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

Hence, on this unexpected meeting at Leubronn, the baronet felt much curiosity to know how things had been going on at Diplow, was bent on being as civil as possible to his nephew, and looked forward to some private chat with Lush.

Between Deronda and Grandcourt there was a more faintly-marked but peculiar relation, depending on circumstances which have yet to be made known. But on no side was there any sign of suppressed chagrin on the first meeting at the table d’hôte, an hour after Grandcourt’s arrival; and when the quartette of gentlemen afterward met on the terrace, without Lady Mallinger, they moved off together to saunter through the rooms, Sir Hugo saying as they entered the large saal,

“Did you play much at Baden, Grandcourt?”

“No; I looked on and betted a little with some Russians there.”

“Had you luck?”

“What did I win, Lush?”

“You brought away about two hundred,” said Lush.

“You are not here for the sake of the play, then?” said Sir Hugo.

“No; I don’t care about play now. It’s a confounded strain,” said Grandcourt, whose diamond ring and demeanor, as he moved along playing slightly with his whisker, were being a good deal stared at by rouged foreigners interested in a new milord.

“The fact is, somebody should invent a mill to do amusements for you, my dear fellow,” said Sir Hugo, “as the Tartars get their praying done. But I agree with you; I never cared for play. It’s monotonous⁠—knits the brain up into meshes. And it knocks me up to watch it now. I suppose one gets poisoned with the bad air. I never stay here more than ten minutes. But where’s your gambling beauty, Deronda? Have you seen her lately?”

“She’s gone,” said Deronda, curtly.

“An uncommonly fine girl, a perfect Diana,” said Sir Hugo, turning to Grandcourt again. “Really worth a little straining to look at her. I saw her winning, and she took it as coolly as if she had known it all beforehand. The same day Deronda happened to see her losing like wildfire, and she bore it with immense pluck. I suppose she was cleaned out, or was wise enough to stop in time. How do you know she’s gone?”

“Oh, by the Visitor-list,⁠ ⁠…” said Deronda, with a scarcely perceptible shrug. “Vandernoodt told me her name was Harleth, and she was with the Baron and Baroness von Langen. I saw by the list that Miss Harleth was no longer there.”

This held no further information for Lush than that Gwendolen had been gambling. He had already looked at the list, and ascertained that Gwendolen had gone, but he had no intention of thrusting this knowledge on Grandcourt before he asked for it; and he had not asked, finding it enough to believe that the object of search would turn up somewhere or other.

But now Grandcourt had heard what was rather piquant, and not a word about Miss Harleth had been missed by him. After a moment’s pause he said to Deronda,

“Do you know those people⁠—the Langens?”

“I have talked with them a little since Miss Harleth went away. I knew nothing of them before.”

“Where is she gone⁠—do you know?”

“She is gone home,” said Deronda, coldly, as if he wished to say no more. But then, from a fresh impulse, he turned to look markedly at Grandcourt, and added, “But it is possible you know her. Her home is not far from Diplow: Offendene, near Winchester.”

Deronda, turning to look straight at Grandcourt, who was on his left hand, might have been a subject for those old painters who liked contrasts of temperament. There was a calm intensity of life and richness of tint in his face that on a sudden gaze from him was rather startling, and often made him seem to have spoken, so that servants and officials asked him automatically, “What did you say, sir?” when he had been quite silent. Grandcourt himself felt an irritation, which he did not show except by a slight movement of the eyelids, at Deronda’s turning round on him when he was not asked to do more than speak. But he answered, with his usual drawl, “Yes, I know her,” and paused with his shoulder toward Deronda, to look at the gambling.

“What of her, eh?” asked Sir Hugo of Lush, as the three moved on a little way. “She must be a newcomer at Offendene. Old Blenny lived there after the dowager died.”

“A little too much of her,” said Lush, in a low, significant tone; not sorry to let Sir Hugo know the state of affairs.

“Why? how?” said the baronet. They all moved out of the salon into an airy promenade.

“He has been on the brink of marrying her,” Lush went on. “But I hope it’s off now. She’s a niece of the clergyman⁠—Gascoigne⁠—at Pennicote. Her mother is a widow with a brood of daughters. This girl will have nothing, and is as dangerous as gunpowder. It would be a foolish marriage. But she has taken a freak against him, for she ran off here without notice, when he had agreed to call the next day. The fact is, he’s here after her; but he was in no great hurry, and between his caprice and hers they are likely enough not to get together again. But of course he has lost his chance with the heiress.”

Grandcourt joining them said, “What a beastly den this is!⁠—a worse hole than Baden. I shall go back to the hotel.”

When Sir Hugo and Deronda were alone, the baronet began,

“Rather a pretty story. That girl has something in her. She must be worth running after⁠—has de l’imprévu. I think her appearance on the scene has bettered my chance of getting Diplow, whether the marriage comes off or not.”

“I should hope a marriage like that would not come off,” said Deronda, in a tone of disgust.

“What! are you a little touched with the sublime lash?” said Sir Hugo, putting up his glasses to help his short sight in looking at his companion.