"I mean that Grandcourt is going to marry the girl you saw at Leubronn--don't you remember her--the Miss Harleth who used to play at roulette."

"Grandcourt is going to marry the girl you saw at Leubronn - the Miss Harleth who played at roulette."


"That depends on the sort of goodness he wants," said Sir Hugo, smiling.


"However, she and her friends have nothing, and she will bring him expenses.


It's a good match for my purposes, because if I am willing to fork out a sum of money, he may be willing to give up his chance of Diplow, so that we shall have it out and out, and when I die you will have the consolation of going to the place you would like to go to--wherever I may go."

: so it's a good match for my purposes, because if I am willing to fork out a large enough sum of money, he may be willing to give up Diplow, so that we shall have it."


"I wish you would not talk of dying in that light way, dear."


"It's rather a heavy way, Lou, for I shall have to pay a heavy sum--forty thousand, at least."


"But why are we to invite them to the Abbey?"


"I do _not_ like women who gamble, like Lady Cragstone."


Besides, she is not like Lady Cragstone because she gambled a little, any more than I am like a broker because I'm a Whig.


I want to keep Grandcourt in good humor, and to let him see plenty of this place, that he may think the less of Diplow.

I want to keep Grandcourt in good humour, and to let him see plenty of this place, that he may think the less of Diplow.


I don't know yet whether I shall get him to meet me in this matter.

I don't know yet whether I shall get him to agree.


And if Dan were to go over on a visit there, he might hold out the bait to him.

If Dan were to visit there, he might hold out the bait to him.


"Daniel is not fond of Mr. Grandcourt, I think, is he?"

"Daniel is not fond of Mr. Grandcourt, is he?"


said Lady Mallinger, looking at Deronda inquiringly.


"There is no avoiding everybody one doesn't happen to be fond of," said Deronda.


"I will go to Diplow--I don't know that I have anything better to do--since Sir Hugo wishes it."

"I will go to Diplow, since Sir Hugo wishes it."


"And if you don't find it very pleasant, it's so much experience.


Nothing used to come amiss to me when I was young.


"Yes; but I have seen that man, and something of his manners too," said Deronda.


"Not nice manners, I think," said Lady Mallinger.


"Well, you see they succeed with your sex," said Sir Hugo, provokingly.

"Well, they succeed with your sex," said Sir Hugo, provokingly.


"And he was an uncommonly good-looking fellow when he was two or three and twenty--like his father.

"And he was an uncommonly good-looking fellow when he was two or three and twenty."


He doesn't take after his father in marrying the heiress, though.


If he had got Miss Arrowpoint and my land too, confound him, he would have had a fine principality."


Deronda, in anticipating the projected visit, felt less disinclination than when consenting to it.

Deronda felt more willingness than at first.


The story of that girl's marriage did interest him: what he had heard through Lush of her having run away from the suit of the man she was now going to take as a husband, had thrown a new sort of light on her gambling; and it was probably the transition from that fevered worldliness into poverty which had urged her acceptance where she must in some way have felt repulsion.

The story of that girl's marriage interested him: what he had heard through Lush, about her having run away from the man she was now going to take as a husband, had thrown a new light on her gambling. It was probably the transition into poverty which had urged her acceptance where she must have felt repulsion.


All this implied a nature liable to difficulty and struggle--elements of life which had a predominant attraction for his sympathy, due perhaps to his early pain in dwelling on the conjectured story of his own existence.

All this implied a nature liable to difficulty and struggle - elements of life which had attracted his sympathy, due perhaps to his early pain in conjecturing about his own story.


Persons attracted him, as Hans Meyrick had done, in proportion to the possibility of his defending them, rescuing them, telling upon their lives with some sort of redeeming influence; and he had to resist an inclination, easily accounted for, to withdraw coldly from the fortunate.

People attracted him, as Hans Meyrick had done, in proportion to the possibility of his defending and rescuing them; and he had to resist an inclination to withdraw coldly from the fortunate.


But in the movement which had led him to repurchase Gwendolen's necklace for her, and which was at work in him still, there was something beyond his habitual compassionate fervor--something due to the fascination of her womanhood.

But his impulse to repurchase Gwendolen's necklace for her had been due to something beyond his habitual compassion - to the fascination of her womanhood.


He was very open to that sort of charm, and mingled it with the consciously Utopian pictures of his own future; yet any one able to trace the folds of his character might have conceived that he would be more likely than many less passionate men to love a woman without telling her of it.

