Daniel Deronda

Chapter 3

But this blessed persistence in which affection can take root had been

wanting in Gwendolen's life. It was only a year before her recall from

Leubronn that Offendene had been chosen as her mamma's home, simply for

its nearness to Pennicote Rectory, and that Mrs. Davilow, Gwendolen, and

her four half-sisters (the governess and the maid following in another

vehicle) had been driven along the avenue for the first time, on a late

October afternoon when the rooks were crawing loudly above them, and the

yellow elm-leaves were whirling.

The season suited the aspect of the old oblong red-brick house, rather too

anxiously ornamented with stone at every line, not excepting the double

row of narrow windows and the large square portico. The stone encouraged a

greenish lichen, the brick a powdery gray, so that though the building was

rigidly rectangular there was no harshness in the physiognomy which it

turned to the three avenues cut east, west and south in the hundred yards'

breadth of old plantation encircling the immediate grounds. One would have

liked the house to have been lifted on a knoll, so as to look beyond its

own little domain to the long thatched roofs of the distant villages, the

church towers, the scattered homesteads, the gradual rise of surging

woods, and the green breadths of undulating park which made the beautiful

face of the earth in that part of Wessex. But though standing thus behind,

a screen amid flat pastures, it had on one side a glimpse of the wider

world in the lofty curves of the chalk downs, grand steadfast forms played

over by the changing days.

The house was but just large enough to be called a mansion, and was

moderately rented, having no manor attached to it, and being rather

difficult to let with its sombre furniture and faded upholstery. But

inside and outside it was what no beholder could suppose to be inhabited

by retired trades-people: a certainty which was worth many conveniences to

tenants who not only had the taste that shrinks from new finery, but also

were in that border-territory of rank where annexation is a burning topic:

and to take up her abode in a house which had once sufficed for dowager

countesses gave a perceptible tinge to Mrs. Davilow's satisfaction in

having an establishment of her own. This, rather mysteriously to

Gwendolen, appeared suddenly possible on the death of her step-father,

Captain Davilow, who had for the last nine years joined his family only in

a brief and fitful manner, enough to reconcile them to his long absences;

but she cared much more for the fact than for the explanation. All her

prospects had become more agreeable in consequence. She had disliked their

former way of life, roving from one foreign watering-place or Parisian

apartment to another, always feeling new antipathies to new suites of

hired furniture, and meeting new people under conditions which made her

appear of little importance; and the variation of having passed two years

at a showy school, where, on all occasions of display, she had been put

foremost, had only deepened her sense that so exceptional a person as

herself could hardly remain in ordinary circumstances or in a social

position less than advantageous. Any fear of this latter evil was banished

now that her mamma was to have an establishment; for on the point of birth

Gwendolen was quite easy. She had no notion how her maternal grandfather

got the fortune inherited by his two daughters; but he had been a West

Indian--which seemed to exclude further question; and she knew that her

father's family was so high as to take no notice of her mamma, who

nevertheless preserved with much pride the miniature of a Lady Molly in

that connection. She would probably have known much more about her father

but for a little incident which happened when she was twelve years old.

Mrs. Davilow had brought out, as she did only at wide intervals, various

memorials of her first husband, and while showing his miniature to

Gwendolen recalled with a fervor which seemed to count on a peculiar

filial sympathy, the fact that dear papa had died when his little daughter

was in long clothes. Gwendolen, immediately thinking of the unlovable

step-father whom she had been acquainted with the greater part of her life

while her frocks were short, said--

"Why did you marry again, mamma? It would have been nicer if you had not."

Mrs. Davilow colored deeply, a slight convulsive movement passed over her

face, and straightway shutting up the memorials she said, with a violence

quite unusual in her--

"You have no feeling, child!"

Gwendolen, who was fond of her mamma, felt hurt and ashamed, and had never

since dared to ask a question about her father.

This was not the only instance in which she had brought on herself the

pain of some filial compunction. It was always arranged, when possible,

that she should have a small bed in her mamma's room; for Mrs. Davilow's

motherly tenderness clung chiefly to her eldest girl, who had been born in

her happier time. One night under an attack of pain she found that the

specific regularly placed by her bedside had been forgotten, and begged

Gwendolen to get out of bed and reach it for her. That healthy young lady,

snug and warm as a rosy infant in her little couch, objected to step out

into the cold, and lying perfectly still, grumbling a refusal. Mrs.

