He put out his hand, and she let him press her poor little chill fingers; but she said no good-bye.
When he had left the room, Gwendolen threw herself into a seat, with an expectation as dull as her despair—the expectation that she was going to be punished. But Grandcourt took no notice: he was satisfied to have let her know that she had not deceived him, and to keep a silence which was formidable with omniscience. He went out that evening, and her plea of feeling ill was accepted without even a sneer.
The next morning at breakfast he said, “I am going yachting to the Mediterranean.”
“When?” said Gwendolen, with a leap of heart which had hope in it.
“The day after to-morrow. The yacht is at Marseilles. Lush is gone to get everything ready.”
“Shall I have mamma to stay with me, then?” said Gwendolen, the new sudden possibility of peace and affection filling her mind like a burst of morning light.
“No; you will go with me.”
CHAPTER XLIX.
Ever in his soul
That larger justice which makes gratitude
Triumphed above resentment. ’Tis the mark
Of regal natures, with the wider life.
And fuller capability of joy:—
Not wits exultant in the strongest lens
To show you goodness vanished into pulp
Never worth “thank you”—they’re the devil’s friars,
Vowed to be poor as he in love and trust,
Yet must go begging of a world that keeps
Some human property.
Deronda, in parting from Gwendolen, had abstained from saying, “I shall not see you again for a long while: I am going away,” lest Grandcourt should understand him to imply that the fact was of importance to her.