บทที่ บทที่ 21 · Chapter XXI

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It is a common sentence that Knowledge is power; but who hath duly

considered or set forth the power of Ignorance? Knowledge slowly

builds up what Ignorance in an hour pulls down. Knowledge, through

patient and frugal centuries, enlarges discovery and makes record of

it; Ignorance, wanting its day’s dinner, lights a fire with the

record, and gives a flavor to its one roast with the burned souls of

many generations. Knowledge, instructing the sense, refining and

multiplying needs, transforms itself into skill and makes life various

with a new six days’ work; comes Ignorance drunk on the seventh, with

a firkin of oil and a match and an easy “Let there not be,” and the

many-colored creation is shriveled up in blackness. Of a truth,

Knowledge is power, but it is a power reined by scruple, having a

conscience of what must be and what may be; whereas Ignorance is a

blind giant who, let him but wax unbound, would make it a sport to

seize the pillars that hold up the long-wrought fabric of human good,

and turn all the places of joy dark as a buried Babylon. And looking

at life parcel-wise, in the growth of a single lot, who having a

practiced vision may not see that ignorance of the true bond between

events, and false conceit of means whereby sequences may be

compelled—like that falsity of eyesight which overlooks the gradations of

distance, seeing that which is afar off as if it were within a step or

a grasp—precipitates the mistaken soul on destruction?

It was half-past ten in the morning when Gwendolen Harleth, after her

gloomy journey from Leubronn, arrived at the station from which she

must drive to Offendene. No carriage or friend was awaiting her, for in

the telegram she had sent from Dover she had mentioned a later train,

and in her impatience of lingering at a London station she had set off

without picturing what it would be to arrive unannounced at half an

hour’s drive from home—at one of those stations which have been fixed

on not as near anywhere, but as equidistant from everywhere. Deposited

as a _femme sole_ with her large trunks, and having to wait while a

vehicle was being got from the large-sized lantern called the Railway

Inn, Gwendolen felt that the dirty paint in the waiting-room, the dusty

decanter of flat water, and the texts in large letters calling on her

to repent and be converted, were part of the dreary prospect opened by

her family troubles; and she hurried away to the outer door looking

toward the lane and fields. But here the very gleams of sunshine seemed

melancholy, for the autumnal leaves and grass were shivering, and the

wind was turning up the feathers of a cock and two croaking hens which

had doubtless parted with their grown-up offspring and did not know

what to do with themselves. The railway official also seemed without

resources, and his innocent demeanor in observing Gwendolen and her

trunks was rendered intolerable by the cast in his eye; especially

since, being a new man, he did not know her, and must conclude that she

was not very high in the world. The vehicle—a dirty old barouche—was

within sight, and was being slowly prepared by an elderly laborer.

Contemptible details these, to make part of a history; yet the turn of

most lives is hardly to be accounted for without them. They are

continually entering with cumulative force into a mood until it gets

the mass and momentum of a theory or a motive. Even philosophy is not

quite free from such determining influences; and to be dropped solitary

at an ugly, irrelevant-looking spot, with a sense of no income on the

mind, might well prompt a man to discouraging speculation on the origin

of things and the reason of a world where a subtle thinker found

himself so badly off. How much more might such trifles tell on a young

lady equipped for society with a fastidious taste, an Indian shawl over

her arm, some twenty cubic feet of trunks by her side, and a mortal

dislike to the new consciousness of poverty which was stimulating her

imagination of disagreeables? At any rate they told heavily on poor

Gwendolen, and helped to quell her resistant spirit. What was the good

of living in the midst of hardships, ugliness, and humiliation? This

was the beginning of being at home again, and it was a sample of what

she had to expect.

Here was the theme on which her discontent rung its sad changes during

her slow drive in the uneasy barouche, with one great trunk squeezing

the meek driver, and the other fastened with a rope on the seat in

front of her. Her ruling vision all the way from Leubronn had been that

the family would go abroad again; for of course there must be some

little income left—her mamma did not mean that they would have

literally nothing. To go to a dull place abroad and live poorly, was

the dismal future that threatened her: she had seen plenty of poor

English people abroad and imagined herself plunged in the despised

dullness of their ill-plenished lives, with Alice, Bertha, Fanny and

Isabel all growing up in tediousness around her, while she advanced

toward thirty and her mamma got more and more melancholy. But she did

not mean to submit, and let misfortune do what it would with her: she

had not yet quite believed in the misfortune; but weariness and disgust

with this wretched arrival had begun to affect her like an

uncomfortable waking, worse than the uneasy dreams which had gone

before. The self-delight with which she had kissed her image in the

glass had faded before the sense of futility in being anything

whatever—charming, clever, resolute—what was the good of it all?