Davilow went without the medicine and never reproached her daughter; but

the next day Gwendolen was keenly conscious of what must be in her mamma's

mind, and tried to make amends by caresses which cost her no effort.

Having always been the pet and pride of the household, waited on by

mother, sisters, governess and maids, as if she had been a princess in

exile, she naturally found it difficult to think her own pleasure less

important than others made it, and when it was positively thwarted felt an

astonished resentment apt, in her cruder days, to vent itself in one of

those passionate acts which look like a contradiction of habitual

tendencies. Though never even as a child thoughtlessly cruel, nay

delighting to rescue drowning insects and watch their recovery, there was

a disagreeable silent remembrance of her having strangled her sister's

canary-bird in a final fit of exasperation at its shrill singing which had

again and again jarringly interrupted her own. She had taken pains to buy

a white mouse for her sister in retribution, and though inwardly excusing

herself on the ground of a peculiar sensitiveness which was a mark of her

general superiority, the thought of that infelonious murder had always

made her wince. Gwendolen's nature was not remorseless, but she liked to

make her penances easy, and now that she was twenty and more, some of her

native force had turned into a self-control by which she guarded herself

from penitential humiliation. There was more show of fire and will in her

than ever, but there was more calculation underneath it.

On this day of arrival at Offendene, which not even Mrs. Davilow had seen

before--the place having been taken for her by her brother-in-law, Mr.

Gascoigne--when all had got down from the carriage, and were standing

under the porch in front of the open door, so that they could have a

general view of the place and a glimpse of the stone hall and staircase

hung with sombre pictures, but enlivened by a bright wood fire, no one

spoke; mamma, the four sisters and the governess all looked at Gwendolen,

as if their feelings depended entirely on her decision. Of the girls, from

Alice in her sixteenth year to Isabel in her tenth, hardly anything could

be said on a first view, but that they were girlish, and that their black

dresses were getting shabby. Miss Merry was elderly and altogether neutral

in expression. Mrs. Davilow's worn beauty seemed the more pathetic for the

look of entire appeal which she cast at Gwendolen, who was glancing round

at the house, the landscape and the entrance hall with an air of rapid

judgment. Imagine a young race-horse in the paddock among untrimmed ponies

and patient hacks.

"Well, dear, what do you think of the place," said Mrs. Davilow at last,

in a gentle, deprecatory tone.

"I think it is charming," said Gwendolen, quickly. "A romantic place;

anything delightful may happen in it; it would be a good background for

anything. No one need be ashamed of living here."

"There is certainly nothing common about it."

"Oh, it would do for fallen royalty or any sort of grand poverty. We ought

properly to have been living in splendor, and have come down to this. It

would have been as romantic as could be. But I thought my uncle and aunt

Gascoigne would be here to meet us, and my cousin Anna," added Gwendolen,

her tone changed to sharp surprise.

"We are early," said Mrs. Davilow, and entering the hall, she said to the

housekeeper who came forward, "You expect Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne?"

"Yes, madam; they were here yesterday to give particular orders about the

fires and the dinner. But as to fires, I've had 'em in all the rooms for

the last week, and everything is well aired. I could wish some of the

furniture paid better for all the cleaning it's had, but I _think_ you'll

see the brasses have been done justice to. I _think_ when Mr. and Mrs.

Gascoigne come, they'll tell you nothing has been neglected. They'll be

here at five, for certain."

This satisfied Gwendolen, who was not prepared to have their arrival

treated with indifference; and after tripping a little way up the matted

stone staircase to take a survey there, she tripped down again, and

followed by all the girls looked into each of the rooms opening from the

hall--the dining-room all dark oak and worn red satin damask, with a copy

of snarling, worrying dogs from Snyders over the side-board, and a Christ

breaking bread over the mantel-piece; the library with a general aspect

and smell of old brown-leather; and lastly, the drawing-room, which was

entered through a small antechamber crowded with venerable knick-knacks.

"Mamma, mamma, pray come here!" said Gwendolen, Mrs. Davilow having

followed slowly in talk with the housekeeper. "Here is an organ. I will be

Saint Cecilia: some one shall paint me as Saint Cecilia. Jocosa (this was

her name for Miss Merry), let down my hair. See, mamma?"

