George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged

  Chapter Twelve

  On the second day after the Archery Meeting, Mr. Henleigh Mallinger Grandcourt was at his breakfast-table with Mr. Lush. Everything around them was agreeable: the summer air through the open windows, at which the dogs could walk in from the lawn; the park beyond; the still room, with its sober antiquated elegance, as if it kept a conscious, well-bred silence, unlike the restlessness of vulgar furniture.

  Whether the gentlemen were agreeable to each other was less evident. Mr. Grandcourt had drawn his chair aside to face the lawn, and with his left leg over another chair, was smoking a large cigar, while his companion was eating. Half a dozen dogs were moving lazily in and out; except for Fetch, the water-spaniel, which sat with its forepaws firmly planted and its face turned upward, watching Grandcourt with unshaken constancy. He held in his lap a tiny Maltese dog, and his hand rested on this small parcel of animal warmth. I fear that Fetch was jealous; at last she could bear this neglect no longer, and she gently put her large silky paw on her master’s leg.

  Grandcourt looked at her with unchanged face, and then laid down his cigar while he lifted the unimpassioned Fluff close to his chin and gave it caressing pats, all the while gravely watching Fetch, who, poor thing, whimpered and looked up with piteous beseeching. So, at least, a lover of dogs must have interpreted Fetch, and Grandcourt kept so many dogs that he was reputed to love them.

  But when the amusing anguish burst forth in a howling bark, Grandcourt pushed Fetch down without speaking, and, depositing Fluff carelessly on the table, looked to his cigar. Fetch, having begun to wail, found, like others of her sex, that it was not easy to stop.

  “Turn out that brute, will you?” said Grandcourt quietly to Lush.

  Lush immediately rose, lifted Fetch, and carried her out. On returning he lit a cigar, and looking at Grandcourt said–

  “Shall you ride or drive to Quetcham today?”

  “I am not going to Quetcham.”

  “You did not go yesterday.”

  Grandcourt smoked in silence for half a minute, and then said–

  “I suppose you sent my card.”

  “I went at four, and said you were sure to be there shortly. They would suppose some accident prevented you from going. Especially if you go to-day.”

  Silence for a couple of minutes. Then Grandcourt said, “Who is invited here?”

  Lush drew out a note-book. “The Captain and Mrs. Torrington come next week. Mr. Hollis and Lady Flora, and the Cushats and the Gogoffs.”

  “Rather a ragged lot,” remarked Grandcourt, after a while. “Why did you ask the Gogoffs? When you write invitations in my name, be good enough to give me a list, instead of bringing down a giantess on me without my knowledge. She spoils the look of the room.”

  “You invited the Gogoffs yourself when you met them in Paris.”

  “What has that to do with it? I told you to give me a list.”

  Hitherto we have heard Grandcourt speaking in an interrupted drawl suggestive of languor and boredom. But this last brief speech was uttered in subdued, yet distinct, tones, which Lush had long recognized as the expression of a peremptory will.

  “Are there any other couples you would like to invite?”

  “Yes; think of some decent people, with a daughter or two. And one of your damned musicians.”

  “I wonder if Klesmer would come to us when he leaves Quetcham. Nothing but first-class music will go down with Miss Arrowpoint.”

  Lush spoke carelessly, but he was really seizing an opportunity and observing Grandcourt, who now for the first time turned his eyes toward his companion, while he gave two long luxuriant puffs on his cigar. Then he said, with a perceptible edge of contempt–

  “What in the name of nonsense have I to do with Miss Arrowpoint and her music?”

  “Well, something,” said Lush, jocosely. “You need not give yourself much trouble, perhaps. But some forms must be gone through before a man can marry a million.”

  “Very likely. But I am not going to marry a million.”

  “That’s a pity – to fling away an opportunity of this sort, and knock down your plans.”

  “Your plans, you mean.”

  “You have some debts, you know, and the heirship is not absolutely certain. It really is a fine opportunity. The father and mother ask for nothing better, I can see, and the daughter is equal to carrying any rank. She is not likely to refuse.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “The father and mother would let you do anything you like with them.”

  “But I should not like to do anything with them.”

  Here it was Lush who paused before remonstrating. “Good God, Grandcourt! after your experience, will you let a whim interfere with your comfortable settlement in life?”

  “Spare your oratory. I know what I am going to do.”

  “What?” Lush thrust his hands into his side pockets, as if he had to face something exasperating, but meant to keep his temper.

  “I am going to marry the other girl.”

  “Have you fallen in love?” This question carried a strong sneer.

  “I am going to marry her.”

  “You have made her an offer, then?”

  “No.”

  “She has a will of her own, I fancy. Extremely well fitted to make a rumpus. She would know what she liked.”

  “She doesn’t like you,” said Grandcourt, with the ghost of a smile.

  “Perfectly true,” said Lush, with another sneer. “However, if you and she are devoted to each other, that will be enough.”

  Grandcourt took no notice, but sipped his coffee, rose, and strolled out on the lawn, all the dogs following him.

  Lush glanced after him, then took up his cigar and smoked slowly, till he finally said–

  “Check, old boy!”

  Lush had not known Grandcourt for fifteen years without learning what sort of measures were useless with him, though what sort might be useful remained often doubtful. In the beginning of his career Lush held a fellowship, and nearly took orders for the sake of a college living, but not being fond of that prospect accepted instead the office of travelling companion to young Grandcourt, who had lost his father early, and who found Lush so convenient that he had allowed him to become prime minister in all his more personal affairs.

  The habit of fifteen years had made Grandcourt more and more in need of Lush’s handiness, and Lush more and more in need of the lazy luxury which his life with Grandcourt allowed. I cannot say that time increased Grandcourt’s lack of respect for his companion, since that lack had been absolute from the start, but it had confirmed his sense that he might kick Lush if he chose – only he never did choose to kick any animal, because a gentleman’s dogs should be kicked for him. He only said things which might have exposed himself to be kicked if his companion had been a man of independent spirit.

  But Mr. Lush’s liking of comfort had overtaken any sense of independence. He was conscious of being held kickable, but he preferred calling that one of the peculiarities of Grandcourt’s incalculable character. Lush’s love of ease was well-satisfied in his position, and if his puddings were rolled toward him in the dust, he took the inside bits and found them relishing.

  This morning, for example, though he had encountered more annoyance than usual, he went to his private sitting-room and played a good hour on the cello.