He was very open to that sort of charm; yet he would be more likely than many less passionate men to love a woman without telling her of it.


Sprinkle food before a delicate-eared bird: there is nothing he would more willingly take, yet he keeps aloof, because of his sensibility to checks which to you are imperceptible.


And one man differs from another, as we all differ from the Bosjesman, in a sensibility to checks, that come from variety of needs, spiritual or other.


It seemed to foreshadow that capability of reticence in Deronda that his imagination was much occupied with two women, to neither of whom would he have held it possible that he should ever make love.

Deronda's imagination was much occupied with two women, to neither of whom would he have held it possible that he should ever make love.


Hans Meyrick had laughed at him for having something of the knight-errant in his disposition; and he would have found his proof if he had known what was just now going on in Deronda's mind about Mirah and Gwendolen.


Deronda wrote without delay to announce his visit to Diplow, and received in reply a polite assurance that his coming would give great pleasure.

Deronda wrote to announce his visit to Diplow, and received in reply a polite assurance that his coming would give great pleasure.


Grandcourt thought it probable that the visit was prompted by Sir Hugo's desire to court him for a purpose which he did not make up his mind to resist; and it was not a disagreeable idea to him that this fine fellow, whom he believed to be his cousin under the rose, would witness, perhaps with some jealousy, Henleigh Mallinger Grandcourt play the commanding part of betrothed lover to a splendid girl whom the cousin had already looked at with admiration.

Grandcourt understood the reason behind Sir Hugo's desire to court him; and it was not disagreeable to him that this fine fellow, whom he believed to be his cousin, would witness with some jealousy Henleigh Grandcourt play the commanding part of betrothed lover to a splendid girl, whom the cousin had seen and admired.


Grandcourt himself was not jealous of anything unless it threatened his mastery--which he did not think himself likely to lose.

Grandcourt himself was not jealous of anything unless it threatened his mastery - which he did not think himself likely to lose.


"I count myself in nothing else so happy As in a soul remembering my good friends."


Sir Hugo Mallinger was not so prompt in starting for Genoa as Mr. Gascoigne had been, and Deronda on all accounts would not take his departure until he had seen the baronet.

Sir Hugo Mallinger was not so prompt in starting for Genoa as Mr. Gascoigne had been, and Deronda would not depart until he had seen the baronet.


There was not only Grandcourt's death, but also the late crisis in his own life to make reasons why his oldest friend would desire to have the unrestrained communication of speech with him, for in writing he had not felt able to give any details concerning the mother who had come and gone like an apparition.

Not only Grandcourt's death, but also the late crisis in his own life made him wish to speak with his oldest friend.


It was not till the fifth evening that Deronda, according to telegram, waited for Sir Hugo at the station, where he was to arrive between eight and nine; and while he was looking forward to the sight of the kind, familiar face, which was part of his earliest memories, something like a smile, in spite of his late tragic experience, might have been detected in his eyes and the curve of his lips at the idea of Sir Hugo's pleasure in being now master of his estates, able to leave them to his daughters, or at least--according to a view of inheritance which had just been strongly impressed on Deronda's imagination--to take makeshift feminine offspring as intermediate to a satisfactory heir in a grandson.

So on the fifth evening Deronda waited for Sir Hugo at the station; and while he was looking forward to the sight of the kind, familiar face, he almost smiled, despite his late tragic experience, at the idea of Sir Hugo's pleasure in being now master of his estates, able to leave them to his daughters.


We should be churlish creatures if we could have no joy in our fellow-mortals' joy, unless it were in agreement with our theory of righteous distribution and our highest ideal of human good: what sour corners our mouths would get--our eyes, what frozen glances!


and all the while our own possessions and desires would not exactly adjust themselves to our ideal.


We must have some comradeship with imperfection; and it is, happily, possible to feel gratitude even where we discern a mistake that may have been injurious, the vehicle of the mistake being an affectionate intention prosecuted through a life-time of kindly offices.

; and it is, happily, possible to feel gratitude even where we discern a mistake that may have injured us, if it was made with an affectionate intention through a life-time of kindly offices.


Deronda's feeling and judgment were strongly against the action of Sir Hugo in making himself the agent of a falsity--yes, a falsity: he could give no milder name to the concealment under which he had been reared.

Deronda felt that Sir Hugo had committed a falsity.


