Faites votre jeu, mesdames et messieurs,


Le jeu ne va plus,


A striking girl—that Miss Harleth—unlike others.


Yes, she has got herself up as a sort of serpent now—all green and silver, and winds her neck about a little more than usual.


Oh, she must always be doing something extraordinary. She is that kind of girl, I fancy. Do you think her pretty, Mr. Vandernoodt?


Very. A man might risk hanging for her—I mean a fool might.


You like a nez retroussé, then, and long narrow eyes?


When they go with such an ensemble.


The ensemble du serpent?


If you will. Woman was tempted by a serpent; why not man?


She is certainly very graceful; but she wants a tinge of color in her cheeks. It is a sort of Lamia beauty she has.


On the contrary, I think her complexion one of her chief charms. It is a warm paleness; it looks thoroughly healthy. And that delicate nose with its gradual little upward curve is distracting. And then her mouth—there never was a prettier mouth, the lips curled backward so finely, eh, Mackworth?


Think so? I cannot endure that sort of mouth. It looks so self-complacent, as if it knew its own beauty—the curves are too immovable. I like a mouth that trembles more.


For my part, I think her odious. It is wonderful what unpleasant girls get into vogue. Who are these Langens? Does anybody know them?


They are quite comme il faut. I have dined with them several times at the Russie. The baroness is English. Miss Harleth calls her cousin. The girl herself is thoroughly well-bred, and as clever as possible.


Dear me! and the baron?


A very good furniture picture.


Your baroness is always at the roulette-table. I fancy she has taught the girl to gamble.


Oh, the old woman plays a very sober game; drops a ten-franc piece here and there. The girl is more headlong. But it is only a freak.


I hear she has lost all her winnings to-day. Are they rich? Who knows?


Ah, who knows? Who knows that about anybody?


Mr. Vandernoodt, you know everybody. Who is that near the door?


There are half a dozen near the door. Do you mean that old Adonis in the George the Fourth wig?


No, no; the dark-haired young man on the right with the dreadful expression.


Dreadful, do you call it? I think he is an uncommonly fine fellow.


But who is he?


He is lately come to our hotel with Sir Hugo Mallinger.


Sir Hugo Mallinger?


Yes. Do you know him?


No.


Deronda—Mr. Deronda.


What a delightful name! Is he an Englishman?


Yes. He is reported to be rather closely related to the baronet. You are interested in him?


Yes. I think he is not like young men in general.


And you don’t admire young men in general?


Not in the least. I always know what they will say. I can’t at all guess what this Mr. Deronda would say. What does he say?


Nothing, chiefly. I sat with his party for a good hour last night on the terrace, and he never spoke—and was not smoking either. He looked bored.


Another reason why I should like to know him. I am always bored.


I should think he would be charmed to have an introduction. Shall I bring it about? Will you allow it, baroness?


Why not?—since he is related to Sir Hugo Mallinger. It is a new rôle of yours, Gwendolen, to be always bored. Until now you have always seemed eager about something from morning till night.


That is just because I am bored to death. If I am to leave off play I must break my arm or my collar-bone. I must make something happen; unless you will go into Switzerland and take me up the Matterhorn.


Perhaps this Mr. Deronda’s acquaintance will do instead of the Matterhorn.


Perhaps.


DEAREST CHILD.—I have been expecting to hear from you for a week. In your last you said the Langens thought of leaving Leubronn and going to Baden. How could you be so thoughtless as to leave me in uncertainty about your address? I am in the greatest anxiety lest this should not reach you. In any case, you were to come home at the end of September, and I must now entreat you to return as quickly as possible, for if you spent all your money it would be out of my power to send you any more, and you must not borrow of the Langens, for I could not repay them. This is the sad truth, my child—I wish I could prepare you for it better—but a dreadful calamity has befallen us all. You know nothing about business and will not understand it; but Grapnell & Co. have failed for a million, and we are totally ruined—your aunt Gascoigne as well as I, only that your uncle has his benefice, so that by putting down their carriage and getting interest for the boys, the family can go on. All the property our poor father saved for us goes to pay the liabilities. There is nothing I can call my own. It is better you should know this at once, though it rends my heart to have to tell it you. Of course we cannot help thinking what a pity it was that you went away just when you did. But I shall never reproach you, my dear child; I would save you from all trouble if I could. On your way home you will have time to prepare yourself for the change you will find. We shall perhaps leave Offendene at once, for we hope that Mr. Haynes, who wanted it before, may be ready to take it off my hands. Of course we cannot go to the rectory—there is not a corner there to spare. We must get some hut or other to shelter us, and we must live on your uncle Gascoigne’s charity, until I see what else can be done. I shall not be able to pay the debts to the tradesmen besides the servants’ wages. Summon up your fortitude, my dear child; we must resign ourselves to God’s will. But it is hard to resign one’s self to Mr. Lassman’s wicked recklessness, which they say was the cause of the failure. Your poor sisters can only cry with me and give me no help. If you were once here, there might be a break in the cloud—I always feel it impossible that you can have been meant for poverty. If the Langens wish to remain abroad, perhaps you can put yourself under some one else’s care for the journey. But come as soon as you can to your afflicted and loving mamma, FANNY DAVILOW.


Let no flower of the spring pass by us; let us crown ourselves with rosebuds before they be withered.


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


You have no feeling, child!


Well, dear, what do you think of the place,


I think it is charming. 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,


We are early. 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.


Mamma, mamma, pray come here! 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?


A charming picture, my dear!


What a queer, quaint, picturesque room! 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!


How horrible!


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? 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. Let us go up to our own room, mamma.


I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Startin,


I mean the young lady that’s to command us all—and well worthy for looks and figure. She’ll know what key it is.


If you have laid out what we want, go and see to the others, Bugle. I will help mamma.


That is a becoming glass, Gwendolen; or is it the black and gold color that sets you off?


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


Now, mamma, 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. It is always enough for me to see you happy.


But you should be happy yourself. 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,


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


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 rôle, 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,


You have outgrown Anna, my dear. She is not so old as you by a year, but her growing days are certainly over. I hope you will be excellent companions.


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.


You have brothers, Anna. I think you are enviable there.


Yes. 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,


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. 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. 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—


And it is always worth while to make a little sacrifice for a good style of house, 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. 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,


I should like it of all things. Our Anna, poor child, is too short-sighted 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.


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,


We could lend her the pony sometimes,


That might be inconveniencing others, aunt, and would be no pleasure to me. I cannot endure ponies,


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,


There is the price of the horse—a good sixty with the best chance, and then his keep,


I really wear nothing but two black dresses,


That is good—that is decidedly good,


The dear child has had no indulgences, no pleasures,


It is what we could not afford for Anna,


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. Thanks,


That he always is. 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.


Gwendolen will not rest without having the world at her feet,


This will never do for Miss Harleth


Who is that with Gascoigne?


By George! who is that girl with the awfully well-set head and jolly figure?


She is not really so handsome if you come to examine her features. It is a certain style she has, which produces a great effect at first, but afterward she is less agreeable.


You are fond of books as well as of music, riding, and archery, I hear. Catherine will be very glad to have so sympathetic a neighbor.


It is I who am fortunate. Miss Arrowpoint will teach me what good music is. I shall be entirely a learner. I hear that she is a thorough musician.


Catherine has certainly had every advantage. We have a first-rate musician in the house now—Herr Klesmer; perhaps you know all his compositions. You must allow me to introduce him to you. You sing, I believe. Catherine plays three instruments, but she does not sing. I hope you will let us hear you. I understand you are an accomplished singer.


Oh, no!—‘die Kraft ist schwach, allein die Lust ist gross,’ as Mephistopheles says.


Ah, you are a student of Goethe. Young ladies are so advanced now. I suppose you have read everything.


No, really. I shall be so glad if you will tell me what to read. I have been looking into all the books in the library at Offendene, but there is nothing readable. The leaves all stick together and smell musty. I wish I could write books to amuse myself, as you can! How delightful it must be to write books after one’s own taste instead of reading other people’s! Home-made books must be so nice. I would give anything to write a book!


And why should you not? You have but to begin as I did. Pen, ink, and paper are at everybody’s command. But I will send you all I have written with pleasure.


Thanks. I shall be so glad to read your writings. Being acquainted with authors must give a peculiar understanding of their books: one would be able to tell then which parts were funny and which serious. I am sure I often laugh in the wrong place. In Shakespeare, you know, and other great writers that we can never see. But I always want to know more than there is in the books.


If you are interested in any of my subjects I can lend you many extra sheets in manuscript. These are things I dare say I shall publish eventually: several friends have urged me to do so, and one doesn’t like to be obstinate. My Tasso, for example—I could have made it twice the size.


