become of my life? There is nothing worth living for!"

"Why, dear?" said Mrs. Davilow. Usually she herself had been rebuked by

her daughter for involuntary signs of despair.

"I shall never love anybody. I can't love people. I hate them."

"The time will come, dear, the time will come."

Gwendolen was more and more convulsed with sobbing; but putting her arms

round her mother's neck with an almost painful clinging, she said

brokenly, "I can't bear any one to be very near me but you."

Then the mother began to sob, for this spoiled child had never shown such

dependence on her before: and so they clung to each other.