But the baronet had probably had no clear knowledge concerning the mother's breach of trust, and with his light, easy way of taking life, had held it a reasonable preference in her that her son should be made an English gentleman, seeing that she had the eccentricity of not caring to part from her child, and be to him as if she were not.

But the baronet had probably had no knowledge of the mother's breach of trust, and had assumed that she would prefer her son to be made an English gentleman, since she did not seem to care about parting from him.


Daniel's affectionate gratitude toward Sir Hugo made him wish to find grounds of excuse rather than blame; for it is as possible to be rigid in principle and tender in blame, as it is to suffer from the sight of things hung awry, and yet to be patient with the hanger who sees amiss.

Daniel's affectionate gratitude toward Sir Hugo made him wish to excuse rather than to blame


If Sir Hugo in his bachelorhood had been beguiled into regarding children chiefly as a product intended to make life more agreeable to the full-grown, whose convenience alone was to be consulted in the disposal of them--why, he had shared an assumption which, if not formally avowed, was massively acted on at that date of the world's history; and Deronda, with all his keen memory of the painful inward struggle he had gone through in his boyhood, was able also to remember the many signs that his experience had been entirely shut out from Sir Hugo's conception.

him; and, with all his keen memory of the painful inward struggle he had gone through in his boyhood, he was aware also that Sir Hugo had had no idea of his distress.


Ignorant kindness may have the effect of cruelty; but to be angry with it as if it were direct cruelty would be an ignorant _un_kindness, the most remote from Deronda's large imaginative lenience toward others.

Ignorant kindness may have the effect of cruelty; but to be angry with it as if it were direct cruelty would be an ignorant unkindness, remote from Deronda's large imaginative lenience toward others.


And perhaps now, after the searching scenes of the last ten days, in which the curtain had been lifted for him from the secrets of lives unlike his own, he was more than ever disposed to check that rashness of indignation or resentment which has an unpleasant likeness to the love of punishing.

And perhaps now, after the last ten days, he was more than ever disposed to avoid that rash resentment which is close to a love of punishment.


When he saw Sir Hugo's familiar figure descending from the railway carriage, the life-long affection which had been well accustomed to make excuses, flowed in and submerged all newer knowledge that might have seemed fresh ground for blame.

When he saw Sir Hugo's familiar figure descending from the railway carriage, his life-long affection submerged all ground for blame.


"Well, Dan," said Sir Hugo, with a serious fervor, grasping Deronda's hand.

"Well, Dan," said Sir Hugo, grasping Deronda's hand.


He uttered no other words of greeting; there was too strong a rush of mutual consciousness.


The next thing was to give orders to the courier, and then to propose walking slowly in the mild evening, there being no hurry to get to the hotel.

The courier having taken the baggage, they walked slowly to the hotel together.


"I have taken my journey easily, and am in excellent condition," he said, as he and Deronda came out under the starlight, which was still faint with the lingering sheen of day.


"I didn't hurry in setting off, because I wanted to inquire into things a little, and so I got sight of your letter to Lady Mallinger before I started.

"I didn't hurry in setting off," Sir Hugo said, "because I wanted to inquire into things, and so I saw your letter to Lady Mallinger before I started.


"She seems to be escaping the bodily illness that one might have feared for her, after her plunge and terrible excitement.

"She seems to be escaping the illness that one might have feared, after her plunge and terrible excitement.


Her uncle and mother came two days ago, and she is being well taken care of."


"From what Mr. Gascoigne said to me, I conclude not."


He spoke as if it were a question whether the widow would have the estates for her life."


"It will not be much of a wrench to her affections, I fancy, this loss of the husband?"


said Sir Hugo, looking round at Deronda.


"The suddenness of the death has been a great blow to her," said Deronda, quietly evading the question.


"I wonder whether Grandcourt gave her any notion what were the provisions of his will?"


if there is no prospect of a legitimate heir, he has left everything to a boy he had by a Mrs. Glasher; you know nothing about the affair, I suppose, but she was a sort of wife to him for a good many years, and there are three older children--girls.

if there is no prospect of a legitimate heir, he has left everything to a boy he had by a Mrs. Glasher. You know nothing about the affair, I suppose, but she was a sort of wife to him for a good many years, and there are three older girls.


The boy is to take his father's name; he is Henleigh already, and he is to be Henleigh Mallinger Grandcourt.