She had thrown off her hat and gloves, and seated herself before the organ

in an admirable pose, looking upward; while the submissive and sad Jocosa

took out the one comb which fastened the coil of hair, and then shook out

the mass till it fell in a smooth light-brown stream far below its owner's

slim waist.

Mrs. Davilow smiled and said, "A charming picture, my dear!" not

indifferent to the display of her pet, even in the presence of a

housekeeper. Gwendolen rose and laughed with delight. All this seemed

quite to the purpose on entering a new house which was so excellent a

background.

"What a queer, quaint, picturesque room!" she went on, looking about her.

"I like these old embroidered chairs, and the garlands on the wainscot,

and the pictures that may be anything. That one with the ribs--nothing but

ribs and darkness--I should think that is Spanish, mamma."

"Oh, Gwendolen!" said the small Isabel, in a tone of astonishment, while

she held open a hinged panel of the wainscot at the other end of the room.

Every one, Gwendolen first, went to look. The opened panel had disclosed

the picture of an upturned dead face, from which an obscure figure seemed

to be fleeing with outstretched arms. "How horrible!" said Mrs. Davilow,

with a look of mere disgust; but Gwendolen shuddered silently, and Isabel,

a plain and altogether inconvenient child with an alarming memory, said--

"You will never stay in this room by yourself, Gwendolen."

"How dare you open things which were meant to be shut up, you perverse

little creature?" said Gwendolen, in her angriest tone. Then snatching the

panel out of the hand of the culprit, she closed it hastily, saying,

"There is a lock--where is the key? Let the key be found, or else let one

be made, and let nobody open it again; or rather, let the key be brought

to me."

At this command to everybody in general Gwendolen turned with a face which

was flushed in reaction from her chill shudder, and said, "Let us go up to

our own room, mamma."

The housekeeper on searching found the key in the drawer of the cabinet

close by the panel, and presently handed it to Bugle, the lady's-maid,

telling her significantly to give it to her Royal Highness.

"I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Startin," said Bugle, who had been busy

up-stairs during the scene in the drawing-room, and was rather offended at

this irony in a new servant.

"I mean the young lady that's to command us all-and well worthy for looks

and figure," replied Mrs. Startin in propitiation. "She'll know what key

it is."

"If you have laid out what we want, go and see to the others, Bugle,"

Gwendolen had said, when she and Mrs. Davilow entered their black and

yellow bedroom, where a pretty little white couch was prepared by the side

of the black and yellow catafalque known as the best bed. "I will help

mamma."

But her first movement was to go to the tall mirror between the windows,

which reflected herself and the room completely, while her mamma sat down

and also looked at the reflection.

"That is a becoming glass, Gwendolen; or is it the black and gold color

that sets you off?" said Mrs. Davilow, as Gwendolen stood obliquely with

her three-quarter face turned toward the mirror, and her left hand

brushing back the stream of hair.

"I should make a tolerable St. Cecilia with some white roses on my head,"

said Gwendolen,--"only how about my nose, mamma? I think saint's noses

never in the least turn up. I wish you had given me your perfectly

straight nose; it would have done for any sort of character--a nose of all

work. Mine is only a happy nose; it would not do so well for tragedy."

"Oh, my dear, any nose will do to be miserable with in this world," said

Mrs. Davilow, with a deep, weary sigh, throwing her black bonnet on the

table, and resting her elbow near it.

"Now, mamma," said Gwendolen, in a strongly remonstrant tone, turning away

from the glass with an air of vexation, "don't begin to be dull here. It

spoils all my pleasure, and everything may be so happy now. What have you

to be gloomy about _now_?"

"Nothing, dear," said Mrs. Davilow, seeming to rouse herself, and

beginning to take off her dress. "It is always enough for me to see you

happy."

"But you should be happy yourself," said Gwendolen, still discontentedly,

though going to help her mamma with caressing touches. "Can nobody be

happy after they are quite young? You have made me feel sometimes as if

nothing were of any use. With the girls so troublesome, and Jocosa so

dreadfully wooden and ugly, and everything make-shift about us, and you

looking so dull--what was the use of my being anything? But now you

_might_ be happy."

"So I shall, dear," said Mrs. Davilow, patting the cheek that was bending

near her.

"Yes, but really. Not with a sort of make-believe," said Gwendolen, with

resolute perseverance. "See what a hand and arm!--much more beautiful than

mine. Any one can see you were altogether more beautiful."

