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

a thought that glanced through Gwendolen’s mind, while her eyes and lips gathered rather a mocking expression. But she would not indulge her sense of amusement by watching, as if she were curious, and she gave all her animation to those immediately around her, determined not to care whether Mr. Grandcourt came near her again or not.

He did come, however, and at a moment when he could propose to conduct Mrs. Davilow to her carriage, “Shall we meet again in the ballroom?” she said as he raised his hat at parting. The “yes” in reply had the usual slight drawl and perfect gravity.

“You were wrong for once, Gwendolen,” said Mrs. Davilow, during their few minutes’ drive to the castle.

“In what, mamma?”

“About Mr. Grandcourt’s appearance and manners. You can’t find anything ridiculous in him.”

“I suppose I could if I tried, but I don’t want to do it,” said Gwendolen, rather pettishly; and her mother was afraid to say more.

It was the rule on these occasions for the ladies and gentlemen to dine apart, so that the dinner might make a time of comparative ease and rest for both. Indeed, the gentlemen had a set of archery stories about the epicurism of the ladies, who had somehow been reported to show a revolting masculine judgment in venison, even asking for the fat⁠—a proof of the frightful rate at which corruption might go on in women, but for severe social restraint, and every year the amiable Lord Brackenshaw, who was something of a gourmet, mentioned Byron’s opinion that a woman should never be seen eating⁠—introducing it with a confidential⁠—“The fact is” as if he were for the first time admitting his concurrence in that sentiment of the refined poet.

In the ladies’ dining-room it was evident that Gwendolen was not a general favorite with her own sex: there were no beginnings of intimacy between her and other girls, and in conversation they rather noticed what she said than spoke to her in free exchange. Perhaps it was that she was not much interested in them, and when left alone in their company had a sense of empty benches. Mrs. Vulcany once remarked that Miss Harleth was too fond of the gentlemen; but we know that she was not in the least fond of them⁠—she was only fond of their homage⁠—and women did not give her homage. The exception to this willing aloofness from her was Miss Arrowpoint, who often managed unostentatiously to be by her side, and talked to her with quiet friendliness.

“She knows, as I do, that our friends are ready to quarrel over a husband for us,” thought Gwendolen, “and she is determined not to enter into the quarrel.”

“I think Miss Arrowpoint has the best manners I ever saw,” said Mrs. Davilow, when she and Gwendolen were in a dressing-room with Mrs. Gascoigne and Anna, but at a distance where they could have their talk apart.

“I wish I were like her,” said Gwendolen.

“Why? Are you getting discontented with yourself, Gwen?”

“No; but I am discontented with things. She seems contented.”

“I am sure you ought to be satisfied today. You must have enjoyed the shooting. I saw you did.”

“Oh, that is over now, and I don’t know what will come next,” said Gwendolen, stretching herself with a sort of moan and throwing up her arms. They were bare now; it was the fashion to dance in the archery dress, throwing off the jacket; and the simplicity of her white cashmere with its border of pale green set off her form to the utmost. A thin line of gold round her neck, and the gold star on her breast, were her only ornaments. Her smooth soft hair piled up into a grand crown made a clear line about her brow. Sir Joshua would have been glad to take her portrait; and he would have had an easier task than the historian at least in this, that he would not have had to represent the truth of change⁠—only to give stability to one beautiful moment.

“The dancing will come next,” said Mrs. Davilow “You are sure to enjoy that.”

“I shall only dance in the quadrille. I told Mr. Clintock so. I shall not waltz or polk with anyone.”

“Why in the world do you say that all on a sudden?”

“I can’t bear having ugly people so near me.”

“Whom do you mean by ugly people?”

“Oh, plenty.”

“Mr. Clintock, for example, is not ugly.” Mrs. Davilow dared not mention Grandcourt.

“Well, I hate woolen cloth touching me.”

“Fancy!” said Mrs. Davilow to her sister who now came up from the other end of the room. “Gwendolen says she will not waltz or polk.”

“She is rather given to whims, I think,” said Mrs. Gascoigne, gravely. “It would be more becoming in her to behave as other young ladies do on such an occasion as this; especially when she has had the advantage of first-rate dancing lessons.”

“Why should I dance if I don’t like it, aunt? It is not in the catechism.”

“My dear!” said Mrs. Gascoigne, in a tone of severe check, and Anna looked frightened at Gwendolen’s daring. But they all passed on without saying any more.

Apparently something had changed Gwendolen’s mood since the hour of exulting enjoyment in the archery-ground. But she did not look the worse under the chandeliers in the ballroom, where the soft splendor of the scene and the pleasant odors from the conservatory could not but be soothing to the temper, when accompanied with the consciousness of being preeminently sought for. Hardly a dancing man but was anxious to have her for a partner, and each whom she accepted was in a state of melancholy remonstrance that she would not waltz or polk.

“Are you under a vow, Miss Harleth?”⁠—“Why are you so cruel to us all?”⁠—“You waltzed with me in February.”⁠—“And you who waltz so perfectly!” were exclamations not without piquancy for her. The ladies who waltzed naturally thought that Miss Harleth only wanted to make herself particular; but her uncle when he overheard her refusal, supported her by saying,

“Gwendolen has usually good reasons.” He thought she was certainly more distinguished in not