The boy is to take his father's name, and he


The Mallinger will be of no use to him, I am happy to say; but the young dog will have more than enough with his fourteen years' minority--no need to have had holes filled up with my fifty thousand for Diplow that he had no right to: and meanwhile my beauty, the young widow, is to put up with a poor two thousand a year and the house at Gadsmere--a nice kind of banishment for her if she chose to shut herself up there, which I don't think she will.

will have more than enough: and meanwhile my beauty, the young widow, is to put up with a poor two thousand a year and the house at Gadsmere.


The boy's mother has been living there of late years.


I'm perfectly disgusted with Grandcourt.


I don't know that I'm obliged to think the better of him because he's drowned, though, so far as my affairs are concerned, nothing in his life became him like the leaving it."

I don't know that I'm obliged to think the better of him because he's drowned; though, so far as I'm concerned, nothing in his life became him like the leaving it."


"In my opinion he did wrong when he married this wife--not in leaving his estates to the son," said Deronda, rather dryly.

"In my opinion he did wrong when he married this wife, not in leaving his estates to the son," said Deronda, rather dryly.


"I say nothing against his leaving the land to the lad," said Sir Hugo; "but since he had married this girl he ought to have given her a handsome provision, such as she could live on in a style fitted to the rank he had raised her to.

"I say nothing against his leaving the land to the lad," said Sir Hugo; "but since he had married this girl he ought to have given her a handsome provision.


She ought to have had four or five thousand a year and the London house for her life; that's what I should have done for her.


I suppose, as she was penniless, her friends couldn't stand out for a settlement, else it's ill trusting to the will a man may make after he's married.


Even a wise man generally lets some folly ooze out of him in his will--my father did, I know; and if a fellow has any spite or tyranny in him, he's likely to bottle off a good deal for keeping in that sort of document.

Even a wise man generally lets some folly ooze out of him in his will - my father did, I know; and if a fellow has any spite in him, he's likely to bottle up a good deal in that sort of document.


It's quite clear Grandcourt meant that his death should put an extinguisher on his wife, if she bore him no heir."


"And, in the other case, I suppose everything would have been reversed--illegitimacy would have had the extinguisher?"

"And, in the other case, I suppose everything would have been reversed?"


"Precisely--Gadsmere and the two thousand.

"Precisely - Gadsmere and the two thousand.


One nuisance is that Grandcourt has made me an executor; but seeing he was the son of my only brother, I can't refuse to act.

One nuisance is that Grandcourt has made me an executor; but seeing he was my nephew, I can't refuse.


And I shall mind it less if I can be of any use to the widow.


Lush thinks she was not in ignorance about the family under the rose, and the purport of the will.

Lush thinks she knew about the family under the rose, and the purport of the will.


He hints that there was no very good understanding between the couple.


But I fancy you are the man who knew most about what Mrs. Grandcourt felt or did not feel--eh, Dan?"

But I fancy you are the man who knew most about what Mrs. Grandcourt felt - eh, Dan?"


Sir Hugo did not put this question with his usual jocoseness, but rather with a lowered tone of interested inquiry; and Deronda felt that any evasion would be misinterpreted.

Sir Hugo did not put this question with his usual jocoseness, but with a tone of inquiry; and Deronda answered gravely-


But as to the disposal of the property--from all I have seen of her, I should predict that she will be quite contented with it."

But as to the disposal of the property, I should predict that she will be quite contented with it."


"Then she is not much like the rest of her sex; that's all I can say," said Sir Hugo, with a slight shrug.

"Then she is not much like the rest of her sex; that's all I can say," said Sir Hugo, with a shrug.


"However, she ought to be something extraordinary, for there must be an entanglement between your horoscope and hers--eh?

"There must be an entanglement between your horoscope and hers - eh?


When that tremendous telegram came, the first thing Lady Mallinger said was, 'How very strange that it should be Daniel who sends it!'

When that tremendous telegram came, the first thing Lady Mallinger said was, 'How strange that it should be Daniel who sends it!'


But I have had something of the same sort in my own life.


I was once at a foreign hotel where a lady had been left by her husband without money.


When I heard of it, and came forward to help her, who should she be but an early flame of mine, who had been fool enough to marry an Austrian baron with a long mustache and short affection?

When I came forward to help her, who should she be but an early flame of mine?


But it was an affair of my own that called me there--nothing to do with knight-errantry, any more than you coming to Genoa had to do with the Grandcourts."