I dote on Tasso,


Well, you shall have all my papers, if you like. So many, you know, have written about Tasso; but they are all wrong. As to the particular nature of his madness, and his feelings for Leonora, and the real cause of his imprisonment, and the character of Leonora, who, in my opinion, was a cold-hearted woman, else she would have married him in spite of her brother—they are all wrong. I differ from everybody.


How very interesting! I like to differ from everybody. I think it is so stupid to agree. That is the worst of writing your opinions; you make people agree with you. I know nothing of Tasso except the Gerusalemme Liberata, which we read and learned by heart at school.


Ah, his life is more interesting than his poetry, I have constructed the early part of his life as a sort of romance. When one thinks of his father Bernardo, and so on, there is much that must be true.


Imagination is often truer than fact. I shall be so glad to learn all about Tasso—and his madness especially. I suppose poets are always a little mad.


To be sure—‘the poet’s eye in a fine frenzy rolling’; and somebody says of Marlowe, ‘For that fine madness still he did maintain, Which always should possess the poet’s brain.’


But it was not always found out, was it? I suppose some of them rolled their eyes in private. Mad people are often very cunning.


Ah, here comes Herr Klesmer,


Charming!


It would be too cruel to a great musician. You cannot like to hear poor amateur singing.


No, truly; but that makes nothing. That makes nothing. It is always acceptable to see you sing.


Imagine what I have to go through with this professor! He can hardly tolerate anything we English do in music. We can only put up with his severity, and make use of it to find out the worst that can be said of us. It is a little comfort to know that; and one can bear it when every one else is admiring.


I should be very much obliged to him for telling me the worst. I dare say I have been extremely ill taught, in addition to having no talent—only liking for music.


Yes, it is true: you have not been well taught. Still, you are not quite without gifts. You sing in tune, and you have a pretty fair organ. But you produce your notes badly; and that music which you sing is beneath you. It is a form of melody which expresses a puerile state of culture—a dawdling, canting, see-saw kind of stuff—the passion and thought of people without any breadth of horizon. There is a sort of self-satisfied folly about every phrase of such melody; no cries of deep, mysterious passion—no conflict—no sense of the universal. It makes men small as they listen to it. Sing now something larger. And I shall see.


Oh, not now—by-and-by,


Yes, by-and-by. I always require half an hour to get up my courage after being criticised by Herr Klesmer. We will ask him to play to us now: he is bound to show us what is good music.


I wish you would sing to us again, Miss Harleth. That is the style of music for me. I never can make anything of this tip-top playing. It is like a jar of leeches, where you can never tell either beginnings or endings. I could listen to your singing all day.


Yes, we should be glad of something popular now—another song from you would be a relaxation,


That must be because you are in a puerile state of culture, and have no breadth of horizon. I have just learned that. I have been taught how bad my taste is, and am feeling growing pains. They are never pleasant,


Well, we will not press anything disagreeably,


I am glad you like this neighborhood,


Exceedingly. There seems to be a little of everything and not much of anything.


That is rather equivocal praise.


Not with me. I like a little of everything; a little absurdity, for example, is very amusing. I am thankful for a few queer people; but much of them is a bore.


I think there should be more croquet, for one thing. I am usually away, but if I were more here I should go in for a croquet club. You are one of the archers, I think. But depend upon it croquet is the game of the future. It wants writing up, though. One of our best men has written a poem on it, in four cantos;—as good as Pope. I want him to publish it—You never read anything better.


I shall study croquet to-morrow. I shall take to it instead of singing.


No, no, not that; but do take to croquet. I will send you Jenning’s poem if you like. I have a manuscript copy.


Is he a great friend of yours?


Well, rather.


Oh, if he is only rather, I think I will decline. Or, if you send it to me, will you promise not to catechise me upon it and ask me which part I like best? Because it is not so easy to know a poem without reading it as to know a sermon without listening.


Decidedly, this girl is double and satirical. I shall be on my guard against her.


Do I look as well as Rachel, mamma?


You have better arms than Rachel, your arms would do for anything, Gwen. But your voice is not so tragic as hers; it is not so deep.


I can make it deeper, if I like. I think a higher voice is more tragic: it is more feminine; and the more feminine a woman is, the more tragic it seems when she does desperate actions.


There may be something in that. But I don’t know what good there is in making one’s blood creep. And if there is anything horrible to be done, I should like it to be left to the men.


Oh, mamma, you are so dreadfully prosaic! As if all the great poetic criminals were not women! I think the men are poor cautious creatures.


Well, dear, and you—who are afraid to be alone in the night—I don’t think you would be very bold in crime, thank God.


I am not talking about reality, mamma. Anna, do ask my uncle to let us get up some charades at the rectory. Mr. Middleton and Warham could act with us—just for practice. Mamma says it will not do to have Mr. Middleton consulting and rehearsing here. He is a stick, but we could give him suitable parts. Do ask, or else I will.


Oh, not till Rex comes. He is so clever, and such a dear old thing, and he will act Napoleon looking over the sea. He looks just like Napoleon. Rex can do anything.


I don’t in the least believe in your Rex, Anna. He will turn out to be like those wretched blue and yellow water-colors of his which you hang up in your bedroom and worship.


Very well, you will see. It is not that I know what is clever, but he has got a scholarship already, and papa says he will get a fellowship, and nobody is better at games. He is cleverer than Mr. Middleton, and everybody but you call Mr. Middleton clever.


So he may be in a dark-lantern sort of way. But he is a stick. If he had to say, ‘Perdition catch my soul, but I do love her,’ he would say it in just the same tone as, ‘Here endeth the second lesson.’


Oh, Gwendolen! And it is very unkind of you to speak so of him, for he admires you very much. I heard Warham say one day to mamma, ‘Middleton is regularly spooney upon Gwendolen.’ She was very angry with him; but I know what it means. It is what they say at college for being in love.


How can I help it? Perdition catch my soul if I love him.


No, of course; papa, I think, would not wish it. And he is to go away soon. But it makes me sorry when you ridicule him.


What shall you do to me when I ridicule Rex?


Now, Gwendolen, dear, you will not? I could not bear it. But there really is nothing in him to ridicule. Only you may find out things. For no one ever thought of laughing at Mr. Middleton before you. Every one said he was nice-looking, and his manners perfect. I am sure I have always been frightened at him because of his learning and his square-cut coat, and his being a nephew of the bishop’s, and all that. But you will not ridicule Rex—promise me.


You are a dear little coz. I don’t ever want to do anything that will vex you. Especially if Rex is to make everything come off—charades and everything.


Something pleasant, children, I beseech you. I can’t have any Greek wickedness.


It is no worse than Christian wickedness, mamma,


And less scandalous. Besides, one thinks of it as all gone by and done with. What do you say to Briseis being led away? I would be Achilles, and you would be looking round at me—after the print we have at the rectory.


That would be a good attitude for me. No. It will not do. There must be three men in proper costume, else it will be ridiculous.


I have it. Hermione as the statue in Winter’s Tale? I will be Leontes, and Miss Merry, Paulina, one on each side. Our dress won’t signify, it will be more Shakespearian and romantic if Leontes looks like Napoleon, and Paulina like a modern spinster.


Music, awake her, strike!


A magnificent bit of plastik that!


Was it part of the play?


Oh, no, surely not. Miss Harleth was too much affected. A sensitive creature!


Dear me! I was not aware that there was a painting behind that panel; were you?


No; how should I? Some eccentricity in one of the Earl’s family long ago, I suppose.


How very painful! Pray shut it up.


Was the door locked? It is very mysterious. It must be the spirits.


But there is no medium present.


How do you know that? We must conclude that there is, when such things happen.


Oh, the door was not locked; it was probably the sudden vibration from the piano that sent it open.


Mr. Gascoigne was always a little too worldly for her taste.


it will not start open again


We have to thank you for devising a perfect climax: you could not have chosen a finer bit of plastik,


I know the door was locked before the housekeeper gave me the key, for I tried it myself afterward. Some one must have been to my drawer and taken the key.


Please forgive me, Gwendolen.


As the bonny lasse passed by,


Hey, ho, bonnilasse!


She roode at me with glauncing eye,


As clear as the crystal glasse.


All as the sunny beame so bright,


Hey, ho, the sunnebeame!


Glaunceth from Phoebus’ face forthright,


So love into thy heart did streame.


Gwendolen is always very good to me,


Where are you going, Rex?


Going to see the hounds throw off at the Three Barns.


Are you going to take Gwendolen?


She told you, did she?


No, but I thought—Does papa know you are going?


Not that I am aware of. I don’t suppose he would trouble himself about the matter.


You are going to use his horse?


He knows I do that whenever I can.


