Bab Bab 9 · Chapter IX

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I’ll tell thee, Berthold, what men’s hopes are like:

A silly child that, quivering with joy,

Would cast its little mimic fishing-line

Baited with loadstone for a bowl of toys

In the salt ocean.

Eight months after the arrival of the family at Offendene, that is to

say in the end of the following June, a rumor was spread in the

neighborhood which to many persons was matter of exciting interest. It

had no reference to the results of the American war, but it was one

which touched all classes within a certain circuit round Wanchester:

the corn-factors, the brewers, the horse-dealers, and saddlers, all

held it a laudable thing, and one which was to be rejoiced in on

abstract grounds, as showing the value of an aristocracy in a free

country like England; the blacksmith in the hamlet of Diplow felt that

a good time had come round; the wives of laboring men hoped their

nimble boys of ten or twelve would be taken into employ by the

gentlemen in livery; and the farmers about Diplow admitted, with a

tincture of bitterness and reserve, that a man might now again perhaps

have an easier market or exchange for a rick of old hay or a wagon-load

of straw. If such were the hopes of low persons not in society, it may

be easily inferred that their betters had better reasons for

satisfaction, probably connected with the pleasures of life rather than

its business. Marriage, however, must be considered as coming under

both heads; and just as when a visit of majesty is announced, the dream

of knighthood or a baronetcy is to be found under various municipal

nightcaps, so the news in question raised a floating indeterminate

vision of marriage in several well-bred imaginations.

The news was that Diplow Hall, Sir Hugo Mallinger’s place, which had

for a couple of years turned its white window-shutters in a painfully

wall-eyed manner on its fine elms and beeches, its lilied pool and

grassy acres specked with deer, was being prepared for a tenant, and

was for the rest of the summer and through the hunting season to be

inhabited in a fitting style both as to house and stable. But not by

Sir Hugo himself: by his nephew, Mr. Mallinger Grandcourt, who was

presumptive heir to the baronetcy, his uncle’s marriage having produced

nothing but girls. Nor was this the only contingency with which fortune

flattered young Grandcourt, as he was pleasantly called; for while the

chance of the baronetcy came through his father, his mother had given a

baronial streak to his blood, so that if certain intervening persons

slightly painted in the middle distance died, he would become a baron

and peer of this realm.

It is the uneven allotment of nature that the male bird alone has the

tuft, but we have not yet followed the advice of hasty philosophers who

would have us copy nature entirely in these matters; and if Mr.

Mallinger Grandcourt became a baronet or a peer, his wife would share

the title—which in addition to his actual fortune was certainly a

reason why that wife, being at present unchosen, should be thought of

by more than one person with a sympathetic interest as a woman sure to

be well provided for.

Some readers of this history will doubtless regard it as incredible

that people should construct matrimonial prospects on the mere report

that a bachelor of good fortune and possibilities was coming within

reach, and will reject the statement as a mere outflow of gall: they

will aver that neither they nor their first cousins have minds so

unbridled; and that in fact this is not human nature, which would know

that such speculations might turn out to be fallacious, and would

therefore not entertain them. But, let it be observed, nothing is here

narrated of human nature generally: the history in its present stage

concerns only a few people in a corner of Wessex—whose reputation,

however, was unimpeached, and who, I am in the proud position of being

able to state, were all on visiting terms with persons of rank.

There were the Arrowpoints, for example, in their beautiful place at

Quetcham: no one could attribute sordid views in relation to their

daughter’s marriage to parents who could leave her at least half a

million; but having affectionate anxieties about their Catherine’s

position (she having resolutely refused Lord Slogan, an unexceptionable

Irish peer, whose estate wanted nothing but drainage and population),

they wondered, perhaps from something more than a charitable impulse,

whether Mr. Grandcourt was good-looking, of sound constitution,

virtuous, or at least reformed, and if liberal-conservative, not too

liberal-conservative; and without wishing anybody to die, thought his

succession to the title an event to be desired.