"No, no, dear; I was always heavier. Never half so charming as you are."

"Well, but what is the use of my being charming, if it is to end in my

being dull and not minding anything? Is that what marriage always comes

to?"

"No, child, certainly not. Marriage is the only happy state for a woman,

as I trust you will prove."

"I will not put up with it if it is not a happy state. I am determined to

be happy--at least not to go on muddling away my life as other people do,

being and doing nothing remarkable. I have made up my mind not to let

other people interfere with me as they have done. Here is some warm water

ready for you, mamma," Gwendolen ended, proceeding to take off her own

dress and then waiting to have her hair wound up by her mamma.

There was silence for a minute or two, till Mrs. Davilow said, while

coiling the daughter's hair, "I am sure I have never crossed you,

Gwendolen."

"You often want me to do what I don't like."

"You mean, to give Alice lessons?"

"Yes. And I have done it because you asked me. But I don't see why I

should, else. It bores me to death, she is so slow. She has no ear for

music, or language, or anything else. It would be much better for her to

be ignorant, mamma: it is her _r***_, she would do it well."

"That is a hard thing to say of your poor sister, Gwendolen, who is so

good to you, and waits on you hand and foot."

"I don't see why it is hard to call things by their right names, and put

them in their proper places. The hardship is for me to have to waste my

time on her. Now let me fasten up your hair, mamma."

"We must make haste; your uncle and aunt will be here soon. For heaven's

sake, don't be scornful to _them_, my dear child! or to your cousin Anna,

whom you will always be going out with. Do promise me, Gwendolen. You

know, you can't expect Anna to be equal to you."

"I don't want her to be equal," said Gwendolen, with a toss of her head

and a smile, and the discussion ended there.

When Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne and their daughter came, Gwendolen, far from

being scornful, behaved as prettily as possible to them. She was

introducing herself anew to relatives who had not seen her since the

comparatively unfinished age of sixteen, and she was anxious--no, not

anxious, but resolved that they should admire her.

Mrs. Gascoigne bore a family likeness to her sister. But she was darker

and slighter, her face was unworn by grief, her movements were less

languid, her expression more alert and critical as that of a rector's wife

bound to exert a beneficent authority. Their closest resemblance lay in a

non-resistant disposition, inclined to imitation and obedience; but this,

owing to the difference in their circumstances, had led them to very

different issues. The younger sister had been indiscreet, or at least

unfortunate in her marriages; the elder believed herself the most enviable

of wives, and her pliancy had ended in her sometimes taking shapes of

surprising definiteness. Many of her opinions, such as those on church

government and the character of Archbishop Laud, seemed too decided under

every alteration to have been arrived at otherwise than by a wifely

receptiveness. And there was much to encourage trust in her husband's

authority. He had some agreeable virtues, some striking advantages, and

the failings that were imputed to him all leaned toward the side of

success.