Don’t let Gwendolen ride after the hounds, Rex,


Why not?


Papa and mamma and aunt Davilow all wish her not to. They think it is not right for her.


Why should you suppose she is going to do what is not right?


Gwendolen minds nobody sometimes,


Then she would not mind me,


Oh Rex, I cannot bear it. You will make yourself very unhappy.


Nannie, Nannie, what on earth is the matter with you?


She will not care for you one bit—I know she never will!


Anna had got it into her head that you would want to ride after the hounds this morning,


Did she? What a little clairvoyant she is!


Shall you?


I don’t know. I can’t tell what I shall do till I get there. Clairvoyants are often wrong: they foresee what is likely. I am not fond of what is likely: it is always dull. I do what is unlikely.


Ah, there you tell me a secret. When once I knew what people in general would be likely to do, I should know you would do the opposite. So you would have come round to a likelihood of your own sort. I shall be able to calculate on you. You couldn’t surprise me.


Yes, I could. I should turn round and do what was likely for people in general,


You see you can’t escape some sort of likelihood. And contradictoriness makes the strongest likelihood of all. You must give up a plan.


No, I shall not. My plan is to do what pleases me.


Can you manage to feel only what pleases you?


Of course not; that comes from what other people do. But if the world were pleasanter, one would only feel what was pleasant. Girls’ lives are so stupid: they never do what they like.


I thought that was more the case of the men. They are forced to do hard things, and are often dreadfully bored, and knocked to pieces too. And then, if we love a girl very dearly we want to do as she likes, so after all you have your own way.


I don’t believe it. I never saw a married woman who had her own way.


What should you like to do?


Oh, I don’t know!—go to the North Pole, or ride steeple-chases, or go to be a queen in the East like Lady Hester Stanhope,


You don’t mean you would never be married?


No; I didn’t say that. Only when I married, I should not do as other women do.


You might do just as you liked if you married a man who loved you more dearly than anything else in the world. I know one who does.


Don’t talk of Mr. Middleton, for heaven’s sake, that is Anna’s chant. I hear the hounds. Let us go on.


Glad to see you here this fine morning, Miss Harleth. We shall have a first-rate run. A pity you didn’t go with us. Have you ever tried your little chestnut at a ditch? you wouldn’t be afraid, eh?


Not the least in the world. I have often taken him at some rails and a ditch too, near—


Ah, by Jove!


Lord, sir, let me shove it in again for you! I’s seen Nash, the bone-setter, do it, and done it myself for our little Sally twice over. It’s all one and the same, shoulders is. If you’ll trusten to me and tighten your mind up a bit, I’ll do it for you in no time.


Come then, old fellow,


Ah, sir, you aren’t used to it, that’s how it is. I’s see lots and lots o’ joints out. I see a man with his eye pushed out once—that was a rum go as ever I see. You can’t have a bit o’ fun wi’out such sort o’ things. But it went in again. I’s swallowed three teeth mysen, as sure as I’m alive. Now, sirrey come alonk—you musn’t make believe as you can’t.


What is the matter?


I’m very sorry, sir; Primrose has fallen down and broken his knees.


Where have you been with him?


To the Three Barns to see the hounds throw off.


And you were fool enough to follow?


Yes, sir. I didn’t go at any fences, but the horse got his leg into a hole.


And you got hurt yourself, I hope, eh!


I got my shoulder put out, but a young blacksmith put it in again for me. I’m just a little battered, that’s all.


Well, sit down.


I’m very sorry about the horse, sir; I knew it would be a vexation to you.


And what has become of Gwendolen?


I am anxious to know—I should like to go or send at once to Offendene—but she rides so well, and I think she would keep up—there would most likely be many round her.


I suppose it was she who led you on, eh?


It was natural for her to want to go: she didn’t intend it beforehand—she was led away by the spirit of the thing. And, of course, I went when she went.


But now you observe, young gentleman, that you are not furnished with a horse which will enable you to play the squire to your cousin. You must give up that amusement. You have spoiled my nag for me, and that is enough mischief for one vacation. I shall beg you to get ready to start for Southampton to-morrow and join Stilfox, till you go up to Oxford with him. That will be good for your bruises as well as your studies.


I hope you will not insist on my going immediately, sir. No, not that—but— I want to go to Offendene, but I can go this evening.


My dear boy, you are too young to be taking momentous, decisive steps of that sort. This is a fancy which you have got into your head during an idle week or two: you must set to work at something and dismiss it. There is every reason against it. An engagement at your age would be totally rash and unjustifiable; and moreover, alliances between first cousins are undesirable. Make up your mind to a brief disappointment. Life is full of them. We have all got to be broken in; and this is a mild beginning for you.


No, not mild. I can’t bear it. I shall be good for nothing. I shouldn’t mind anything, if it were settled between us. I could do anything then. But it’s of no use to pretend that I will obey you. I can’t do it. If I said I would, I should be sure to break my word. I should see Gwendolen again.


Well, wait till to-morrow morning, that we may talk of the matter again—you will promise me that,


Still, I do hope you will not do it again, Gwendolen. I should never have a moment’s quiet. Her father died by an accident, you know.


Mamma, dear, children don’t take after their parents in broken legs.


Well, the exploit has ended better for you than for Rex.


Yes, I dare say he had to make a terrible round. You have not taught Primrose to take the fences, uncle,


Rex has had a fall,


Oh, poor fellow! he is not hurt, I hope? Oh, poor fellow! it is nothing serious, then?


He got his arm set again rather oddly. Some blacksmith—not a parishioner of mine—was on the field—a loose fish, I suppose, but handy, and set the arm for him immediately. So after all, I believe, I and Primrose come off worst. The horse’s knees are cut to pieces. He came down in a hole, it seems, and pitched Rex over his head. You are a pretty young lady—to laugh at other people’s calamities,


Pray forgive me, uncle. Now Rex is safe, it is so droll to fancy the figure he and Primrose would cut—in a lane all by themselves—only a blacksmith running up. It would make a capital caricature of ‘Following the Hounds.’


How can you laugh at broken bones, child? I wish we had never allowed you to have the horse. You will see that we were wrong,


Yes, seriously, Gwendolen, I strongly recommend you—I shall ask you to oblige me so far—not to repeat your adventure of to-day. Lord Brackenshaw is very kind, but I feel sure that he would concur with me in what I say. To be spoken of as ‘the young lady who hunts’ by way of exception, would give a tone to the language about you which I am sure you would not like. Depend upon it, his lordship would not choose that Lady Beatrice or Lady Maria should hunt in this part of the country, if they were old enough to do so. When you are married, it will be different: you may do whatever your husband sanctions. But if you intend to hunt, you must marry a man who can keep horses.


I don’t know why I should do anything so horrible as to marry without that prospect, at least,


How are your bruises, Rex?


Oh, not very mellow yet, sir; only beginning to turn a little.


You don’t feel quite ready for a journey to Southampton?


Not quite,


Well, you can wait till to-morrow, and go to say good-bye to them at Offendene.


I can only be thankful that she doesn’t care about him. There are things in Gwendolen I cannot reconcile myself to. My Anna is worth two of her, with all her beauty and talent. It looks very ill in her that she will not help in the schools with Anna—not even in the Sunday-school. What you or I advise is of no consequence to her: and poor Fannie is completely under her thumb. But I know you think better of her,


Oh, my dear, there is no harm in the girl. It is only that she has a high spirit, and it will not do to hold the reins too tight. The point is, to get her well married. She has a little too much fire in her for her present life with her mother and sisters. It is natural and right that she should be married soon—not to a poor man, but one who can give her a fitting position.


Where is Gwendolen?


I sent up her breakfast this morning. She needed a long rest.


Aunt, I want to speak to Gwendolen—I want to see her alone.


Very well, dear; go into the drawing-room. I will send her there,


I hope you are not much hurt, Rex; I deserve that you should reproach me for your accident.


Not at all. There is hardly any thing 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. My father wants me to go to Southampton for the rest of the vacation,


Southampton! That’s a stupid place to go to, isn’t it?


It would be to me, because you would not be there. Should you mind about me going away, Gwendolen?


Of course. Every one is of consequence in this dreary country,


Are you angry with me, Gwendolen? Why do you treat me in this way all at once?


Treat you? Nonsense! I am only rather cross. Why did you come so very early? You must expect to find tempers in dishabille.


Be as cross with me as you like—only don’t treat me with indifference. All the happiness of my life depends on your loving me—if only a little—better than any one else.


Pray don’t make love to me! I hate it!


Is that last word you have to say to me, Gwendolen? Will it always be so?


About making love? Yes. But I don’t dislike you for anything else.


good-bye,


My child, my child, what is it?


Oh, mamma, what can become of my life? there is nothing worth living for!