If the Arrowpoints had such ruminations, it is the less surprising that

they were stimulated in Mr. Gascoigne, who for being a clergyman was

not the less subject to the anxieties of a parent and guardian; and we

have seen how both he and Mrs. Gascoigne might by this time have come

to feel that he was overcharged with the management of young creatures

who were hardly to be held in with bit or bridle, or any sort of

metaphor that would stand for judicious advice.

Naturally, people did not tell each other all they felt and thought

about young Grandcourt’s advent: on no subject is this openness found

prudently practicable—not even on the generation of acids, or the

destination of the fixed stars: for either your contemporary with a

mind turned toward the same subjects may find your ideas ingenious and

forestall you in applying them, or he may have other views on acids and

fixed stars, and think ill of you in consequence. Mr. Gascoigne did not

ask Mr. Arrowpoint if he had any trustworthy source of information

about Grandcourt considered as a husband for a charming girl; nor did

Mrs. Arrowpoint observe to Mrs. Davilow that if the possible peer

sought a wife in the neighborhood of Diplow, the only reasonable

expectation was that he would offer his hand to Catherine, who,

however, would not accept him unless he were in all respects fitted to

secure her happiness. Indeed, even to his wife the rector was silent as

to the contemplation of any matrimonial result, from the probability

that Mr. Grandcourt would see Gwendolen at the next Archery Meeting;

though Mrs. Gascoigne’s mind was very likely still more active in the

same direction. She had said interjectionally to her sister, “It would

be a mercy, Fanny, if that girl were well married!” to which Mrs.

Davilow discerning some criticism of her darling in the fervor of that

wish, had not chosen to make any audible reply, though she had said

inwardly, “You will not get her to marry for your pleasure”; the mild

mother becoming rather saucy when she identified herself with her

daughter.

To her husband Mrs. Gascoigne said, “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?”

Mr. Gascoigne had not heard; at least, if his male acquaintances had

gossiped in his hearing, he was not disposed to repeat their gossip, or

to give it any emphasis in his own mind. He held it futile, even if it

had been becoming, to show any curiosity as to the past of a young man

whose birth, wealth, and consequent leisure made many habits venial

which under other circumstances would have been inexcusable. Whatever

Grandcourt had done, he had not ruined himself; and it is well-known

that in gambling, for example, whether of the business or holiday sort,

a man who has the strength of mind to leave off when he has only ruined

others, is a reformed character. This is an illustration merely: Mr.

Gascoigne had not heard that Grandcourt had been a gambler; and we can

hardly pronounce him singular in feeling that a landed proprietor with

a mixture of noble blood in his veins was not to be an object of

suspicious inquiry like a reformed character who offers himself as your

butler or footman. Reformation, where a man can afford to do without

it, can hardly be other than genuine. Moreover, it was not certain on

any other showing hitherto, that Mr. Grandcourt had needed reformation

more than other young men in the ripe youth of five-and-thirty; and, at

any rate, the significance of what he had been must be determined by

what he actually was.

Mrs. Davilow, too, although she would not respond to her sister’s

pregnant remark, could not be inwardly indifferent to an advent that

might promise a brilliant lot for Gwendolen. A little speculation on

“what may be” comes naturally, without encouragement—comes inevitably

in the form of images, when unknown persons are mentioned; and Mr.

Grandcourt’s name raised in Mrs. Davilow’s mind first of all the

picture of a handsome, accomplished, excellent young man whom she would

be satisfied with as a husband for her daughter; but then came the

further speculation—would Gwendolen be satisfied with him? There was

no knowing what would meet that girl’s taste or touch her

affections—it might be something else than excellence; and thus the

image of the perfect suitor gave way before a fluctuating combination

of qualities that might be imagined to win Gwendolen’s heart. In the

difficulty of arriving at the particular combination which would insure

that result, the mother even said to herself, “It would not signify

about her being in love, if she would only accept the right person.”

For whatever marriage had been for herself, how could she the less

desire it for her daughter? The difference her own misfortunes made

was, that she never dared to dwell much to Gwendolen on the

desirableness of marriage, dreading an answer something like that of

the future Madame Roland, when her gentle mother urging the acceptance

of a suitor, said, “Tu seras heureuse, ma chère.” “Oui, maman, comme

toi.”