But my being there had nothing to do with her, any more than you coming to Genoa had to do with the Grandcourts."


Sir Hugo had begun to talk of the Grandcourts as the less difficult subject between himself and Deronda; but they were both wishing to overcome a reluctance to perfect frankness on the events which touched their relation to each other.

They both wished to overcome a reluctance to perfect frankness on the events surrounding Daniel's parentage.


Deronda felt that his letter, after the first interview with his mother, had been rather a thickening than a breaking of the ice, and that he ought to wait for the first opening to come from Sir Hugo.

Deronda felt that he ought to wait for the first opening to come from Sir Hugo.


Just when they were about to lose sight of the port, the baronet turned, and pausing as if to get a last view, said in a tone of more serious feeling--"And about the main business of your coming to Genoa, Dan?

At last the baronet turned, and said in a tone of serious feeling-
"And about the main business of your coming to Genoa, Dan?


You have not been deeply pained by anything you have learned, I hope?


There is nothing that you feel need change your position in any way?


You know, whatever happens to you must always be of importance to me."

Whatever happens to you must always be important to me."


"I desire to meet your goodness by perfect confidence, sir," said Deronda.


"But I can't answer those questions truly by a simple yes or no.


Much that I have heard about the past has pained me.

Much that I have heard about the past has pained me," answered Deronda.


And it has been a pain to meet and part with my mother in her suffering state, as I have been compelled to do.

"And it has been painful to meet and part with my mother in her suffering state.


But it is no pain--it is rather a clearing up of doubts for which I am thankful, to know my parentage.


As to the effect on my position, there will be no change in my gratitude to you, sir, for the fatherly care and affection you have always shown me.

And there will be no change in my gratitude to you, sir, for the fatherly care and affection you have always shown me.


But to know that I was born a Jew, may have a momentous influence on my life, which I am hardly able to tell you of at present."


Deronda spoke the last sentence with a resolve that overcame some diffidence.


He felt that the differences between Sir Hugo's nature and his own would have, by-and-by, to disclose themselves more markedly than had ever yet been needful.

; for he was aware of the differences between Sir Hugo's nature and his own.


The baronet gave him a quick glance, and turned to walk on.

The baronet gave him a quick glance, and walked on.


After a few moments' silence, in which he had reviewed all the material in his memory which would enable him to interpret Deronda's words, he said,


"I have long expected something remarkable from you, Dan; but, for God's sake, don't go into any eccentricities!


I can tolerate any man's difference of opinion, but let him tell it me without getting himself up as a lunatic.


At this stage of the world, if a man wants to be taken seriously, he must keep clear of melodrama.

If a man wants to be taken seriously, he must keep clear of melodrama.


I am not suspecting you of setting up any lunacy on your own account.


I only think you might easily be led arm in arm with a lunatic, especially if he wanted defending.


You have a passion for people who are pelted, Dan.


I'm sorry for them too; but so far as company goes, it's a bad ground of selection.


However, I don't ask you to anticipate your inclination in anything you have to tell me.


When you make up your mind to a course that requires money, I have some sixteen thousand pounds that have been accumulating for you over and above what you have been having the interest of as income.

However, when you do make up your mind to a course that requires money, I have some sixteen thousand pounds that have been accumulating for you over and above your income.


And now I am come, I suppose you want to get back to England as soon as you can?"

I suppose you want to go back to England as soon as you can?"


"I must go first to Mainz to get away a chest of my grandfather's, and perhaps to see a friend of his," said Deronda.

"I must go first to Mainz to get a chest of my grandfather's, and to see a friend of his," said Deronda.


"Although the chest has been lying there these twenty years, I have an unreasonable sort of nervous eagerness to get it away under my care, as if it were more likely now than before that something might happen to it.


And perhaps I am the more uneasy, because I lingered after my mother left, instead of setting out immediately.

"I lingered after my mother left, instead of setting out immediately.


Yet I can't regret that I was here--else Mrs. Grandcourt would have had none but servants to act for her."

Yet I can't regret that I was here - else Mrs. Grandcourt would have had none but servants to act for her."


"Yes, yes," said Sir Hugo, with a flippancy which was an escape of some vexation hidden under his more serious speech; "I hope you are not going to set a dead Jew above a living Christian."

"Yes, yes," said Sir Hugo, with a flippancy which was an escape of some vexation; "I hope you are not going to set a dead Jew above a living Christian."


