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- The first
effect of this letter on Gwendolen was half-stupefying. The
implicit confidence that her
destiny must be one of
luxurious ease, where any trouble that occurred would be well
clad and provided for, had been stronger in her own
mind than in her mamma's, being fed there by her youthful blood and that sense of
superior claims which made a large part of her
consciousness. It was almost as
difficult for her to believe
suddenly that her position had become one of
poverty and of
humiliating dependence, as it would have been to get into the strong
current of her blooming life the chill sense that her death would really come. She stood
motionless for a few minutes, then tossed off her hat and
automatically looked in the glass. The coils of her
smooth light-brown hair were still in order
perfect enough for a ball-room; and as on other nights, Gwendolen
might have looked lingeringly at herself for pleasure (surely an allowable
indulgence); but now she took no
conscious note of her reflected beauty, and simply stared
right before her as if she had been jarred by a hateful
sound and was waiting for any sign of its
cause. By-and-by she threw herself in the
corner of the red
velvet sofa, took up the letter again and read it twice
deliberately, letting it at last fall on the ground, while she rested her clasped hands on her
lap and sat perfectly still, shedding no tears. Her
impulse was to
survey and
resist the
situation rather than to
wail over it. There was no inward
exclamation of "Poor mamma!" Her mamma had never seemed to get much enjoyment out of life, and if Gwendolen had been at this
moment disposed to feel
pity she would have bestowed it on herself-for was she not naturally and rightfully the chief
object of her mamma's
anxiety too? But it was anger, it was
resistance that possessed her; it was
bitter vexation that she had
lost her gains at roulette, whereas if her luck had continued
through this one day she would have had a
handsome sum to
carry home, or she
might have gone on playing and won enough to
support them all. Even now was it not
possible? She had only four napoleons left in her
purse, but she possessed some ornaments which she could sell: a
practice so
common in
stylish society at German baths that there was no
need to be
ashamed of it; and even if she had not received her mamma's letter, she would
probably have decided to get money for an Etruscan necklace which she happened not to have been wearing since her arrival; nay, she
might have done so with an
agreeable sense that she was living with some
intensity and escaping
humdrum. With ten louis at her
disposal and a return of her
former luck, which seemed
probable, what could she do better than go on playing for a few days? If her friends at home disapproved of the way in which she got the money, as they
certainly would, still the money would be there. Gwendolen's
imagination dwelt on this course and created
agreeable consequences, but not with unbroken
confidence and rising certainty as it would have done if she had been touched with the gambler's
mania. She had gone to the roulette-table not because of
passion, but in
search of it: her
mind was still sanely
capable of picturing
balanced probabilities, and while the chance of winning allured her, the chance of losing
thrust itself on her with
alternate strength and made a
vision from which her
pride sank sensitively. For she was resolved not to tell the Langens that any
misfortune had befallen her family, or to make herself in any way
indebted to their
compassion; and if she were to part with her
jewelry to any observable
extent, they would
interfere by inquiries and remonstrances. The course that held the least
risk of
intolerable annoyance was to
raise money on her necklace early in the morning, tell the Langens that her mother desired her
immediate return without giving a
reason, and take the
train for Brussels that evening. She had no maid with her, and the Langens
might make difficulties about her returning home, but her will was
peremptory.
Instead of going to bed she made as
brilliant a light as she could and began to pack, working
diligently, though all the while visited by the scenes that
might take place on the coming day-now by the
tiresome explanations and farewells, and the whirling
journey toward a changed home, now by the
alternative of staying just another day and standing again at the roulette-table. But always in this
latter scene there was the
presence of that Deronda, watching her with
exasperating irony, and-the two
keen experiences were
inevitably revived together-beholding her again forsaken by luck. This
importunate image certainly helped to
sway her
resolve on the side of
immediate departure, and to
urge her packing to the point which would make a change of
mind inconvenient. It had struck twelve when she came into her room, and by the time she was assuring herself that she had left out only what was
necessary, the
faint dawn was stealing
through the white blinds and dulling her candles. What was the use of going to bed? Her cold bath was refreshment enough, and she saw that a
slight trace of
fatigue about the eyes only made her look the more interesting. Before six o'clock she was
completely equipped in her gray traveling dress even to her felt hat, for she meant to walk out as soon as she could count on seeing other ladies on their way to the springs. And happening to be seated sideways before the long
strip of mirror between her two windows she turned to look at herself, leaning her elbow on the back of the chair in an
attitude that
might have been chosen for her
portrait. It is
possible to have a strong self-love without any self-satisfaction, rather with a self-discontent which is the more
intense because one's own little
core of egoistic
sensibility is a
supreme care; but Gwendolen knew nothing of such inward
strife. She had a naïve
delight in her
fortunate self, which any but the harshest saintliness will have some
indulgence for in a girl who had every day seen a
pleasant reflection of that self in her friends'
flattery as well as in the looking-glass. And even in this beginning of troubles, while for
lack of anything else to do she sat gazing at her
image in the growing light, her face gathered a
complacency gradual as the cheerfulness of the morning. Her beautiful lips curled into a more and more decided smile,
till at last she took off her hat, leaned
forward and kissed the cold glass which had looked so warm. How could she believe in
sorrow? If it attacked her, she felt the
force to
crush it, to
defy it, or run away from it, as she had done already. Anything seemed more
possible than that she could go on
bearing miseries, great or small.