In relation to the problematic Mr. Grandcourt least of all would Mrs.

Davilow have willingly let fall a hint of the aerial castle-building

which she had the good taste to be ashamed of; for such a hint was

likely enough to give an adverse poise to Gwendolen’s own thought, and

make her detest the desirable husband beforehand. Since that scene

after poor Rex’s farewell visit, the mother had felt a new sense of

peril in touching the mystery of her child’s feeling, and in rashly

determining what was her welfare: only she could think of welfare in no

other shape than marriage.

The discussion of the dress that Gwendolen was to wear at the Archery

Meeting was a relevant topic, however; and when it had been decided

that as a touch of color on her white cashmere, nothing, for her

complexion, was comparable to pale green—a feather which she was

trying in her hat before the looking-glass having settled the

question—Mrs. Davilow felt her ears tingle when Gwendolen, suddenly

throwing herself into the attitude of drawing her bow, said with a look

of comic enjoyment,

“How I pity all the other girls at the Archery Meeting—all thinking of

Mr. Grandcourt! And they have not a shadow of a chance.”

Mrs. Davilow had not the presence of mind to answer immediately, and

Gwendolen turned round quickly toward her, saying, wickedly,

“Now you know they have not, mamma. You and my uncle and aunt—you all

intend him to fall in love with me.”

Mrs. Davilow, piqued into a little stratagem, said, “Oh, my dear, that

is not so certain. Miss Arrowpoint has charms which you have not.”

“I know, but they demand thought. My arrow will pierce him before he

has time for thought. He will declare himself my slave—I shall send

him round the world to bring me back the wedding ring of a happy

woman—in the meantime all the men who are between him and the title

will die of different diseases—he will come back Lord Grandcourt—but

without the ring—and fall at my feet. I shall laugh at him—he will

rise in resentment—I shall laugh more—he will call for his steed and

ride to Quetcham, where he will find Miss Arrowpoint just married to a

needy musician, Mrs. Arrowpoint tearing her cap off, and Mr. Arrowpoint

standing by. Exit Lord Grandcourt, who returns to Diplow, and, like M.

Jabot, _change de linge_.”

Was ever any young witch like this? You thought of hiding things from

her—sat upon your secret and looked innocent, and all the while she

knew by the corner of your eye that it was exactly five pounds ten you

were sitting on! As well turn the key to keep out the damp! It was

probable that by dint of divination she already knew more than any one

else did of Mr. Grandcourt. That idea in Mrs. Davilow’s mind prompted

the sort of question which often comes without any other apparent

reason than the faculty of speech and the not knowing what to do with

it.

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

“Let me see!” said the witch, putting her forefinger to her lips, with

a little frown, and then stretching out the finger with decision.

“Short—just above my shoulder—trying to make himself tall by turning

up his mustache and keeping his beard long—a glass in his right eye to

give him an air of distinction—a strong opinion about his waistcoat,

but uncertain and trimming about the weather, on which he will try to

draw me out. He will stare at me all the while, and the glass in his

eye will cause him to make horrible faces, especially when he smiles in

a flattering way. I shall cast down my eyes in consequence, and he will

perceive that I am not indifferent to his attentions. I shall dream

that night that I am looking at the extraordinary face of a magnified

insect—and the next morning he will make an offer of his hand; the

sequel as before.”

“That is a portrait of some one you have seen already, Gwen. Mr.

Grandcourt may be a delightful young man for what you know.”

“Oh, yes,” said Gwendolen, with a high note of careless admission,

taking off her best hat and turning it round on her hand

contemplatively. “I wonder what sort of behavior a delightful young man

would have? I know he would have hunters and racers, and a London house

and two country-houses—one with battlements and another with a

veranda. And I feel sure that with a little murdering he might get a

title.”

The irony of this speech was of the doubtful sort that has some genuine

belief mixed up with it. Poor Mrs. Davilow felt uncomfortable under it.

Her own meanings being usually literal and in intention innocent; and

she said with a distressed brow:

“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?” said Gwendolen. But

immediately perceiving in the crushed look and rising sob that she had

given a deep wound, she tossed down her hat and knelt at her mother’s

feet crying,

“Mamma, mamma! I was only speaking in fun. I meant nothing.”