Deronda colored, and repressed a retort.

Deronda coloured, and repressed a retort.


They were just turning into the _Italia_.


"O, welcome, pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope, Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings!"


Deronda did not obey Gwendolen's new summons without some agitation.


Not his vanity, but his keen sympathy made him susceptible to the danger that another's heart might feel larger demands on him than he would be able to fulfill; and it was no longer a matter of argument with him, but of penetrating consciousness, that Gwendolen's soul clung to his with a passionate need.

He felt the danger that her heart might make larger demands on him than he could fulfil; and he knew that Gwendolen's soul clung to his with a passionate need.


We do not argue the existence of the anger or the scorn that thrills through us in a voice; we simply feel it, and it admits of no disproof.


Deronda felt this woman's destiny hanging on his over a precipice of despair.


Any one who knows him cannot wonder at his inward confession, that if all this had happened little more than a year ago, he would hardly have asked himself whether he loved her; the impetuous determining impulse which would have moved him would have been to save her from sorrow, to shelter her life forevermore from the dangers of loneliness, and carry out to the last the rescue he had begun in that monitory redemption of the necklace.

Inwardly he confessed that if all this had happened a year ago, he would hardly have asked himself whether he loved her; his impulse would have been to save her from sorrow, to shelter her life forevermore from loneliness, and to complete the rescue he had begun in that redemption of the necklace.


But now, love and duty had thrown other bonds around him, and that impulse could no longer determine his life; still, it was present in him as a compassionate yearning, a painful quivering at the very imagination of having again and again to meet the appeal of her eyes and words.

But now, love and duty had thrown other bonds around him, and that impulse could no longer determine his life; still, it was present in him as a compassionate yearning, and he pitied her


The very strength of the bond, the certainty of the resolve, that kept him asunder from her, made him gaze at her lot apart with the more aching pity.


He awaited her coming in the back drawing-room--part of that white and crimson space where they had sat together at the musical party, where Gwendolen had said for the first time that her lot depended on his not forsaking her, and her appeal had seemed to melt into the melodic cry--_Per piet non dirmi addio_.

He awaited her in the drawing-room where they had sat together at the musical party, when Gwendolen had asked for the first time that he should not forsake her, and her appeal had seemed to melt into the song.


But the melody had come from Mirah's dear voice.


Deronda walked about this room, which he had for years known by heart, with a strange sense of metamorphosis in his own life.

Deronda walked about this familiar room with a strange sense of metamorphosis.


The familiar objects around him, from Lady Mallinger's gently smiling portrait to the also human and urbane faces of the lions on the pilasters of the chimney-piece, seemed almost to belong to a previous state of existence which he was revisiting in memory only, not in reality; so deep and transforming had been the impressions he had lately experienced, so new were the conditions under which he found himself in the house he had been accustomed to think of as a home--standing with his hat in his hand awaiting the entrance of a young creature whose life had also been undergoing a transformation--a tragic transformation toward a wavering result, in which he felt with apprehensiveness that his own action was still bound up.

The objects around him seemed almost to belong to a previous state of existence which he was revisiting in memory only, not in reality; so deep and transforming had been his recent experiences. And he was awaiting the entrance of a young creature whose life had also been undergoing a transformation - a tragic transformation toward a wavering result, in which he felt apprehensively that he was still bound up.


But Gwendolen was come in, looking changed; not only by her mourning dress, but by a more satisfied quietude of expression than he had seen in her face at Genoa.

Gwendolen came in, looking changed; not only by her mourning dress, but by a more satisfied quietude of expression than he had seen in her face at Genoa.


Her satisfaction was that Deronda was there; but there was no smile between them as they met and clasped hands; each was full of remembrance--full of anxious prevision.

Her satisfaction was that Deronda was there; but there was no smile between them as they met and clasped hands.


Let us sit down," immediately seating herself in the nearest chair.


"I asked you to come because I want you to tell me what I ought to do," she began, at once.

"I asked you to come because I want you to tell me what I ought to do," she began.


"Don't be afraid of telling me what you think is right, because it seems hard.


I was afraid once of being poor; I could not bear to think of being under other people; and that was why I did something--why I married.

I was afraid once of being poor; that was why I married.


I think I could bear to be poor, if you think I ought.

, and I could bear to be poor, if you think I ought.


"Yes, Sir Hugo told me," said Deronda, already guessing the question she had to ask.