Madame von Langen never went out before breakfast, so that Gwendolen could
safely end her early walk by taking her way homeward
through the Obere Strasse in which was the needed shop, sure to be open after seven. At that hour any observers whom she minded would be either on their walks in the
region of the springs, or would be still in their bedrooms; but
certainly there was one grand hotel, the Czarina from which eyes
might follow her up to Mr. Wiener's door. This was a chance to be risked:
might she not be going in to buy something which had struck her
fancy? This
implicit falsehood passed
through her
mind as she remembered that the Czarina was Deronda's hotel; but she was then already far up the Obere Strasse, and she walked on with her usual floating
movement, every line in her
figure and drapery falling in
gentle curves
attractive to all eyes except those which discerned in them too close a
resemblance to the
serpent, and objected to the
revival of
serpent-
worship. She looked neither to the
right hand nor to the left, and transacted her business in the shop with a coolness which gave little Mr. Wiener nothing to except her
proud grace of manner, and the
superior size and
quality of the three
central turquoises in the necklace she offered him. They had belonged to a chain once her father's: but she had never known her father; and the necklace was in all respects the
ornament she could most conveniently part with. Who supposes that it is an
impossible contradiction to be
superstitious and rationalizing at the same time? Roulette encourages a
romantic superstition as to the chances of the game, and the most
prosaic rationalism as to
human sentiments which stand in the way of raising needful money. Gwendolen's
dominant regret was that after all she had only nine louis to add to the four in her
purse: these Jew dealers were so
unscrupulous in taking
advantage of Christians
unfortunate at play! But she was the Langens' guest in their hired apartment, and had nothing to pay there: thirteen louis would do more than take her home; even if she
determined on risking three, the
remaining ten would more than
suffice, since she meant to travel
right on, day and night. As she turned homeward, nay, entered and seated herself in the
salon to
await her friends and breakfast, she still wavered as to her
immediate departure, or rather she had concluded to tell the Langens simply that she had had a letter from her mamma desiring her return, and to leave it still undecided when she should start. It was already the usual breakfast-time, and hearing some one enter as she was leaning back rather
tired and hungry with her eyes shut, she rose expecting to see one or other of the Langens-the words which
might determine her lingering at least another day, ready-formed to pass her lips. But it was the
servant bringing in a small packet for Miss Harleth, which had at that
moment been left at the door. Gwendolen took it in her hand and
immediately hurried into her own room. She looked paler and more
agitated than when she had first read her mamma's letter. Something-she never quite knew what-revealed to her before she opened the packet that it contained the necklace she had just parted with. Underneath the paper it was wrapped in a cambric
handkerchief, and within this was a
scrap of torn-off note-paper, on which was written with a pencil, in clear but
rapid handwriting-"A
stranger who has found Miss Harleth's necklace returns it to her with the hope that she will not again
risk the loss of it."
Gwendolen reddened with the
vexation of wounded
pride. A large
corner of the
handkerchief seemed to have been recklessly torn off to get rid of a mark; but she at once believed in the first
image of "the
stranger" that presented itself to her
mind. It was Deronda; he must have seen her go into the shop; he must have gone in
immediately after and repurchased the necklace. He had taken an unpardonable
liberty, and had dared to place her in a
thoroughly hateful position. What could she do?-Not, assuredly, act on her
conviction that it was he who had sent her the necklace and straightway send it back to him: that would be to face the
possibility that she had been
mistaken; nay, even if the "
stranger" were he and no other, it would be something too
gross for her to let him know that she had divined this, and to meet him again with that
recognition in their minds. He knew very well that he was entangling her in helpless
humiliation: it was another way of smiling at her
ironically, and taking the air of a
supercilious mentor. Gwendolen felt the
bitter tears of
mortification rising and rolling down her cheeks. No one had ever before dared to treat her with
irony and
contempt. One thing was clear: she must
carry out her
resolution to
quit this place at once; it was
impossible for her to reappear in the
public salon, still less stand at the gaming-table with the
risk of seeing Deronda. Now came an
importunate knock at the door: breakfast was ready. Gwendolen with a
passionate movement thrust necklace, cambric,
scrap of paper, and all into her nécessaire, pressed her
handkerchief against her face, and after pausing a
minute or two to
summon back her
proud self-control, went to join her friends. Such signs of tears and
fatigue as were left seemed accordant enough with the
account she at once gave of her having sat up to do her packing, instead of waiting for help from her friend's maid. There was much protestation, as she had
expected, against her traveling alone, but she persisted in refusing any arrangements for
companionship. She would be put into the ladies'
compartment and go
right on. She could rest exceedingly well in the
train, and was afraid of nothing.
In this way it happened that Gwendolen never reappeared at the roulette-table, but that Thursday evening left Leubronn for Brussels, and on Saturday morning arrived at Offendene, the home to which she and her family were soon to say a last good-bye.