“How could I, Gwendolen?” said poor Mrs. Davilow, unable to hear the

retraction, and sobbing violently while she made the effort to speak.

“Your will was always too strong for me—if everything else had been

different.”

This disjoined logic was intelligible enough to the daughter. “Dear

mamma, I don’t find fault with you—I love you,” said Gwendolen, really

compunctious. “How can you help what I am? Besides, I am very charming.

Come, now.” Here Gwendolen with her handkerchief gently rubbed away her

mother’s tears. “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!”

Such tender cajolery served to quiet the mother, as it had often done

before after like collisions. Not that the collisions had often been

repeated at the same point; for in the memory of both they left an

association of dread with the particular topics which had occasioned

them: Gwendolen dreaded the unpleasant sense of compunction toward her

mother, which was the nearest approach to self-condemnation and

self-distrust that she had known; and Mrs. Davilow’s timid maternal

conscience dreaded whatever had brought on the slightest hint of

reproach. Hence, after this little scene, the two concurred in

excluding Mr. Grandcourt from their conversation.

When Mr. Gascoigne once or twice referred to him, Mrs. Davilow feared

least Gwendolen should betray some of her alarming keen-sightedness

about what was probably in her uncle’s mind; but the fear was not

justified. Gwendolen knew certain differences in the characters with

which she was concerned as birds know climate and weather; and for the

very reason that she was determined to evade her uncle’s control, she

was determined not to clash with him. The good understanding between

them was much fostered by their enjoyment of archery together: Mr.

Gascoigne, as one of the best bowmen in Wessex, was gratified to find

the elements of like skill in his niece; and Gwendolen was the more

careful not to lose the shelter of his fatherly indulgence, because

since the trouble with Rex both Mrs. Gascoigne and Anna had been unable

to hide what she felt to be a very unreasonable alienation from her.

Toward Anna she took some pains to behave with a regretful

affectionateness; but neither of them dared to mention Rex’s name, and

Anna, to whom the thought of him was part of the air she breathed, was

ill at ease with the lively cousin who had ruined his happiness. She

tried dutifully to repress any sign of her changed feeling; but who in

pain can imitate the glance and hand-touch of pleasure.

This unfair resentment had rather a hardening effect on Gwendolen, and

threw her into a more defiant temper. Her uncle too might be offended

if she refused the next person who fell in love with her; and one day

when that idea was in her mind she said,

“Mamma, I see now why girls are glad to be married—to escape being

expected to please everybody but themselves.”

Happily, Mr. Middleton was gone without having made any avowal; and

notwithstanding the admiration for the handsome Miss Harleth, extending

perhaps over thirty square miles in a part of Wessex well studded with

families whose numbers included several disengaged young men, each glad

to seat himself by the lively girl with whom it was so easy to get on

in conversation,—notwithstanding these grounds for arguing that

Gwendolen was likely to have other suitors more explicit than the

cautious curate, the fact was not so.

Care has been taken not only that the trees should not sweep the stars

down, but also that every man who admires a fair girl should not be

enamored of her, and even that every man who is enamored should not

necessarily declare himself. There are various refined shapes in which

the price of corn, known to be potent cause in their relation, might,

if inquired into, show why a young lady, perfect in person,

accomplishments, and costume, has not the trouble of rejecting many

offers; and nature’s order is certainly benignant in not obliging us

one and all to be desperately in love with the most admirable mortal we

have ever seen. Gwendolen, we know, was far from holding that supremacy

in the minds of all observers. Besides, it was but a poor eight months

since she had come to Offendene, and some inclinations become manifest

slowly, like the sunward creeping of plants.

In face of this fact that not one of the eligible young men already in

the neighborhood had made Gwendolen an offer, why should Mr. Grandcourt

be thought of as likely to do what they had left undone?

Perhaps because he was thought of as still more eligible; since a great

deal of what passes for likelihood in the world is simply the reflex of

a wish. Mr. and Mrs. Arrowpoint, for example, having no anxiety that

Miss Harleth should make a brilliant marriage, had quite a different

likelihood in their minds.