Daniel Deronda - George Eliot (best romance books of all time txt) 📗

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 anything 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. Everyone 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 deshabille.”

“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 anyone 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 anyone had asked her why she objected to lovemaking 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 “goodbye.” 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