Events might turn out anyhow, and men were hateful. Yes, men were

hateful. But in these last hours, a certain change had come over their

meaning. It is one thing to hate stolen goods, and another thing to

hate them the more because their being stolen hinders us from making

use of them. Gwendolen had begun to be angry with Grandcourt for being

what had hindered her from marrying him, angry with him as the cause of

her present dreary lot.

But the slow drive was nearly at an end, and the lumbering vehicle

coming up the avenue was within sight of the windows. A figure

appearing under the portico brought a rush of new and less selfish

feeling in Gwendolen, and when springing from the carriage she saw the

dear beautiful face with fresh lines of sadness in it, she threw her

arms round her mother’s neck, and for the moment felt all sorrows only

in relation to her mother’s feeling about them.

Behind, of course, were the sad faces of the four superfluous girls,

each, poor thing—like those other many thousand sisters of us

all—having her peculiar world which was of no importance to any one

else, but all of them feeling Gwendolen’s presence to be somehow a

relenting of misfortune: where Gwendolen was, something interesting

would happen; even her hurried submission to their kisses, and “Now go

away, girls,” carried the sort of comfort which all weakness finds in

decision and authoritativeness. Good Miss Merry, whose air of meek

depression, hitherto held unaccountable in a governess affectionately

attached to the family, was now at the general level of circumstances,

did not expect any greeting, but busied herself with the trunks and the

coachman’s pay; while Mrs. Davilow and Gwendolen hastened up-stairs and

shut themselves in the black and yellow bedroom.

“Never mind, mamma dear,” said Gwendolen, tenderly pressing her

handkerchief against the tears that were rolling down Mrs. Davilow’s

cheeks. “Never mind. I don’t mind. I will do something. I will be

something. Things will come right. It seemed worse because I was away.

Come now! you must be glad because I am here.”

Gwendolen felt every word of that speech. A rush of compassionate

tenderness stirred all her capability of generous resolution; and the

self-confident projects which had vaguely glanced before her during her

journey sprang instantaneously into new definiteness. Suddenly she

seemed to perceive how she could be “something.” It was one of her best

moments, and the fond mother, forgetting everything below that tide

mark, looked at her with a sort of adoration. She said,

“Bless you, my good, good darling! I can be happy, if you can!”

But later in the day there was an ebb; the old slippery rocks, the old

weedy places reappeared. Naturally, there was a shrinking of courage as

misfortune ceased to be a mere announcement, and began to disclose

itself as a grievous tyrannical inmate. At first—that ugly drive at an

end—it was still Offendene that Gwendolen had come home to, and all

surroundings of immediate consequence to her were still there to secure

her personal ease; the roomy stillness of the large solid house while

she rested; all the luxuries of her toilet cared for without trouble to

her; and a little tray with her favorite food brought to her in

private. For she had said, “Keep them all away from us to-day, mamma.

Let you and me be alone together.”

When Gwendolen came down into the drawing-room, fresh as a newly-dipped

swan, and sat leaning against the cushions of the settee beside her

mamma, their misfortune had not yet turned its face and breath upon

her. She felt prepared to hear everything, and began in a tone of

deliberate intention,

“What have you thought of doing, exactly, mamma?”

“Oh, my dear, the next thing to be done is to move away from this

house. Mr. Haynes most fortunately is as glad to have it now as he

would have been when we took it. Lord Brackenshaw’s agent is to arrange

everything with him to the best advantage for us: Bazley, you know; not

at all an ill-natured man.”

“I cannot help thinking that Lord Brackenshaw would let you stay here

rent-free, mamma,” said Gwendolen, whose talents had not been applied

to business so much as to discernment of the admiration excited by her

charms.

“My dear child, Lord Brackenshaw is in Scotland, and knows nothing

about us. Neither your uncle nor I would choose to apply to him.

Besides, what could we do in this house without servants, and without

money to warm it? The sooner we are out the better. We have nothing to

carry but our clothes, you know?”

“I suppose you mean to go abroad, then?” said Gwendolen. After all,

this is what she had familiarized her mind with.

“Oh, no, dear, no. How could we travel? You never did learn anything

about income and expenses,” said Mrs. Davilow, trying to smile, and

putting her hand on Gwendolen’s as she added, mournfully, “that makes

it so much harder for you, my pet.”

“But where are we to go?” said Gwendolen, with a trace of sharpness in

her tone. She felt a new current of fear passing through her.

“It is all decided. A little furniture is to be got in from the

rectory—all that can be spared.” Mrs. Davilow hesitated. She dreaded

the reality for herself less than the shock she must give to Gwendolen,

who looked at her with tense expectancy, but was silent.

“It is Sawyer’s Cottage we are to go to.”

At first, Gwendolen remained silent, paling with anger—justifiable

anger, in her opinion. Then she said with haughtiness,

“That is impossible. Something else than that ought to have been

thought of. My uncle ought not to allow that. I will not submit to it.”