Why, dear?


I shall never love anybody. I can’t love people. I hate them.


The time will come, dear, the time will come.


I can’t bear any one to be very near me but you.


Let me alone.


God bless you, my boy.


Perhaps it is wicked of me, but I think I never can love her again,


I know of course it is better, and we ought to be thankful that she is not in love with the poor boy; but really. Henry, I think she is hard; she has the heart of a coquette. I can not help thinking that she must have made him believe something, or the disappointment would not have taken hold of him in that way. And some blame attaches to poor Fanny; she is quite blind about that girl.


The less said on that point the better, Nancy. I ought to have been more awake myself. As to the boy, be thankful if nothing worse ever happens to him. Let the thing die out as quickly as possible; and especially with regard to Gwendolen—let it be as if it had never been.


Nannie! What a plague I am!


Do speak to me.


I’ll tell you what I’m thinking of, Nannie. I will go to Canada, or somewhere of that sort.


Oh, Rex, not for always!


Yes, to get my bread there. I should like to build a hut, and work hard at clearing, and have everything wild about me, and a great wide quiet.


And not take me with you?


How could I?


I should like it better than anything; and settlers go with their families. I would sooner go there than stay here in England. I could make the fires, and mend the clothes, and cook the food; and I could learn how to make the bread before we went. It would be nicer than anything—like playing at life over again, as we used to do when we made our tent with the drugget, and had our little plates and dishes.


Father and mother would not let you go.


Yes, I think they would, when I explained everything. It would save money; and papa would have more to bring up the boys with.


Well, my children!


May we sit down with you a little, papa? Rex has something to say.


With all my heart.


You know all about what has upset me, father. I am quite done up for life in this part of the world. I am sure it will be no use my going back to Oxford. I couldn’t do any reading. I should fail, and cause you expense for nothing. I want to have your consent to take another course, sir. If you would allow me a small outfit, I should like to go to the colonies and work on the land there.


Oh, and with me, papa. Rex would want some one to take care of him, you know—some one to keep house. And we shall never, either of us, be married. And I should cost nothing, and I should be so happy. I know it would be hard to leave you and mamma; but there are all the others to bring up, and we two should be no trouble to you any more.


You will admit that my experience gives me some power of judging for you, and that I can probably guide you in practical matters better than you can guide yourself?


Yes, sir.


And perhaps you will admit—though I don’t wish to press that point—that you are bound in duty to consider my judgment and wishes?


I have never yet placed myself in opposition to you, sir.


But you will do so if you persist in setting your mind toward a rash and foolish procedure, and deafening yourself to considerations which my experience of life assures me of. You think, I suppose, that you have had a shock which has changed all your inclinations, stupefied your brains, unfitted you for anything but manual labor, and given you a dislike to society? Is that what you believe?


Something like that. I shall never be up to the sort of work I must do to live in this part of the world. I have not the spirit for it. I shall never be the same again. And without any disrespect to you, father, I think a young fellow should be allowed to choose his way of life, if he does nobody any harm. There are plenty to stay at home, and those who like might be allowed to go where there are empty places.


But suppose I am convinced on good evidence—as I am—that this state of mind of yours is transient, and that if you went off as you propose, you would by-and-by repent, and feel that you had let yourself slip back from the point you have been gaining by your education till now? Have you not strength of mind enough to see that you had better act on my assurance for a time, and test it? In my opinion, so far from agreeing with you that you should be free to turn yourself into a colonist and work in your shirt-sleeves with spade and hatchet—in my opinion you have no right whatever to expatriate yourself until you have honestly endeavored to turn to account the education you have received here. I say nothing of the grief to your mother and me.


I’m very sorry; but what can I do? I can’t study—that’s certain,


Not just now, perhaps. You will have to miss a term. I have made arrangements for you—how you are to spend the next two months. But I confess I am disappointed in you, Rex. I thought you had more sense than to take up such ideas—to suppose that because you have fallen into a very common trouble, such as most men have to go through, you are loosened from all bonds of duty—just as if your brain had softened and you were no longer a responsible being.


You assent to my arrangement, then?


I’ll try what I can do, sir. I can’t promise.


Oh, papa, it is very hard for him. Doesn’t he look ill?


Yes, but he will soon be better; it will all blow over. And now, Anna, be as quiet as a mouse about it all. Never let it be mentioned when he is gone.


No, papa. But I would not be like Gwendolen for any thing—to have people fall in love with me so. It is very dreadful. I should have done with going out, and gloves, and crinoline, and having to talk when I am taken to dinner—and all that!


It would be a mercy, Fanny, if that girl were well married!


You will not get her to marry for your pleasure


I hear Mr. Grandcourt has got two places of his own, but he comes to Diplow for the hunting. It is to be hoped he will set a good example in the neighborhood. Have you heard what sort of a young man he is, Henry?


Tu seras heureuse, ma chère.


Oui, maman, comme toi.


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


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.


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


Let me see! 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 some one you have seen already, Gwen. Mr. Grandcourt may be a delightful young man for what you know.


Oh, yes. 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.


Don’t talk in that way, child, for heaven’s sake! you do read such books—they give you such ideas of everything. I declare when your aunt and I were your age we knew nothing about wickedness. I think it was better so.


Why did you not bring me up in that way, mamma? Mamma, mamma! I was only speaking in fun. I meant nothing.


How could I, Gwendolen? Your will was always too strong for me—if everything else had been different.


Dear mamma, I don’t find fault with you—I love you. How can you help what I am? Besides, I am very charming. Come, now. Really—I am contented with myself. I like myself better than I should have liked my aunt and you. How dreadfully dull you must have been!


Mamma, I see now why girls are glad to be married—to escape being expected to please everybody but themselves.


What woman should be? Sir, consult the taste Of marriageable men. This planet’s store In iron, cotton, wool, or chemicals— All matter rendered to our plastic skill, Is wrought in shapes responsive to demand; The market’s pulse makes index high or low, By rule sublime. Our daughters must be wives, And to the wives must be what men will choose; Men’s taste is woman’s test. You mark the phrase? ’Tis good, I think?—the sense well-winged and poised With t’s and s’s.


Nay, but turn it round; Give us the test of taste. A fine menu— Is it to-day what Roman epicures Insisted that a gentleman must eat To earn the dignity of dining well?


That girl is like a high-mettled racer,


First chop! tremendously pretty too. I never saw her look better.


What extreme guys those artistic fellows usually are! Do look at the figure he cuts, bowing with his hand on his heart to Lady Brackenshaw—and Mrs. Arrowpoint’s feather just reaching his shoulder.


You are one of the profane. You are blind to the majesty of genius. Herr Klesmer smites me with awe; I feel crushed in his presence; my courage all oozes from me.


Ah, you understand all about his music.


No, indeed, it is he who understands all about mine and thinks it pitiable.


It is not addressed to the ears of the future, I suppose. I’m glad of that: it suits mine.


Oh, you are very kind. But how remarkably well Miss Arrowpoint looks to-day! She would make quite a fine picture in that gold-colored dress.


Too splendid, don’t you think?


Well, perhaps a little too symbolical—too much like the figure of Wealth in an allegory.


How does the scoring stand, I wonder? It seems to me that Miss Harleth is likely to win the gold arrow.


Gad, I think she will, if she carries it on! she is running Juliet Fenn hard. It is wonderful for one in her first year. Catherine is not up to her usual mark. But she got the gold arrow last time. And there’s a luck even in these games of skill. That’s better. It gives the hinder ones a chance.


Catherine will be very glad for others to win, she is so magnanimous. It was entirely her considerateness that made us bring Herr Klesmer instead of Canon Stopley, who had expressed a wish to come. For her own pleasure, I am sure she would rather have brought the Canon; but she is always thinking of others. I told her it was not quite en règle to bring one so far out of our own set; but she said, ‘Genius itself is not en règle; it comes into the world to make new rules.’ And one must admit that.


Ay, to be sure. For my part, I am not magnanimous; I should like to win. But, confound it! I never have the chance now. I’m getting old and idle. The young ones beat me. As old Nestor says—the gods don’t give us everything at one time: I was a young fellow once, and now I am getting an old and wise one. Old, at any rate; which is a gift that comes to everybody if they live long enough, so it raises no jealousy.


Oh, my lord, people who have been neighbors twenty years must not talk to each other about age. Years, as the Tuscans say, are made for the letting of houses. But where is our new neighbor? I thought Mr. Grandcourt was to be here to-day.


Ah, by the way, so he was. The time’s getting on too. But he only got to Diplow the other day. He came to us on Tuesday and said he had been a little bothered. He may have been pulled in another direction. Why, Gascoigne! this is a little too bad; you not only beat us yourself, but you bring up your niece to beat all the archeresses.