One of his advantages was a fine person, which perhaps was even more

impressive at fifty-seven than it had been earlier in life. There were no

distinctively clerical lines in the face, no tricks of starchiness or of

affected ease: in his Inverness cape he could not have been identified

except as a gentleman with handsome dark features, a nose which began with

an intention to be aquiline but suddenly became straight, and iron-gray,

hair. Perhaps he owed this freedom from the sort of professional make-up

which penetrates skin, tones and gestures and defies all drapery, to the

fact that he had once been Captain Gaskin, having taken orders and a

diphthong but shortly before his engagement to Miss Armyn. If any one had

objected that his preparation for the clerical function was inadequate,

his friends might have asked who made a better figure in it, who preached

better or had more authority in his parish? He had a native gift for

administration, being tolerant both of opinions and conduct, because he

felt himself able to overrule them, and was free from the irritations of

conscious feebleness. He smiled pleasantly at the foible of a taste which

he did not share--at floriculture or antiquarianism for example, which

were much in vogue among his fellow-clergyman in the diocese: for himself,

he preferred following the history of a campaign, or divining from his

knowledge of Nesselrode's motives what would have been his conduct if our

cabinet had taken a different course. Mr. Gascoigne's tone of thinking

after some long-quieted fluctuations had become ecclesiastical rather than

theological; not the modern Anglican, but what he would have called sound

English, free from nonsense; such as became a man who looked at a national

religion by daylight, and saw it in its relation to other things. No

clerical magistrate had greater weight at sessions, or less of mischievous

impracticableness in relation to worldly affairs. Indeed, the worst

imputation thrown out against him was worldliness: it could not be proved

that he forsook the less fortunate, but it was not to be denied that the

friendships he cultivated were of a kind likely to be useful to the father

of six sons and two daughters; and bitter observers--for in Wessex, say

ten years ago, there were persons whose bitterness may now seem

incredible--remarked that the color of his opinions had changed in

consistency with this principle of action. But cheerful, successful

worldliness has a false air of being more selfish than the acrid,

unsuccessful kind, whose secret history is summed up in the terrible

words, "Sold, but not paid for."

Gwendolen wondered that she had not better remembered how very fine a man

her uncle was; but at the age of sixteen she was a less capable and more

indifferent judge. At present it was a matter of extreme interest to her

that she was to have the near countenance of a dignified male relative,

and that the family life would cease to be entirely, insipidly feminine.

She did not intend that her uncle should control her, but she saw at once

that it would be altogether agreeable to her that he should be proud of

introducing her as his niece. And there was every sign of his being likely

to feel that pride. He certainly looked at her with admiration as he

said--

"You have outgrown Anna, my dear," putting his arm tenderly round his

daughter, whose shy face was a tiny copy of his own, and drawing her

forward. "She is not so old as you by a year, but her growing days are

certainly over. I hope you will be excellent companions."

He did give a comparing glance at his daughter, but if he saw her

inferiority, he might also see that Anna's timid appearance and miniature

figure must appeal to a different taste from that which was attracted by

Gwendolen, and that the girls could hardly be rivals. Gwendolen at least,

was aware of this, and kissed her cousin with real cordiality as well as

grace, saying, "A companion is just what I want. I am so glad we are come

to live here. And mamma will be much happier now she is near you, aunt."

The aunt trusted indeed that it would be so, and felt it a blessing that a

suitable home had been vacant in their uncle's parish. Then, of course,

notice had to be taken of the four other girls, whom Gwendolen had always

felt to be superfluous: all of a girlish average that made four units

utterly unimportant, and yet from her earliest days an obtrusive

influential fact in her life. She was conscious of having been much kinder

to them than could have been expected. And it was evident to her that her

uncle and aunt also felt it a pity there were so many girls:--what

rational person could feel otherwise, except poor mamma, who never would

see how Alice set up her shoulders and lifted her eyebrows till she had no

forehead left, how Bertha and Fanny whispered and tittered together about

everything, or how Isabel was always listening and staring and forgetting

where she was, and treading on the toes of her suffering elders?

"You have brothers, Anna," said Gwendolen, while the sisters were being

noticed. "I think you are enviable there."

"Yes," said Anna, simply. "I am very fond of them; but of course their

education is a great anxiety to papa. He used to say they made me a

tomboy. I really was a great romp with Rex. I think you will like Rex. He

will come home before Christmas."

"I remember I used to think you rather wild and shy; but it is difficult

now to imagine you a romp," said Gwendolen, smiling.

"Of course, I am altered now; I am come out, and all that. But in reality

I like to go blackberrying with Edwy and Lotta as well as ever. I am not

very fond of going out; but I dare say I shall like it better now you will

be often with me. I am not at all clever, and I never know what to say. It

seems so useless to say what everybody knows, and I can think of nothing

else, except what papa says."

"I shall like going out with you very much," said Gwendolen, well disposed

toward this _na***_ cousin. "Are you fond of riding?"

"Yes, but we have only one Shetland pony amongst us. Papa says he can't

afford more, besides the carriage-horses and his own nag; he has so many

expenses."

"I intend to have a horse and ride a great deal now," said Gwendolen, in a

tone of decision. "Is the society pleasant in this neighborhood?"

"Papa says it is, very. There are the clergymen all about, you know; and

the Quallons, and the Arrowpoints, and Lord Brackenshaw, and Sir Hugo

Mallinger's place, where there is nobody--that's very nice, because we

make picnics there--and two or three families at Wanchester: oh, and old

Mrs. Vulcany, at Nuttingwood, and--"

But Anna was relieved of this tax on her descriptive powers by the

announcement of dinner, and Gwendolen's question was soon indirectly

answered by her uncle, who dwelt much on the advantages he had secured for

them in getting a place like Offendene. Except the rent, it involved no

more expense than an ordinary house at Wanchester would have done.

