Daniel Deronda, George Eliot [portable ebook reader .TXT] 📗

an advent that might promise a brilliant lot for Gwendolen. A little speculation on “what may be” comes naturally, without encouragement⁠—comes inevitably in the form of images, when unknown persons are mentioned; and Mr. Grandcourt’s name raised in Mrs. Davilow’s mind first of all the picture of a handsome, accomplished, excellent young man whom she would be satisfied with as a husband for her daughter; but then came the further speculation⁠—would Gwendolen be satisfied with him? There was no knowing what would meet that girl’s taste or touch her affections⁠—it might be something else than excellence; and thus the image of the perfect suitor gave way before a fluctuating combination of qualities that might be imagined to win Gwendolen’s heart. In the difficulty of arriving at the particular combination which would insure that result, the mother even said to herself, “It would not signify about her being in love, if she would only accept the right person.” For whatever marriage had been for herself, how could she the less desire it for her daughter? The difference her own misfortunes made was, that she never dared to dwell much to Gwendolen on the desirableness of marriage, dreading an answer something like that of the future Madame Roland, when her gentle mother urging the acceptance of a suitor, said, “Tu seras heureuse, ma chère.” “Oui, maman, comme toi.”

In relation to the problematic Mr. Grandcourt least of all would Mrs. Davilow have willingly let fall a hint of the aerial castle-building which she had the good taste to be ashamed of; for such a hint was likely enough to give an adverse poise to Gwendolen’s own thought, and make her detest the desirable husband beforehand. Since that scene after poor Rex’s farewell visit, the mother had felt a new sense of peril in touching the mystery of her child’s feeling, and in rashly determining what was her welfare: only she could think of welfare in no other shape than marriage.

The discussion of the dress that Gwendolen was to wear at the Archery Meeting was a relevant topic, however; and when it had been decided that as a touch of color on her white cashmere, nothing, for her complexion, was comparable to pale green⁠—a feather which she was trying in her hat before the looking-glass having settled the question⁠—Mrs. Davilow felt her ears tingle when Gwendolen, suddenly throwing herself into the attitude of drawing her bow, said with a look of comic enjoyment,

“How I pity all the other girls at the Archery Meeting⁠—all thinking of Mr. Grandcourt! And they have not a shadow of a chance.”

Mrs. Davilow had not the presence of mind to answer immediately, and Gwendolen turned round quickly toward her, saying, wickedly,

“Now you know they have not, mamma. You and my uncle and aunt⁠—you all intend him to fall in love with me.”

Mrs. Davilow, piqued into a little stratagem, said, “Oh, my, dear, that is not so certain. Miss Arrowpoint has charms which you have not.”

“I know, but they demand thought. My arrow will pierce him before he has time for thought. He will declare himself my slave⁠—I shall send him round the world to bring me back the wedding ring of a happy woman⁠—in the meantime all the men who are between him and the title will die of different diseases⁠—he will come back Lord Grandcourt⁠—but without the ring⁠—and fall at my feet. I shall laugh at him⁠—he will rise in resentment⁠—I shall laugh more⁠—he will call for his steed and ride to Quetcham, where he will find Miss Arrowpoint just married to a needy musician, Mrs. Arrowpoint tearing her cap off, and Mr. Arrowpoint standing by. Exit Lord Grandcourt, who returns to Diplow, and, like M. Jabot, change de linge.”

Was ever any young witch like this? You thought of hiding things from her⁠—sat upon your secret and looked innocent, and all the while she knew by the corner of your eye that it was exactly five pounds ten you were sitting on! As well turn the key to keep out the damp! It was probable that by dint of divination she already knew more than anyone else did of Mr. Grandcourt. That idea in Mrs. Davilow’s mind prompted the sort of question which often comes without any other apparent reason than the faculty of speech and the not knowing what to do with it.

“Why, what kind of a man do you imagine him to be, Gwendolen?”

“Let me see!” said the witch, putting her forefinger to her lips, with a little frown, and then stretching out the finger with decision. “Short⁠—just above my shoulder⁠—trying to make himself tall by turning up his mustache and keeping his beard long⁠—a glass in his right eye to give him an air of distinction⁠—a strong opinion about his waistcoat, but uncertain and trimming about the weather, on which he will try to draw me out. He will stare at me all the while, and the glass in his eye will cause him to make horrible faces, especially when he smiles in a flattering way. I shall cast down my eyes in consequence, and he will perceive that I am not indifferent to his attentions. I shall dream that night that I am looking at the extraordinary face of a magnified insect⁠—and the next morning he will make an offer of his hand; the sequel as before.”

“That is a portrait of someone you have seen already, Gwen. Mr. Grandcourt may be a delightful young man for what you know.”

“Oh, yes,” said Gwendolen, with a high note of careless admission, taking off her best hat and turning it round on her hand contemplatively. “I wonder what sort of behavior a delightful young man would have? I know he would have hunters and racers, and a London house and two country-houses⁠—one with battlements and another with a veranda. And I feel sure that with a little murdering he might get a title.”

The irony of this speech was of the doubtful sort that has some genuine belief mixed up with it. Poor Mrs. Davilow felt uncomfortable