It is rather scandalous in her to get the better of elder members. But it is not my doing, my lord. I only meant her to make a tolerable figure, without surpassing any one.


It is not my fault, either. If I am to aim, I can’t help hitting.


Ay, ay, that may be a fatal business for some people. The time’s getting on, as you say. But Grandcourt is always late. I notice in town he’s always late, and he’s no bowman—understands nothing about it. But I told him he must come; he would see the flower of the neighborhood here. He asked about you—had seen Arrowpoint’s card. I think you had not made his acquaintance in town. He has been a good deal abroad. People don’t know him much.


No; we are strangers. But that is not what might have been expected. For his uncle Sir Hugo Mallinger and I are great friends when we meet.


I don’t know; uncles and nephews are not so likely to be seen together as uncles and nieces. But just come with me one instant, Gascoigne, will you? I want to speak a word about the clout-shooting.


Miss Harleth, here is a gentleman who is not willing to wait any longer for an introduction. He has been getting Mrs. Davilow to send me with him. Will you allow me to introduce Mr. Mallinger Grandcourt?


I used to think archery was a great bore,


Are you converted to-day?


Yes, since I saw you shooting. In things of this sort one generally sees people missing and simpering.


I suppose you are a first-rate shot with a rifle.


I have left off shooting.


Oh, then, you are a formidable person. People who have done things once and left them off make one feel very contemptible, as if one were using cast-off fashions. I hope you have not left off all follies, because I practice a great many.


What do you call follies?


Well, in general, I think, whatever is agreeable is called a folly. But you have not left off hunting, I hear.


One must do something.


And do you care about the turf?—or is that among the things you have left off?


I run a horse now and then; but I don’t go in for the thing as some men do. Are you fond of horses?


Yes, indeed; I never like my life so well as when I am on horseback, having a great gallop. I think of nothing. I only feel myself strong and happy.


Do you like danger?


I don’t know. When I am on horseback I never think of danger. It seems to me that if I broke my bones I should not feel it. I should go at anything that came in my way.


You would perhaps like tiger-hunting or pig-sticking. I saw some of that for a season or two in the East. Everything here is poor stuff after that.


You are fond of danger, then?


One must have something or other. But one gets used to it.


I begin to think I am very fortunate, because everything is new to me: it is only that I can’t get enough of it. I am not used to anything except being dull, which I should like to leave off as you have left off shooting.


Why are you dull?


This is a dreadful neighborhood. There is nothing to be done in it. That is why I practiced my archery.


You have made yourself queen of it. I imagine you will carry the first prize.


I don’t know that. I have great rivals. Did you not observe how well Miss Arrowpoint shot?


Miss Arrowpoint. No—that is, yes.


Shall we go now and hear what the scoring says? Every one is going to the other end now—shall we join them? I think my uncle is looking toward me. He perhaps wants me.


You have just missed the gold arrow, Gwendolen. Miss Juliet Fenn scores eight above you.


I am very glad to hear it. I should have felt that I was making myself too disagreeable—taking the best of everything,


Shall we meet again in the ball-room?


yes


You were wrong for once, Gwendolen,


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,


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


I think Miss Arrowpoint has the best manners I ever saw,


I wish I were like her,


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 to-day. You must have enjoyed the shooting. I saw you did.


Oh, that is over now, and I don’t know what will come next,


The dancing will come next. 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 any one.


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.


Well, I hate woolen cloth touching me.


Fancy! Gwendolen says she will not waltz or polk.


She is rather given to whims, I think. 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!


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!


Gwendolen has usually good reasons.


Mr. Grandcourt is a man of taste. He likes to see you dancing.


Perhaps he likes to look at what is against his taste. He may be so tired of admiring that he likes disgust for variety.


Those words are not suitable to your lips,


Are you as critical of words as of music?


Certainly I am. I should require your words to be what your face and form are—always among the meanings of a noble music.


That is a compliment as well as a correction. I am obliged for both. But do you know I am bold enough to wish to correct you, and require you to understand a joke?


One may understand jokes without liking them. I have had opera books sent me full of jokes; it was just because I understood them that I did not like them. The comic people are ready to challenge a man because he looks grave. ‘You don’t see the witticism, sir?’ ‘No, sir, but I see what you meant.’ Then I am what we call ticketed as a fellow without esprit. But, in fact. I am very sensible to wit and humor.


I am glad you tell me that. Pray, who is that standing near the card-room door? He is a friend of yours, I think.


No, no; an amateur I have seen in town; Lush, a Mr. Lush—too fond of Meyerbeer and Scribe—too fond of the mechanical-dramatic.


Thanks. I wanted to know whether you thought his face and form required that his words should be among the meanings of noble music?


May I ask if you are tired of dancing, Miss Harleth?


Not in the least.


Will you do me the honor—the next—or another quadrille?


I should have been very happy, but I am engaged for the next to Mr. Clintock—and indeed I perceive that I am doomed for every quadrille; I have not one to dispose of.


I am unfortunate in being too late,


It seemed to me that you did not care for dancing. I thought it might be one of the things you had left off.


Yes, but I have not begun to dance with you. You make dancing a new thing, as you make archery.


Is novelty always agreeable?


No, no—not always.


Then I don’t know whether to feel flattered or not. When you had once danced with me there would be no more novelty in it.


On the contrary, there would probably be much more.


That is deep. I don’t understand.


It is difficult to make Miss Harleth understand her power?


I think she does not generally strike people as slow to understand.


Mamma. I am adorably stupid, and want everything explained to me—when the meaning is pleasant.


If you are stupid, I admit that stupidity is adorable,


I begin to think that my cavalier has forgotten me. I see the quadrille is being formed.


He deserves to be renounced,


I think he is very pardonable,


There must have been some misunderstanding. Mr. Clintock was too anxious about the engagement to have forgotten it.


Miss Harleth, Mr. Clintock has charged me to express to you his deep regret that he was obliged to leave without having the pleasure of dancing with you again. An express came from his father, the archdeacon; something important; he was to go. He was au désespoir.


Oh, he was very good to remember the engagement under the circumstances. I am sorry he was called away.


Then I can profit by Mr. Clintock’s misfortune? May I hope that you will let me take his place?


I shall be very happy to dance the next quadrille with you.


I hope you will vote with us, Miss Harleth, and Mr. Grandcourt too, though he is not an archer.


Diplow would be a good place for the meeting, and more convenient: there’s a fine bit between the oaks toward the north gate.


I should like to continue walking.


Do you like this kind of thing?


Yes,


Gwendolen, dear, let me present Mr. Lush to you.


I want to put on my burnous.


Pray, permit me?


No, thank you.


You had perhaps better put it on,


Thanks; perhaps it would be wise,


Turn out that brute, will you?


Shall you ride or drive to Quetcham to-day?


I am not going to Quetcham.


You did not go yesterday.


I suppose you sent my card and inquiries.


I went myself at four, and said you were sure to be there shortly. They would suppose some accident prevented you from fulfilling the intention. Especially if you go to-day.


What men are invited here with their wives?


The Captain and Mrs. Torrington come next week. Then there are Mr. Hollis and Lady Flora, and the Cushats and the Gogoffs.


Rather a ragged lot. Why did you ask the Gogoffs? When you write invitations in my name, be good enough to give me a list, instead of bringing down a giantess on me without my knowledge. She spoils the look of the room.


You invited the Gogoffs yourself when you met them in Paris.


What has my meeting them in Paris to do with it? I told you to give me a list.


Are there any other couples you would like to invite?


Yes; think of some decent people, with a daughter or two. And one of your damned musicians. But not a comic fellow.


I wonder if Klesmer would consent to come to us when he leaves Quetcham. Nothing but first-class music will go down with Miss Arrowpoint.


What in the name of nonsense have I to do with Miss Arrowpoint and her music?


Well, something. You need not give yourself much trouble, perhaps. But some forms must be gone through before a man can marry a million.


Very likely. But I am not going to marry a million.


That’s a pity—to fling away an opportunity of this sort, and knock down your own plans.


Your plans, I suppose you mean.


You have some debts, you know, and things may turn out inconveniently, after all. The heirship is not absolutely certain. It really is a fine opportunity. The father and mother ask for nothing better, I can see, and the daughter’s looks and manners require no allowances, any more than if she hadn’t a sixpence. She is not beautiful; but equal to carrying any rank. And she is not likely to refuse such prospects as you can offer her.


Perhaps not.


The father and mother would let you do anything you like with them.


But I should not like to do anything with them.


Good God, Grandcourt! after your experience, will you let a whim interfere with your comfortable settlement in life?


Spare your oratory. I know what I am going to do.


What?