"Ought I to take anything he has left me?


I will tell you what I have been thinking," said Gwendolen, with a more nervous eagerness.

I will tell you what I have been thinking," said Gwendolen, with nervous eagerness.


"Perhaps you may not quite know that I really did think a good deal about my mother when I married.

"I really did care about my mother when I married.


I _was_ selfish, but I did love her, and feel about her poverty; and what comforted me most at first, when I was miserable, was her being better off because I had married.

I was selfish, but I did love her; and what comforted me most at first, when I was miserable, was her being better off.


The thing that would be hardest to me now would be to see her in poverty again; and I have been thinking that if I took enough to provide for her, and no more--nothing for myself--it would not be wrong; for I was very precious to my mother--and he took me from her--and he meant--and if she had known--"

The thing that would be hardest to me now would be to see her in poverty again; and I have been thinking that if I took enough to provide for her, and no more, it would not be wrong; for I was very precious to my mother - and he took me from her - and he meant - and if she had known-"


She had been preparing herself for this interview by thinking of hardly anything else than this question of right toward her mother; but the question had carried with it thoughts and reasons which it was impossible for her to utter, and these perilous remembrances swarmed between her words, making her speech more and more agitated and tremulous.

as perilous remembrances swarmed between her words, making her speech more and more tremulous.


She looked down helplessly at her hands, now unladen of all rings except her wedding-ring.


"Do not hurt yourself by speaking of that," said Deronda, tenderly.


"There is no need; the case is very simple.


I think I can hardly judge wrongly about it."


You consult me because I am the only person to whom you have confided the most painful part of your experience: and I can understand your scruples."


He did not go on immediately, waiting for her to recover herself.


The silence seemed to Gwendolen full of the tenderness that she heard in his voice, and she had courage to lift up her eyes and look at him as he said, "You are conscious of something which you feel to be a crime toward one who is dead.

waited until Gwendolen had courage to lift up her eyes before he continued, "


You think that you have forfeited all claim as a wife.


You want to keep yourself from profiting by his death.


Your feeling even urges you to some self-punishment--some scourging of the self that disobeyed your better will--the will that struggled against temptation.

Your feeling even urges you to some self-punishment - some scourging of the self that disobeyed your better will.


"Yes--at least, I want to be good--not like what I have been," said Gwendolen.

"Yes - I want to be good," said Gwendolen.


"I will try to bear what you think I ought to bear.


I have tried to tell you the worst about myself.


"If no one but yourself were concerned in this question of income," said Deronda, "I should hardly dare to urge you against any remorseful prompting; but I take as a guide now, your feeling about Mrs. Davilow, which seems to me quite just.


I cannot think that your husband's dues even to yourself are nullified by any act you have committed.

Your husband's dues are not nullified by any act you have committed.


He voluntarily entered into your life, and affected its course in what is always the most momentous way.


But setting that aside, it was due from him in his position that he should provide for your mother, and he of course understood that if this will took effect she would share the provision he had made for you."

: it was due from him that he should provide for your mother, and he of course understood that if this will took effect she would share the provision he had made for you."


What I thought of was to take that and leave the rest," said Gwendolen.


She had been so long inwardly arguing for this as a permission, that her mind could not at once take another attitude.

, who had been inwardly arguing for this so long, that her mind could not at once take another attitude.


"I think it is not your duty to fix a limit in that way," said Deronda.


"You would be making a painful enigma for Mrs. Davilow; an income from which you shut yourself out must be embittered to her.


And your own course would become too difficult.


We agreed at Genoa that the burden on your conscience is one what no one ought to be admitted to the knowledge of.

We agreed at Genoa that no-one else should know of the burden on your conscience.


The future beneficence of your life will be best furthered by your saving all others from the pain of that knowledge.

It is best if you save all others from the pain of that knowledge.


In my opinion you ought simply to abide by the provisions of your husband's will, and let your remorse tell only on the use that you will make of your monetary independence."

In my opinion you ought simply to abide by your husband's will, and let your remorse decide only on the use that you will make of your money."


In uttering the last sentence Deronda automatically took up his hat which he had laid on the floor beside him.

In uttering the last sentence Deronda automatically took up his hat to go.


Gwendolen, sensitive to his slightest movement, felt her heart giving a great leap, as if it too had a consciousness of its own, and would hinder him from going: in the same moment she rose from her chair, unable to reflect that the movement was an acceptance of his apparent intention to leave her; and Deronda, of course, also rose, advancing a little.