“My sweet child, what else could have been thought of? Your uncle, I am

sure, is as kind as he can be: but he is suffering himself; he has his

family to bring up. And do you quite understand? You must remember—we

have nothing. We shall have absolutely nothing except what he and my

sister give us. They have been as wise and active as possible, and we

must try to earn something. I and the girls are going to work a

table-cloth border for the Ladies’ Charity at Winchester, and a

communion cloth that the parishioners are to present to Pennicote

Church.”

Mrs. Davilow went into these details timidly: but how else was she to

bring the fact of their position home to this poor child who, alas!

must submit at present, whatever might be in the background for her?

and she herself had a superstition that there must be something better

in the background.

“But surely somewhere else than Sawyer’s Cottage might have been

found,” Gwendolen persisted—taken hold of (as if in a nightmare) by

the image of this house where an exciseman had lived.

“No, indeed, dear. You know houses are scarce, and we may be thankful

to get anything so private. It is not so very bad. There are two little

parlors and four bedrooms. You shall sit alone whenever you like.”

The ebb of sympathetic care for her mamma had gone so low just now,

that Gwendolen took no notice of these deprecatory words.

“I cannot conceive that all your property is gone at once, mamma. How

can you be sure in so short a time? It is not a week since you wrote to

me.”

“The first news came much earlier, dear. But I would not spoil your

pleasure till it was quite necessary.”

“Oh, how vexatious!” said Gwendolen, coloring with fresh anger. “If I

had known, I could have brought home the money I had won: and for want

of knowing, I stayed and lost it. I had nearly two hundred pounds, and

it would have done for us to live on a little while, till I could carry

out some plan.” She paused an instant and then added more impetuously,

“Everything has gone against me. People have come near me only to

blight me.”

Among the “people” she was including Deronda. If he had not interfered

in her life she would have gone to the gaming-table again with a few

napoleons, and might have won back her losses.

“We must resign ourselves to the will of Providence, my child,” said

poor Mrs. Davilow, startled by this revelation of the gambling, but not

daring to say more. She felt sure that “people” meant Grandcourt, about

whom her lips were sealed. And Gwendolen answered immediately,

“But I don’t resign myself. I shall do what I can against it. What is

the good of calling the people’s wickedness Providence? You said in

your letter it was Mr. Lassman’s fault we had lost our money. Has he

run away with it all?”

“No, dear, you don’t understand. There were great speculations: he

meant to gain. It was all about mines and things of that sort. He

risked too much.”

“I don’t call that Providence: it was his improvidence with our money,

and he ought to be punished. Can’t we go to law and recover our

fortune? My uncle ought to take measures, and not sit down by such

wrongs. We ought to go to law.”

“My dear child, law can never bring back money lost in that way. Your

uncle says it is milk spilled upon the ground. Besides, one must have a

fortune to get any law: there is no law for people who are ruined. And

our money has only gone along with other people’s. We are not the

only sufferers: others have to resign themselves besides us.”

“But I don’t resign myself to live at Sawyer’s Cottage and see you

working for sixpences and shillings because of that. I shall not do it.

I shall do what is more befitting our rank and education.”

“I am sure your uncle and all of us will approve of that, dear, and

admire you the more for it,” said Mrs. Davilow, glad of an unexpected

opening for speaking on a difficult subject. “I didn’t mean that you

should resign yourself to worse when anything better offered itself.

Both your uncle and aunt have felt that your abilities and education

were a fortune for you, and they have already heard of something within

your reach.”

“What is that, mamma?” some of Gwendolen’s anger gave way to interest,

and she was not without romantic conjectures.

“There are two situations that offer themselves. One is in a bishop’s

family, where there are three daughters, and the other is in quite a

high class of school; and in both, your French, and music, and

dancing—and then your manners and habits as a lady, are exactly what

is wanted. Each is a hundred a year—and—just for the present,”—Mrs.

Davilow had become frightened and hesitating,—“to save you from the

petty, common way of living that we must go to—you would perhaps

accept one of the two.”

“What! be like Miss Graves at Madame Meunier’s? No.”

“I think, myself, that Dr. Monpert’s would be more suitable. There

could be no hardship in a bishop’s family.”

“Excuse me, mamma. There are hardships everywhere for a governess. And

I don’t see that it would be pleasanter to be looked down on in a

bishop’s family than in any other. Besides, you know very well I hate

teaching. Fancy me shut up with three awkward girls something like

Alice! I would rather emigrate than be a governess.”