I am going to marry the other girl.


Have you fallen in love?


I am going to marry her.


You have made her an offer already, then?


No.


She is a young lady with a will of her own, I fancy. Extremely well fitted to make a rumpus. She would know what she liked.


She doesn’t like you,


Perfectly true. However, if you and she are devoted to each other, that will be enough. Check, old boy!


How do you like Criterion’s paces?


He is delightful to ride. I should like to have a leap with him, if it would not frighten mamma. There was a good wide channel we passed five minutes ago. I should like to have a gallop back and take it.


Pray do. We can take it together.


No, thanks. Mamma is so timid—if she saw me it might make her ill.


Let me go and explain. Criterion would take it without fail.


No—indeed—you are very kind—but it would alarm her too much. I dare take any leap when she is not by; but I do it and don’t tell her about it.


We can let the carriage pass and then set off.


No, no, pray don’t think of it any more: I spoke quite randomly,


But Mrs. Davilow knows I shall take care of you.


Yes, but she would think of you as having to take care of my broken neck.


I should like to have the right always to take care of you.


Oh, I am not sure that I want to be taken care of: if I chose to risk breaking my neck, I should like to be at liberty to do it.


Damn her!


This is a bore. Shall we go up there?


Oh, certainly—since we are exploring,


There is nothing to be seen here: the thing was not worth climbing. What sort of a place do you prefer?


Different places are agreeable in their way. On the whole, I think, I prefer places that are open and cheerful. I am not fond of anything sombre.


Your place of Offendene is too sombre....


It is, rather.


You will not remain there long, I hope.


Oh, yes, I think so. Mamma likes to be near her sister.


It is not to be supposed that you will always live there, though Mrs. Davilow may.


I don’t know. We women can’t go in search of adventures—to find out the North-West Passage or the source of the Nile, or to hunt tigers in the East. We must stay where we grow, or where the gardeners like to transplant us. We are brought up like the flowers, to look as pretty as we can, and be dull without complaining. That is my notion about the plants; they are often bored, and that is the reason why some of them have got poisonous. What do you think?


I quite agree. Most things are bores. But a woman can be married.


Some women can.


You, certainly, unless you are obstinately cruel.


I am not sure that I am not both cruel and obstinate.


Are you as uncertain about yourself as you make others about you?


I am quite uncertain about myself; I don’t know how uncertain others may be.


And you wish them to understand that you don’t care?


I did not say that,


You do care, then,


Ha! my whip!


It is all coquetting, the next time I beckon she will come down.


Something has happened, dear? Mr. Grandcourt has been saying something?—Tell me, dear.


What am I to tell you, mamma?


I am sure something has agitated you. You ought to confide in me, Gwen. You ought not to leave me in doubt and anxiety.


Mamma, dear, please don’t be miserable. It only makes me more so. I am in doubt myself.


About Mr. Grandcourt’s intentions?


No; not at all,


About whether you will accept him, then?


Precisely.


Have you given him a doubtful answer?


I have given him no answer at all.


He has spoken so that you could not misunderstand him?


As far as I would let him speak.


You expect him to persevere? You don’t consider that you have discouraged him?


I dare say not.


I thought you liked him, dear,


So I do, mamma, as liking goes. There is less to dislike about him than about most men. He is quiet and distingué. Indeed he has all the qualities that would make a husband tolerable—battlement, veranda, stable, etc., no grins and no glass in his eye.


Do be serious with me for a moment, dear. Am I to understand that you mean to accept him?


Oh, pray, mamma, leave me to myself,


My dear. I want to speak to you on a subject which is more momentous than any other with regard to your welfare. You will guess what I mean. But I shall speak to you with perfect directness: in such matters I consider myself bound to act as your father. You have no objection, I hope?


Oh dear, no, uncle. You have always been very kind to me,


It is naturally a satisfaction to me that the prospect of a marriage for you—advantageous in the highest degree—has presented itself so early. I do not know exactly what has passed between you and Mr. Grandcourt, but I presume there can be little doubt, from the way in which he has distinguished you, that he desires to make you his wife. Have you any doubt of that yourself, my dear?


I suppose that is what he has been thinking of. But he may have changed his mind to-morrow,


Why to-morrow? Has he made advances which you have discouraged?


I think he meant—he began to make advances—but I did not encourage them. I turned the conversation.


Will you confide in me so far as to tell me your reasons?


I am not sure that I had any reasons, uncle.


You are quite capable of reflecting, Gwendolen. You are aware that this is not a trivial occasion, and it concerns your establishment for life under circumstances which may not occur again. You have a duty here both to yourself and your family. I wish to understand whether you have any ground for hesitating as to your acceptance of Mr. Grandcourt.


I suppose I hesitate without grounds.


Is he disagreeable to you personally?


No.


Have you heard anything of him which has affected you disagreeably?


I have heard nothing about him except that he is a great match, and that affects me very agreeably.


Then, my dear Gwendolen, I have nothing further to say than this: you hold your fortune in your own hands—a fortune such as rarely happens to a girl in your circumstances—a fortune in fact which almost takes the question out of the range of mere personal feeling, and makes your acceptance of it a duty. If Providence offers you power and position—especially when unclogged by any conditions that are repugnant to you—your course is one of responsibility, into which caprice must not enter. A man does not like to have his attachment trifled with: he may not be at once repelled—these things are matters of individual disposition. But the trifling may be carried too far. And I must point out to you that in case Mr. Grandcourt were repelled without your having refused him—without your having intended ultimately to refuse him, your situation would be a humiliating and painful one. I, for my part, should regard you with severe disapprobation, as the victim of nothing else than your own coquetry and folly. I mean this in kindness, my dear.


I am aware of that, uncle. I am not foolish. I know that I must be married some time—before it is too late. And I don’t see how I could do better than marry Mr. Grandcourt. I mean to accept him, if possible.


My dear Gwendolen. I trust that you will find in marriage a new fountain of duty and affection. Marriage is the only true and satisfactory sphere of a woman, and if your marriage with Mr. Grandcourt should be happily decided upon, you will have, probably, an increasing power, both of rank and wealth, which may be used for the benefit of others. These considerations are something higher than romance! You are fitted by natural gifts for a position which, considering your birth and early prospects, could hardly be looked forward to as in the ordinary course of things; and I trust that you will grace it, not only by those personal gifts, but by a good and consistent life.


I hope mamma will be the happier,


Did you suppose I should come wandering about here by myself? Why should I not bring all four if I liked?


Oh, certainly,


You don’t feel inclined to go a thousand miles away?


Not exactly so far.


It was a sad omission not to have written again before this. Can’t you write now—before we set out this morning?


It is not so pressing. To-morrow will do. You see they leave town to-day. I must write to Dover. They will be there till Monday.


Shall I write for you, dear—if it teases you?


Oh no, let it be; I will write to-morrow. Dear, old, beautiful mamma!


Old, child, truly.


Please don’t, mamma! I meant old for darling. You are hardly twenty-five years older than I am. When you talk in that way my life shrivels up before me.


One can have a great deal of happiness in twenty-five years, my dear.


I must lose no time in beginning. The sooner I get my palaces and coaches the better.


And a good husband who adores you, Gwen,


Do you know how long it is since I first saw you in this dress?


The archery meeting was on the 25th, and this is the 13th. I am not good at calculating, but I will venture to say that it must be nearly three weeks.


That is a great loss of time.


That your knowing me has caused you? Pray don’t be uncomplimentary; I don’t like it.


It is because of the gain that I feel the loss. The gain of knowing you makes me feel the time I lose in uncertainty. Do you like uncertainty?


I think I do, rather. There is more in it.


Do you mean more torment for me?


No, that would make me sorry.


Mr. Grandcourt is not equal as a man to his uncle, Sir Hugo Mallinger—too languid. To be sure, Mr. Grandcourt is a much younger man, but I shouldn’t wonder if Sir Hugo were to outlive him, notwithstanding the difference of years. It is ill calculating on successions,


It is indeed,


It is come in time.


We shall alight on him by-and-by, he can’t be gone far.


Can he too be starting away from a decision?


You’ll be kind enough to go to the devil, will you?


How far are we from Green Arbor now?


Oh, not more than half a mile, taking along the avenue we’re going to cross up there: but I shall take round a couple of miles, by the High Cross.


Miss Harleth?


Yes.


Have you accepted Mr. Grandcourt?


No.


I have promised to tell you something. And you will promise to keep my secret. However you may decide you will not tell Mr. Grandcourt, or any one else, that you have seen me?


I promise.


My name is Lydia Glasher. Mr. Grandcourt ought not to marry any one but me. I left my husband and child for him nine years ago. Those two children are his, and we have two others—girls—who are older. My husband is dead now, and Mr. Grandcourt ought to marry me. He ought to make that boy his heir.


