Chapter Twenty-four
Gwendolen was glad that she had got through her interview with Klesmer before meeting her uncle and aunt. She had decided that there were only disagreeables before her, and she felt able to maintain a dogged calm in the face of any humiliation that might be proposed.
She went to the rectory with her mamma. They called at Sawyer’s Cottage on the way, and saw the narrow rooms unsoftened by blinds and curtains; for the furnishing to be done by gleanings from the rectory had not yet begun.
“How shall you endure it, mamma?” said Gwendolen, as they walked away. She had been silent as they looked round at the bare rooms, the little garden with the cabbage-stalks, and the dusty yew arbour. “You and the four girls in that closet of a room? And without me?”
“It will be some comfort that you have not to bear it too, dear.”
“I would rather be there than be a governess.”
“Don’t set yourself against it beforehand, Gwendolen. At the bishop’s palace you will have every luxury about you, and you have always cared for that. You will not find it so hard as going up and down those narrow stairs, with the noise carrying through the house.”
“It is like a bad dream,” said Gwendolen, impetuously. “I cannot believe that my uncle will let you go there. He ought to have taken some other steps.”
“What could he have done?”
“That was for him to find out. It seems to me a very extraordinary world if people in our position must sink in this way all at once,” said Gwendolen.
But despite the keen sense of her own bruises, she felt some compunction when her uncle and aunt received her with affection and kindness. She was struck by the dignified cheerfulness with which they talked of the economies they must make. Mr. Gascoigne’s worth of character showed itself to great advantage under this sudden reduction of fortune. Prompt and methodical, he had decided not only to put down his carriage, but to reconsider his worn suits of clothes, to leave off meat for breakfast, to do without periodicals, to teach his boys himself, and to order his establishment on the sparest footing possible.
The rector’s spirit had spread through the household. Mrs. Gascoigne and Anna did not miss anything they cared about, and sincerely felt that the saddest part of the family losses was the change for Mrs. Davilow and her children.
Anna submerged her resentment on behalf of Rex in her sympathy with Gwendolen; and Mrs. Gascoigne hoped privately that trouble would have a salutary effect on her niece. They had both been busy devising how to get curtains for the cottage out of the household stores; but with delicate feeling they left these matters in the background, and talked at first of Gwendolen’s journey, and the comfort it was to her mamma to have her at home again.
Her uncle then began to tell her of his efforts to get her a situation with as many advantages as possible.
“I felt that there was no time to be lost, Gwendolen; for a position in a good family is not to be had at a moment’s notice. And you would hardly find a better one than at Bishop Mompert’s. I am known to both him and Mrs. Mompert; she wishes to see you before making an absolute engagement. She thinks of arranging for you to meet her at Wanchester.”
“Do you know why she wants to see me, uncle?” said Gwendolen, whose mind had quickly gone over various disagreeable reasons.
The rector smiled. “Don’t be alarmed, my dear. She would like to have a more precise idea of you than my report can give. A mother is naturally scrupulous about a companion for her daughters. She is a woman of taste and also of strict principle, and closely supervises her daughters’ education. I feel sure that she will think your manners and accomplishments as good as she is likely to find.”
Gwendolen dared not answer, but her dislike to the whole prospect made her flush deeply. Anna tenderly put her hand into her cousin’s, and Mr. Gascoigne was too kind not to understand what a trial this sudden change must be. Bent on cheerfulness, he went on–
“I should have been tempted to try and get the position for Anna, if she had been likely to meet Mrs. Mompert’s wants. It is really a home, with a continuance of education in the highest sense. The bishop’s views are more decidedly Low Church than my own; but though privately strict, he is not by any means narrow in public matters. He has always been friendly to me, though before his promotion, we had a little controversy about the Bible Society.”
The rector’s words were too full of satisfactory meaning to himself for him to imagine the effect they produced on his niece. “Bishop’s views” – “privately strict” – “Bible Society,” – it was as if he had introduced a few snakes into the conversation. Gwendolen, shrinking from the prospect, began desperately to seek an alternative.
“There was another situation, I think, mamma spoke of?”
“Yes,” said the rector, in rather a depreciatory tone; “but that is in a school. It would be much harder work, and not so good in other respects.”
“Oh dear no,” said Mrs. Gascoigne. “You might not have a bedroom to yourself.”
Gwendolen said, apparently in acceptance, “When is Mrs. Mompert likely to send for me?”
“Within the next fortnight, probably. But I must be off now.” The rector left the room with the cheerful conviction that Gwendolen was going to act like a girl of good sense.
“What a prop Henry is to us all!” said Mrs. Gascoigne. “And Rex is just like him. We have had such comfort in a letter from him. I must read you a little bit.” She took the letter from her pocket, while Anna looked rather frightened, as she never mentioned Rex before Gwendolen.
But her mother apparently found no sentences to read aloud that were free from difficult allusions, for she folded up the letter, saying–
“He tells us that our trouble has made a man of him; he means to work for a fellowship, to take pupils, and to set one of his brothers going. The letter is full of fun, just like him. He says, ‘Tell mother she has put out an advertisement for a jolly good hard-working son, and I offer myself for the place.’ I never saw my husband so much moved by anything as this letter. It seemed a gain to balance our loss.”
This letter, in fact, was what had helped both Mrs. Gascoigne and Anna to show Gwendolen an unmixed kindliness; and she herself felt glad. She had no egoistic pleasure in making men miserable. She only had an intense objection to their making her miserable.
