Read George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged Page 33

  Chapter Thirty-one

  On the day Gwendolen Harleth married Mr. Grandcourt, the morning was clear and bright, and a slight frost crisped the leaves. Half Pennicote turned out to see the bridal party, lining the pathway to the church. An old friend of the rector’s performed the marriage ceremony, the rector himself acting as the father of the bride.

  Only two faces showed signs of sadness – Mrs. Davilow’s and Anna’s. The mother’s delicate eyelids were pink, as if she had been crying half the night; and no one was surprised that, splendid as the match was, she should feel the parting from a daughter who was the flower of her children. It was less understood why Anna should be troubled. Everyone else seemed to reflect the brilliancy of the occasion – the bride most of all. It was agreed that as to figure she was worthy to be a “lady o’ title”: as to face, perhaps she might be a little more rosy, but she matched her husband’s complexion. Anyhow he must be very fond of her; and it was to be hoped that he would never cast it up to her that she had been going out to service as a governess.

  Gwendolen, in fact, never showed more spring in her step, more lustre in her eyes: she had the brilliancy of strong excitement. She had wrought herself up to much the same condition as that in which she stood at the gambling-table when Deronda was looking at her, and she began to lose. There was an enjoyment in it: the uneasiness of her growing conscience was disregarded, amidst the gratification of her ambitious vanity and desire for luxury. This morning she could not have said truly that she repented her acceptance of Grandcourt, or that any hazy fears marred the glowing scene in which she was the central object.

  That she was doing something wrong – that a punishment might be hanging over her – that Deronda very likely despised her for marrying Grandcourt, as he had despised her for gambling – above all, that the cord which united her with this lover and which she had until now held by the hand, was now being flung over her neck – all these dimly understood facts and vague impressions had been disturbing her during the weeks of her engagement. But this morning that agitation was thrust down with exulting defiance as she felt herself standing at the game of life with many eyes upon her, daring everything to win – or if to lose, to lose with éclat and importance.

  But this morning she did not fear a losing destiny: she thought that she was entering on a fuller power of managing circumstances. The youthful egoism out of which she had been shaken by trouble, humiliation, and a sense of culpability, had returned to her with newly-fed strength. She did not in the least appear a tearful, tremulous bride. With erect head and elastic footstep, she was walking among illusions; and yet, too, she was conscious that she was a little intoxicated.

  “Thank God you bear it so well, my darling!” said Mrs. Davilow, when she helped Gwendolen to doff her bridal white and put on her travelling dress.

  “Why, you might have said that, if I had been going to Mrs. Mompert’s, you dear, sad, mamma!” said Gwendolen, putting her hands to her mother’s cheeks with laughing tenderness. “Here am I – Mrs. Grandcourt! what else would you have me? You were ready to die with vexation when you thought that I would not be Mrs. Grandcourt.”

  “Hush, my child, for heaven’s sake!” said Mrs. Davilow. “How can I help feeling it when I am parting from you? But I can bear anything gladly if you are happy.”

  “Not gladly, mamma, no!” said Gwendolen, shaking her head, and smiling. “Willingly you would bear it, but always sorrowfully. Sorrowing is your sauce; you can take nothing without it.” Then, kissing her, she said, gaily, “And you shall sorrow over my having everything glorious – splendid houses, horses – and diamonds, I shall have diamonds – and being Lady Perhaps – and grand here – and tantivy there – and always loving you better than anybody else in the world.”

  “My sweet child! But I shall not be jealous if you love your husband better; and he will expect to be first.”

  Gwendolen thrust out her lips and chin with a pretty grimace, saying, “Rather a ridiculous expectation. However, I don’t mean to treat him ill, unless he deserves it.”

  Then the two fell into a clinging embrace, and Gwendolen could not hinder a rising sob when she said, “I wish you were going with me, mamma.”

  But the slight dew on her long eyelashes only made her the more charming when she gave her hand to Grandcourt to be led to the carriage.