"And it is always worth while to make a little sacrifice for a good style

of house," said Mr. Gascoigne, in his easy, pleasantly confident tone,

which made the world in general seem a very manageable place of residence:

"especially where there is only a lady at the head. All the best people

will call upon you; and you need give no expensive dinners. Of course, I

have to spend a good deal in that way; it is a large item. But then I get

my house for nothing. If I had to pay three hundred a year for my house I

could not keep a table. My boys are too great a drain on me. You are

better off than we are, in proportion; there is no great drain on you now,

after your house and carriage."

"I assure you, Fanny, now that the children are growing up, I am obliged

to cut and contrive," said Mrs. Gascoigne. "I am not a good manager by

nature, but Henry has taught me. He is wonderful for making the best of

everything; he allows himself no extras, and gets his curates for nothing.

It is rather hard that he has not been made a prebendary or something, as

others have been, considering the friends he has made and the need there

is for men of moderate opinions in all respects. If the Church is to keep

its position, ability and character ought to tell."

"Oh, my dear Nancy, you forget the old story--thank Heaven, there are

three hundred as good as I. And ultimately, we shall have no reason to

complain, I am pretty sure. There could hardly be a more thorough friend

than Lord Brackenshaw--your landlord, you know, Fanny. Lady Brackenshaw

will call upon you. And I have spoken for Gwendolen to be a member of our

Archery Club--the Brackenshaw Archery Club--the most select thing

anywhere. That is, if she has no objection," added Mr. Gascoigne, looking

at Gwendolen with pleasant irony.

"I should like it of all things," said Gwendolen. "There is nothing I

enjoy more than taking aim--and hitting," she ended, with a pretty nod and

smile.

"Our Anna, poor child, is too short-sighed for archery. But I consider

myself a first-rate shot, and you shall practice with me. I must make you

an accomplished archer before our great meeting in July. In fact, as to

neighborhood, you could hardly be better placed. There are the

Arrowpoints--they are some of our best people. Miss Arrowpoint is a

delightful girl--she has been presented at Court. They have a magnificent

place--Quetcham Hall--worth seeing in point of art; and their parties, to

which you are sure to be invited, are the best things of the sort we have.

The archdeacon is intimate there, and they have always a good kind of

people staying in the house. Mrs. Arrowpoint is peculiar, certainly;

something of a caricature, in fact; but well-meaning. And Miss Arrowpoint

is as nice as possible. It is not all young ladies who have mothers as

handsome and graceful as yours and Anna's."

Mrs. Davilow smiled faintly at this little compliment, but the husband and

wife looked affectionately at each other, and Gwendolen thought, "My uncle

and aunt, at least, are happy: they are not dull and dismal." Altogether,

she felt satisfied with her prospects at Offendene, as a great improvement

on anything she had known. Even the cheap curates, she incidentally

learned, were almost always young men of family, and Mr. Middleton, the

actual curate, was said to be quite an acquisition: it was only a pity he

was so soon to leave.

But there was one point which she was so anxious to gain that she could

not allow the evening to pass without taking her measures toward securing

it. Her mamma, she knew, intended to submit entirely to her uncle's

judgment with regard to expenditure; and the submission was not merely

prudential, for Mrs. Davilow, conscious that she had always been seen

under a cloud as poor dear Fanny, who had made a sad blunder with her

second marriage, felt a hearty satisfaction in being frankly and cordially

identified with her sister's family, and in having her affairs canvassed

and managed with an authority which presupposed a genuine interest. Thus

the question of a suitable saddle-horse, which had been sufficiently

discussed with mamma, had to be referred to Mr. Gascoigne; and after

Gwendolen had played on the piano, which had been provided from

Wanchester, had sung to her hearers' admiration, and had induced her uncle

to join her in a duet--what more softening influence than this on any

uncle who would have sung finely if his time had not been too much taken

up by graver matters?--she seized the opportune moment for saying, "Mamma,

you have not spoken to my uncle about my riding."

"Gwendolen desires above all things to have a horse to ride--a pretty,

light, lady's horse," said Mrs. Davilow, looking at Mr. Gascoigne. "Do you

think we can manage it?"

Mr. Gascoigne projected his lower lip and lifted his handsome eyebrows

sarcastically at Gwendolen, who had seated herself with much grace on the

elbow of her mamma's chair.