But when the talk turned on furniture for the cottage, Gwendolen could not show even a languid interest. She thought that she had done as much as could be expected of her this morning, and indeed felt heroic in keeping her internal struggle to herself. She recoiled from the prospect of meeting Mrs. Mompert; even as a governess, she was to be tested and was liable to rejection. After she had done herself the violence to accept the bishop and his wife, they were still to consider whether they would accept her. And when she had entered on her dismal task of edifying the three girls, there was always to be Mrs. Mompert’s supervision.
Gwendolen, used to the social successes of a handsome girl, whose lively, venturesome talk has the effect of wit, saw the life before her as an entrance into a penitentiary. She felt a growing rebellion against this hard necessity which had come just to her of all people in the world – to her, who was meant for something quite different. The family troubles, she thought, were easier for everyone than for her. If she went to the Momperts’, her talents would never be recognized as anything remarkable.
Some girls, who had read romances where even plain governesses are sought in marriage, might have solaced themselves a little by such pictures; but even if Gwendolen was inclined to dwell on love-making as her elysium, her heart was too much oppressed. She saw no reason why she should wish to live. No religious view of trouble helped her: her troubles had in her opinion all been caused by other people’s conduct; and there was really nothing pleasant to be counted on in the world.
As to the sweetness of labour, the interest of activity, the impersonal delights of life as a perpetual discovery, the dues of fortitude and industry,
the supreme worth of the teacher’s vocation;– these doctrines could have barely touched her: the only fact that mattered was that for a lady to become a governess was to descend in life. We should pity a young creature who has the labyrinth of life before her and no clue as to how to navigate it.
In spite of her healthy frame, she felt a sort of numbness and could set about nothing; the least urgency was an irritation to her; the speech of others on any subject seemed unreasonable, because it did not include her feeling. It was not in her nature to busy herself with fancies of suicide: what exasperated her was the sense that there was nothing for her but to live in a way she hated. She could not exert herself to visit the Gascoignes or to show interest about the furniture of the horrible cottage. Miss Merry was staying to help; such people as Jocosa liked that sort of thing. Her mother had to make excuses for her. The calm which Gwendolen had promised herself to maintain had changed into sick motivelessness: she thought, “I suppose I shall begin to pretend by-and-by, but why should I do it now?”
Her mother watched her with silent distress, wishing only that she could make her darling less miserable.
One day when Gwendolen was in the bedroom with her mother, she suddenly roused herself to fetch the casket which contained the ornaments.
“Mamma,” she began, “I had forgotten these things. Do see about getting them sold.”
“I would rather keep them for you, darling,” said Mrs. Davilow, relieved that Gwendolen was beginning to talk about something. “Why, how came you to put that handkerchief in here?” It was the handkerchief with the corner torn off which Gwendolen had thrust in with the turquoise necklace.
“It happened to be with the necklace – I was in a hurry. Don’t sell the necklace, mamma,” she said, a new feeling coming over her about that rescue of it which had formerly been so offensive.
“No, dear. And I should prefer not selling the other things. None of them are valuable. All my best ornaments were taken from me long ago.” Mrs. Davilow coloured, for she usually avoided any such reference to Gwendolen’s step-father, who had disposed of his wife’s jewellery. “Take these things with you,” she said.
“That would be quite useless, mamma,” said Gwendolen, coldly. “Governesses don’t wear ornaments. You had better get me a straw poke hat, such as charity children wear.”
“No, dear, don’t take that view. I feel sure the Momperts will like you to be graceful and elegant.”
“I am not at all sure what the Momperts will like me to be. It is enough that I am expected to be what they like,” said Gwendolen bitterly.
“If there is anything you would object to less than going to the bishop’s, do tell me, Gwendolen. I will try for anything you wish,” beseeched her mother.
“Oh, mamma, there is nothing to tell. I must think myself fortunate if they will have me. I shall get some money for you, at least. I shall not spend any money this year: you will have all the eighty pounds. I don’t know how far that will go in housekeeping; but you need not stitch your poor fingers to the bone.” Gwendolen did not even look at her mother, but at the turquoise necklace as she turned it over her fingers.
“Bless you, my good darling!” said Mrs. Davilow, with tears in her eyes. “Don’t despair. There may be great happiness in store for you yet.”
“I don’t see any reason for expecting it, mamma,” said Gwendolen, in a hard tone; and Mrs. Davilow was silent, thinking as she had often thought before – “What did happen between her and Mr. Grandcourt?”
“I will keep this necklace, mamma,” said Gwendolen, laying it aside. “But do get the other things sold, even if they will not bring much.”
She wrapped the torn handkerchief around the necklace. Mrs. Davilow observed this with surprise, but felt unable to ask any question.
Gwendolen was possessed by a spirit of general disappointment. It was not simply that she had a distaste for what she was called on to do: the distaste spread itself over the world.
But the movement of mind which led her to keep the necklace, folded up in the handkerchief, was more peculiar. It came from that streak of superstition in her which attached itself both to her confidence and her terror – a superstition which lingers in an intense personality in spite of science. Why she should suddenly determine not to part with the necklace was not clear to her: she had a confused state of emotion about Deronda. Was it wounded pride and resentment, or a certain awe and trust? It was something vague and yet mastering, which impelled her to this action.