What it precisely was to emigrate, Gwendolen was not called on to

explain. Mrs. Davilow was mute, seeing no outlet, and thinking with

dread of the collision that might happen when Gwendolen had to meet her

uncle and aunt. There was an air of reticence in Gwendolen’s haughty,

resistant speeches which implied that she had a definite plan in

reserve; and her practical ignorance continually exhibited, could not

nullify the mother’s belief in the effectiveness of that forcible will

and daring which had held mastery over herself.

“I have some ornaments, mamma, and I could sell them,” said Gwendolen.

“They would make a sum: I want a little sum—just to go on with. I dare

say Marshall, at Wanchester, would take them: I know he showed me some

bracelets once that he said he had bought from a lady. Jocosa might go

and ask him. Jocosa is going to leave us, of course. But she might do

that first.”

“She would do anything she could, poor, dear soul. I have not told you

yet—she wanted me to take all her savings—her three hundred pounds. I

tell her to set up a little school. It will be hard for her to go into

a new family now she has been so long with us.”

“Oh, recommend her for the bishop’s daughters,” said Gwendolen, with a

sudden gleam of laughter in her face. “I am sure she will do better

than I should.”

“Do take care not to say such things to your uncle,” said Mrs. Davilow.

“He will be hurt at your despising what he has exerted himself about.

But I dare say you have something else in your mind that he might not

disapprove, if you consulted him.”

“There is some one else I want to consult first. Are the Arrowpoints

at Quetcham still, and is Herr Klesmer there? But I daresay you know

nothing about it, poor, dear mamma. Can Jeffries go on horseback with a

note?”

“Oh, my dear, Jeffries is not here, and the dealer has taken the

horses. But some one could go for us from Leek’s farm. The Arrowpoints

are at Quetcham, I know. Miss Arrowpoint left her card the other day: I

could not see her. But I don’t know about Herr Klesmer. Do you want to

send before to-morrow?”

“Yes, as soon as possible. I will write a note,” said Gwendolen, rising.

“What can you be thinking of, Gwen?” said Mrs. Davilow, relieved in the

midst of her wonderment by signs of alacrity and better humor.

“Don’t mind what, there’s a dear, good mamma,” said Gwendolen,

reseating herself a moment to give atoning caresses. “I mean to do

something. Never mind what until it is all settled. And then you shall

be comforted. The dear face!—it is ten years older in these three

weeks. Now, now, now! don’t cry”—Gwendolen, holding her mamma’s head

with both hands, kissed the trembling eyelids. “But mind you don’t

contradict me or put hindrances in my way. I must decide for myself. I

cannot be dictated to by my uncle or any one else. My life is my own

affair. And I think”—here her tone took an edge of scorn—“I think I

can do better for you than let you live in Sawyer’s Cottage.”

In uttering this last sentence Gwendolen again rose, and went to a desk

where she wrote the following note to Klesmer:—

Miss Harleth presents her compliments to Herr Klesmer, and ventures

to request of him the very great favor that he will call upon her, if

possible, to-morrow. Her reason for presuming so far on his kindness

is of a very serious nature. Unfortunate family circumstances have

obliged her to take a course in which she can only turn for advice to

the great knowledge and judgment of Herr Klesmer.

“Pray get this sent to Quetcham at once, mamma,” said Gwendolen, as she

addressed the letter. “The man must be told to wait for an answer. Let

no time be lost.”

For the moment, the absorbing purpose was to get the letter dispatched;

but when she had been assured on this point, another anxiety arose and

kept her in a state of uneasy excitement. If Klesmer happened not to be

at Quetcham, what could she do next? Gwendolen’s belief in her star, so

to speak, had had some bruises. Things had gone against her. A splendid

marriage which presented itself within reach had shown a hideous flaw.

The chances of roulette had not adjusted themselves to her claims; and

a man of whom she knew nothing had thrust himself between her and her

intentions. The conduct of those uninteresting people who managed the

business of the world had been culpable just in the points most

injurious to her in particular. Gwendolen Harleth, with all her beauty

and conscious force, felt the close threats of humiliation: for the

first time the conditions of this world seemed to her like a hurrying

roaring crowd in which she had got astray, no more cared for and

protected than a myriad of other girls, in spite of its being a

peculiar hardship to her. If Klesmer were not at Quetcham—that would

be all of a piece with the rest: the unwelcome negative urged itself as

a probability, and set her brain working at desperate alternatives

which might deliver her from Sawyer’s Cottage or the ultimate necessity

of “taking a situation,” a phrase that summed up for her the

disagreeables most wounding to her pride, most irksome to her tastes;

at least so far as her experience enabled her to imagine disagreeables.

Still Klesmer might be there, and Gwendolen thought of the result in

that case with a hopefulness which even cast a satisfactory light over

her peculiar troubles, as what might well enter into the biography of

celebrities and remarkable persons. And if she had heard her immediate

acquaintances cross-examined as to whether they thought her remarkable,

the first who said “No” would have surprised her.