I will not interfere with your wishes.


You are very attractive, Miss Harleth. But when he first knew me, I too was young. Since then my life has been broken up and embittered. It is not fair that he should be happy and I miserable, and my boy thrust out of sight for another.


I am a woman’s life.


Have you anything more to say to me?


Nothing. You know what I wished you to know. You can inquire about me if you like. My husband was Colonel Glasher.


Then I will go,


Oh, I have been rather silly. I lingered behind to look at the Whispering Stones, and the rest hurried on after something, so I lost sight of them. I thought it best to come home by the short way—the avenue that the warden had told me of. I’m not sorry after all. I had had enough walking.


Your party did not meet Mr. Grandcourt, I presume,


No. And we didn’t see any carvings on the trees, either. Where can he be? I should think he has fallen into the pool or had an apoplectic fit. If you have no objection, mamma, I will order the carriage. I am tired. And every one will be going soon.


Ah, there you are! We thought at first you had alighted on Grandcourt and he had taken you home. Lush said so. But after that we met Grandcourt. However, we didn’t suppose you could be in any danger. The warden said he had told you a near way back.


You are going?


Yes, we are going,


May I call at Offendene to-morrow?


Oh yes, if you like. I got in, mamma, because I wished to be on this side. I intend to join the Langens at Dover, mamma. I shall pack up immediately on getting home, and set off by the early train. I shall be at Dover almost as soon as they are; we can let them know by telegraph.


Good heavens, child! what can be your reason for saying so?


My reason for saying it, mamma, is that I mean to do it.


But why do you mean to do it?


I wish to go away.


Is it because you are offended with Mr. Grandcourt’s odd behavior in walking off to-day?


It is useless to enter into such questions. I am not going in any case to marry Mr. Grandcourt. Don’t interest yourself further about it.


What can I say to your uncle, Gwendolen? Consider the position you place me in. You led him to believe only last night that you had made up your mind in favor of Mr. Grandcourt.


I am very sorry to cause you annoyance, mamma, dear, but I can’t help it. Whatever you or my uncle may think or do, I shall not alter my resolve, and I shall not tell my reason. I don’t care what comes of it. I don’t care if I never marry any one. There is nothing worth caring for. I believe all men are bad, and I hate them.


But need you set off in this way, Gwendolen?


Now mamma, don’t interfere with me. If you have ever had any trouble in your own life, remember it and don’t interfere with me. If I am to be miserable, let it be by my own choice.


coming back charged with news about Miss Harleth, saw no good reason why she should not try whether she could electrify Mr. Grandcourt by mentioning it to him at the table; and in doing so shot a few hints of a notion having got abroad that he was a disappointed adorer.


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,


You are not here for the sake of the play, then?


No; I don’t care about play now. It’s a confounded strain,


The fact is, somebody should invent a mill to do amusements for you, my dear fellow, 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,


An uncommonly fine girl, a perfect Diana. 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, ... 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.


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. But it is possible you know her. Her home is not far from Diplow: Offendene, near Winchester.


Yes, I know her,


What of her, eh? She must be a new-comer at Offendene. Old Blenny lived there after the dowager died.


A little too much of her,


Why? how?


He has been on the brink of marrying her. 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.


What a beastly den this is!—a worse hole than Baden. I shall go back to the hotel.


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,


What! are you a little touched with the sublime lash? Are you inclined to run after her?


On the contrary. I should rather be inclined to run away from her.


Why, you would easily cut out Grandcourt. A girl with her spirit would think you the finer match of the two,


I suppose pedigree and land belong to a fine match,


The best horse will win in spite of pedigree, my boy. You remember Napoleon’s mot—Je suis un ancêtre


I am not sure that I want to be an ancestor. It doesn’t seem to me the rarest sort of origination.


You won’t run after the pretty gambler, then? Decidedly not.


Mr. Fraser, how was it that the popes and cardinals always had so many nephews?


Their own children were called nephews.


Why?


It was just for the propriety of the thing; because, as you know very well, priests don’t marry, and the children were illegitimate.


You lost your father and mother when you were quite a little one; that is why I take care of you.


Daniel, do you see that you are sitting on the bent pages of your book?


Come here, Dan! What do you say to being a great singer? Should you like to be adored by the world and take the house by storm, like Mario and Tamberlik?


No; I should hate it!


Well, well, well!


He features the mother, eh?


Nunc


Ah, Dan! Come and sit down here. What is it, my boy? Have you heard anything that has put you out of spirits lately? All changes are painful when people have been happy, you know. You can’t be educated exactly as I wish you to be without our parting. And I think you will find a great deal to like at school.


Am I to go to school?


Yes, I mean you to go to Eton. I wish you to have the education of an English gentleman; and for that it is necessary that you should go to a public school in preparation for the university: Cambridge I mean you to go to; it was my own university. What do you say, Sirrah?


I should like to be a gentleman, and go to school, if that is what a gentleman’s son must do.


And so you won’t mind about leaving your old Nunc?


Yes, I shall. But sha’n’t I come home and be with you in the holidays?


Oh yes, generally. But now I mean you to go at once to a new tutor, to break the change for you before you go to Eton.


Do you think I shall know much less than the other boys, Mr. Fraser?


There are dunces to be found everywhere. You’ll not be the biggest; but you’ve not the makings of a Porson in you, or a Leibnitz either.


I don’t want to be a Porson or a Leibnitz. I would rather be a greater leader, like Pericles or Washington.


Ay, ay; you’ve a notion they did with little parsing, and less algebra,


What do you intend me to be, sir?


Whatever your inclination leads you to, my boy. I thought it right to give you the option of the army, but you shut the door on that, and I was glad. I don’t expect you to choose just yet—by-and-by, when you have looked about you a little more and tried your mettle among older men. The university has a good wide opening into the forum. There are prizes to be won, and a bit of good fortune often gives the turn to a man’s taste. From what I see and hear, I should think you can take up anything you like. You are in the deeper water with your classics than I ever got into, and if you are rather sick of that swimming, Cambridge is the place where you can go into mathematics with a will, and disport yourself on the dry sand as much as you like. I floundered along like a carp.


I suppose money will make some difference, sir. I shall have to keep myself by-and-by.


Not exactly. I recommend you not to be extravagant—yes, yes, I know—you are not inclined to that—but you need not take up anything against the grain. You will have a bachelor’s income—enough for you to look about with. Perhaps I had better tell you that you may consider yourself secure of seven hundred a year. You might make yourself a barrister—be a writer—take up politics. I confess that is what would please me best. I should like to have you at my elbow and pulling with me.


I am glad you have done some good reading outside your classics, and have got a grip of French and German. The truth is, unless a man can get the prestige and income of a Don and write donnish books, it’s hardly worth while for him to make a Greek and Latin machine of himself and be able to spin you out pages of the Greek dramatists at any verse you’ll give him as a cue. That’s all very fine, but in practical life nobody does give you the cue for pages of Greek. In fact, it’s a nicety of conversation which I would have you attend to—much quotation of any sort, even in English is bad. It tends to choke ordinary remark. One couldn’t carry on life comfortably without a little blindness to the fact that everything had been said better than we can put it ourselves. But talking of Dons, I have seen Dons make a capital figure in society; and occasionally he can shoot you down a cart-load of learning in the right place, which will tell in politics. Such men are wanted; and if you have any turn for being a Don, I say nothing against it.


I think there’s not much chance of that. Quicksett and Puller are both stronger than I am. I hope you will not be much disappointed if I don’t come out with high honors.


No, no. I should like you to do yourself credit, but for God’s sake don’t come out as a superior expensive kind of idiot, like young Brecon, who got a Double First, and has been learning to knit braces ever since. What I wish you to get is a passport in life. I don’t go against our university system: we want a little disinterested culture to make head against cotton and capital, especially in the House. My Greek has all evaporated; if I had to construe a verse on a sudden, I should get an apoplectic fit. But it formed my taste. I dare say my English is the better for it.


Old fellow, while you are hoisting me you are risking yourself. With your mathematical cram one may be like Moses or Mohammed or somebody of that sort who had to cram, and forgot in one day what it had taken him forty to learn.


If you had got the scholarship, Sir Hugo would have thought that you asked to leave us with a better grace. You have spoiled your luck for my sake, and I can do nothing to amend it.


Yes, you can; you are to be a first-rate fellow. I call that a first-rate investment of my luck.


Oh, confound it! You save an ugly mongrel from drowning, and expect him to cut a fine figure. The poets have made tragedies enough about signing one’s self over to wickedness for the sake of getting something plummy; I shall write a tragedy of a fellow who signed himself over to be good, and was uncomfortable ever after.