"We could lend her the pony sometimes," said Mrs. Gascoigne, watching her

husband's face, and feeling quite ready to disapprove if he did.

"That might be inconveniencing others, aunt, and would be no pleasure to

me. I cannot endure ponies," said Gwendolen. "I would rather give up some

other indulgence and have a horse." (Was there ever a young lady or

gentleman not ready to give up an unspecified indulgence for the sake of

the favorite one specified?)

"She rides so well. She has had lessons, and the riding-master said she

had so good a seat and hand she might be trusted with any mount," said

Davilow, who, even if she had not wished her darling to have the horse,

would not have dared to be lukewarm in trying to get it for her.

"There is the price of the horse--a good sixty with the best chance, and

then his keep," said Mr. Gascoigne, in a tone which, though demurring,

betrayed the inward presence of something that favored the demand. "There

are the carriage-horses--already a heavy item. And remember what you

ladies cost in toilet now."

"I really wear nothing but two black dresses," said Mrs. Davilow, hastily.

"And the younger girls, of course, require no toilet at present. Besides,

Gwendolen will save me so much by giving her sisters lessons." Here Mrs.

Davilow's delicate cheek showed a rapid blush. "If it were not for that, I

must really have a more expensive governess, and masters besides."

Gwendolen felt some anger with her mamma, but carefully concealed it.

"That is good--that is decidedly good," said Mr. Gascoigne, heartily,

looking at his wife. And Gwendolen, who, it must be owned, was a deep

young lady, suddenly moved away to the other end of the long drawing-room,

and busied herself with arranging pieces of music.

"The dear child has had no indulgences, no pleasures," said Mrs. Davilow,

in a pleading undertone. "I feel the expense is rather imprudent in this

first year of our settling. But she really needs the exercise--she needs

cheering. And if you were to see her on horseback, it is something

splendid."

"It is what we could not afford for Anna," said Mrs. Gascoigne. "But she,

dear child, would ride Lotta's donkey and think it good enough." (Anna was

absorbed in a game with Isabel, who had hunted out an old back-gammon-

board, and had begged to sit up an extra hour.)

"Certainly, a fine woman never looks better than on horseback," said Mr.

Gascoigne. "And Gwendolen has the figure for it. I don't say the thing

should not be considered."

"We might try it for a time, at all events. It can be given up, if

necessary," said Mrs. Davilow.

"Well, I will consult Lord Brackenshaw's head groom. He is my _fidus

Achates_ in the horsey way."

"Thanks," said Mrs. Davilow, much relieved. "You are very kind."

"That he always is," said Mrs. Gascoigne. And later that night, when she

and her husband were in private, she said--

"I thought you were almost too indulgent about the horse for Gwendolen.

She ought not to claim so much more than your own daughter would think of.

Especially before we see how Fanny manages on her income. And you really

have enough to do without taking all this trouble on yourself."

"My dear Nancy, one must look at things from every point of view. This

girl is really worth some expense: you don't often see her equal. She

ought to make a first-rate marriage, and I should not be doing my duty if

I spared my trouble in helping her forward. You know yourself she has been

under a disadvantage with such a father-in-law, and a second family,

keeping her always in the shade. I feel for the girl, And I should like

your sister and her family now to have the benefit of your having married

rather a better specimen of our kind than she did."

"Rather better! I should think so. However, it is for me to be grateful

that you will take so much on your shoulders for the sake of my sister and

her children. I am sure I would not grudge anything to poor Fanny. But

there is one thing I have been thinking of, though you have never

mentioned it."

"What is that?"

"The boys. I hope they will not be falling in love with Gwendolen."

"Don't presuppose anything of the kind, my dear, and there will be no

danger. Rex will never be at home for long together, and Warham is going

to India. It is the wiser plan to take it for granted that cousins will

not fall in love. If you begin with precautions, the affair will come in

spite of them. One must not undertake to act for Providence in these

matters, which can no more be held under the hand than a brood of

chickens. The boys will have nothing, and Gwendolen will have nothing.

They can't marry. At the worst there would only be a little crying, and

you can't save boys and girls from that."

Mrs. Gascoigne's mind was satisfied: if anything did happen, there was the

comfort of feeling that her husband would know what was to be done, and

would have the energy to do it.