So you don’t want to be an Englishman to the backbone after all?


I want to be an Englishman, but I want to understand other points of view. And I want to get rid of a merely English attitude in studies.


I see; you don’t want to be turned out in the same mould as every other youngster. And I have nothing to say against your doffing some of our national prejudices. I feel the better myself for having spent a good deal of my time abroad. But, for God’s sake, keep an English cut, and don’t become indifferent to bad tobacco! And, my dear boy, it is good to be unselfish and generous; but don’t carry that too far. It will not do to give yourself to be melted down for the benefit of the tallow-trade; you must know where to find yourself. However, I shall put no veto on your going. Wait until I can get off Committee, and I’ll run over with you.


This is true the poet sings, That a sorrow’s crown of sorrow Is remembering happier things.


I should not have forgotten the look of misery if she had been ugly and vulgar,


Don’t be afraid. You are unhappy. Pray, trust me. Tell me what I can do to help you.


I saw you before, nella miseria. It was you, singing? Nessun maggior dolore.


Ah, yes. I am often singing them. But I fear you will injure yourself staying here. Pray let me take you in my boat to some place of safety. And that wet cloak—let me take it.


You look good. Perhaps it is God’s command.


Do trust me. Let me help you. I will die before I will let any harm come to you. Great God! perhaps my mother was like this one.


I have nowhere to go—nobody belonging to me in all this land.


I will take you to a lady who has daughters,


Do you belong to the theatre?


No; I have nothing to do with the theatre. I will put you in perfect safety at once; with a lady, a good woman; I am sure she will be kind. Let us lose no time: you will make yourself ill. Life may still become sweet to you. There are good people—there are good women who will take care of you. You had a covering for your head,


My hat? It is quite hidden in the bush.


I will find it. The boat is fixed. We must carry the cloak away, to prevent any one who may have noticed you from thinking you have been drowned. I wish I had any other garment than my coat to offer you. But shall you mind throwing it over your shoulders while we are on the water? It is quite an ordinary thing to do, when people return late and are not enough provided with wraps. I have some biscuits—should you like them?


No; I cannot eat. I had still some money left to buy bread.


I like to listen to the oar.


So do I.


If you had not come, I should have been dead now.


I cannot bear you to speak of that. I hope you will never be sorry that I came.


I cannot see how I shall be glad to live. The maggior dolore and the miseria have lasted longer than the tempo felice. Dolore—miseria—I think those words are alive. I thought it was not wicked. Death and life are one before the Eternal. I know our fathers slew their children and then slew themselves, to keep their souls pure. I meant it so. But now I am commanded to live. I cannot see how I shall live.


You will find friends. I will find them for you.


Not my mother and brother. I cannot find them.


You are English? You must be—speaking English so perfectly.


You want to know if I am English?


I want to know nothing except what you like to tell me. Perhaps it is not good for you to talk.


Yes, I will tell you. I am English-born. But I am a Jewess. Do you despise me for it?


Why should I? I am not so foolish.


I know many Jews are bad.


So are many Christians. But I should not think it fair for you to despise me because of that.


My mother and brother were good. But I shall never find them. I am come a long way—from abroad. I ran away; but I cannot tell you—I cannot speak of it. I thought I might find my mother again—God would guide me. But then I despaired. This morning when the light came, I felt as if one word kept sounding within me—Never! never! But now—I begin—to think— I am commanded to live—perhaps we are going to her.


I think that is the finest story in the world.


Of course, Mab! it is the last you have heard. Everything that pleases you is the best in its turn.


It is hardly to be called a story. It is a bit of history brought near us with a strong telescope. We can see the soldiers’ faces: no, it is more than that—we can hear everything—we can almost hear their hearts beat.


I don’t care what you call it. Call it a chapter in Revelations. It makes me want to do something good, something grand. It makes me so sorry for everybody. It makes me like Schiller—I want to take the world in my arms and kiss it. I must kiss you instead, little mother!


Whenever you are in that mood, Mab, down goes your work. It would be doing something good to finish your cushion without soiling it.


Oh—oh—oh! I wish I had three wounded conscripts to take care of.


You would spill their beef tea while you were talking,


Poor Mab! don’t be hard on her. Give me the embroidery now, child. You go on with your enthusiasm, and I will go on with the pink and white poppy.


Well, ma, I think you are more caustic than Amy,


Oh—oh—oh! I wish something wonderful would happen. I feel like the deluge. The waters of the great deep are broken up, and the windows of heaven are opened. I must sit down and play the scales.


Dear me! it is after ten, and Phœbe is gone to bed. Mr. Deronda!


There now! something is going to happen.


I know I am trusting to your goodness in a most extraordinary way, but you can imagine how helpless I feel with a young creature like this on my hands. I could not go with her among strangers, and in her nervous state I should dread taking her into a house full of servants. I have trusted to your mercy. I hope you will not think my act unwarrantable.


On the contrary. You have honored me by trusting me. I see your difficulty. Pray bring her in. I will go and prepare the girls. Here is somebody to take care of instead of your wounded conscripts, Mab: a poor girl who was going to drown herself in despair. Mr. Deronda found her only just in time to save her. He brought her along in his boat, and did not know what else it would be safe to do with her, so he has trusted us and brought her here. It seems she is a Jewess, but quite refined, he says—knowing Italian and music.


I have brought you to some of the kindest people in the world: there are daughters like you. It is a happy home. Will you let me take you to them?


You must be weary, poor child.


We will take care of you—we will comfort you—we will love you,


I am a stranger. I am a Jewess. You might have thought I was wicked.


No, we are sure you are good,


We think no evil of you, poor child. You shall be safe with us. Come now and sit down. You must have some food, and then you must go to rest.


You will have no more fears with these friends? You will rest to-night?


Oh, I should not fear. I should rest. I think these are the ministering angels. My name is Mirah Lapidoth. I am come a long way, all the way from Prague by myself. I made my escape. I ran away from dreadful things. I came to find my mother and brother in London. I had been taken from my mother when I was little, but I thought I could find her again. I had trouble—the houses were all gone—I could not find her. It has been a long while, and I had not much money. That is why I am in distress.


Our mother will be good to you. See what a nice little mother she is!


Do sit down now, moving a chair forward, while Amy ran to get some tea.


Will you allow me to come again and inquire—perhaps at five to-morrow?


Yes, pray; we shall have had time to make acquaintance then.


Good-bye,


The God of our fathers bless you and deliver you from all evil as you have delivered me. I did not believe there was any man so good. None before have thought me worthy of the best. You found me poor and miserable, yet you have given me the best.


Oh, if you please, mamma? look at the slippers, how beautiful they fit! I declare she is like the Queen Budoor—‘two delicate feet, the work of the protecting and all-recompensing Creator, support her; and I wonder how they can sustain what is above them.’


I fear the feet have had to sustain their burden a little too often lately. But to-day she will rest and be my companion.


And she will tell you so many things and I shall not hear them,


I remember my mother’s face better than anything; yet I was not seven when I was taken away, and I am nineteen now.


I can understand that. There are some earliest things that last the longest.


Oh, yes, it was the earliest. I think my life began with waking up and loving my mother’s face: it was so near to me, and her arms were round me, and she sang to me. One hymn she sang so often, so often: and then she taught me to sing it with her: it was the first I ever sang. They were always Hebrew hymns she sang; and because I never knew the meaning of the words they seemed full of nothing but our love and happiness. When I lay in my little bed and it was all white above me, she used to bend over me, between me and the white, and sing in a sweet, low voice. I can dream myself back into that time when I am awake, and it often comes back to me in my sleep—my hand is very little, I put it up to her face and she kisses it. Sometimes in my dreams I begin to tremble and think that we are both dead; but then I wake up and my hand lies like this, and for a moment I hardly know myself. But if I could see my mother again I should know her.


You must expect some change after twelve years,


Ah, I am sure her heart has been heavy for want of me. But to feel her joy if we could meet again, and I could make her know I love her and give her deep comfort after all her mourning! If that could be, I should mind nothing; I should be glad that I have lived through my trouble. I did despair. The world seemed miserable and wicked; none helped me so that I could bear their looks and words; I felt that my mother was dead, and death was the only way to her. But then in the last moment—yesterday, when I longed for the water to close over me—and I thought that death was the best image of mercy—then goodness came to me living, and I felt trust in the living. And—it is strange—but I began to hope that she was living too. And now I with you—here—this morning, peace and hope have come into me like a flood. I want nothing; I can wait; because I hope and believe and am grateful—oh, so grateful! You have not thought evil of me—you have not despised me.


Many others would have felt as we do, my dear,


But I did not meet them—they did not come to me.


How was it that you were taken from your mother?