Gwendolen felt her heart giving a great leap, as if it would hinder him from going: she rose from her chair, unable to reflect that the movement was an acceptance of his apparent intention to leave; and Deronda, of course, also rose.


"I will do what you tell me," said Gwendolen, hurriedly; "but what else shall I do?"


No other than these simple words were possible to her; and even these were too much for her in a state of emotion where her proud secrecy was disenthroned: as the child-like sentences fell from her lips they re-acted on her like a picture of her own helplessness, and she could not check the sob which sent the large tears to her eyes.

No other than these simple words were possible to her; as the child-like sentences fell from her lips they acted on her like a picture of her own helplessness, and she could not check a sob.


Deronda, too, felt a crushing pain; but imminent consequences were visible to him, and urged him to the utmost exertion of conscience.

Deronda, too, felt a crushing pain; but knew the need of the utmost exertion of conscience.


When she had pressed her tears away, he said, in a gently questioning tone,


"You will probably be soon going with Mrs. Davilow into the country."


Gwendolen waited an instant, turning her eyes vaguely toward the window, as if looking at some imagined prospect.

Gwendolen turned her eyes vaguely toward the window.


"I want to be kind to them all--they can be happier than I can.

"I want to be kind to them all - they can be happier than I can.


It is a duty that cannot be doubtful," said Deronda.


He paused a little between his sentences, feeling a weight of anxiety on all his words.

He paused, feeling a weight of anxiety on all his words.


Looking at your life as a debt may seem the dreariest view of things at a distance; but it cannot really be so.


What makes life dreary is the want of motive: but once beginning to act with that penitential, loving purpose you have in your mind, there will be unexpected satisfactions--there will be newly-opening needs--continually coming to carry you on from day to day.

What makes life dreary is the want of motive: but once beginning to act with that penitential, loving purpose you have in your mind, there will be unexpected satisfaction - there will be new needs - continually carrying you on from day to day.


You will find your life growing like a plant."


Gwendolen turned her eyes on him with the look of one athirst toward the sound of unseen waters.


Deronda felt the look as if she had been stretching her arms toward him from a forsaken shore.

Deronda felt as if she had been stretching her arms toward him from a forsaken shore.


His voice took an affectionate imploringness when he said,


"This sorrow, which has cut down to the root, has come to you while you are so young--try to think of it not as a spoiling of your life, but as a preparation for it.

"This sorrow, which has cut to the root, has come to you while you are young - try to think of it not as a spoiling of your life, but as a preparation for it."


Let it be a preparation----" Any one overhearing his tones would have thought he was entreating for his own happiness.

Anyone listening would have thought he was entreating for his own happiness.


you have been saved from the worst evils that might have come from your marriage, which you feel was wrong.


You have had a vision of injurious, selfish action--a vision of possible degradation; think that a severe angel, seeing you along the road of error, grasped you by the wrist and showed you the horror of the life you must avoid.

You have had a vision of degradation; think that a severe angel, seeing you on the road of error, grasped your wrist and showed you the horror of the life you must avoid.


And it has come to you in your spring-time.


You can, you will, be among the best of women, such as make others glad that they were born."


The words were like the touch of a miraculous hand to Gwendolen.


Mingled emotions streamed through her frame with a strength that seemed the beginning of a new existence, having some new power or other which stirred in her vaguely.

Mingled emotions streamed through her frame with the strength of a new existence.


So pregnant is the divine hope of moral recovery with the energy that fulfills it.


So potent in us is the infused action of another soul, before which we bow in complete love.


But the new existence seemed inseparable from Deronda: the hope seemed to make his presence permanent.


It was not her thought, that he loved her, and would cling to her--a thought would have tottered with improbability; it was her spiritual breath.

It was not her thought, that he loved her; it was her spiritual breath.


For the first time since that terrible moment on the sea a flush rose and spread over her cheek, brow and neck, deepened an instant or two, and then gradually disappeared.


Deronda advanced and put out his hand, saying, "I must not weary you."

Deronda put out his hand, saying, "I must not weary you."


She was startled by the sense that he was going, and put her hand in his, still without speaking.

Startled by the sense that he was going, she put her hand in his without speaking.


"You look ill yet--unlike yourself," he added, while he held her hand.


"I can't sleep much," she answered, with some return of her dispirited manner.


They come back--they will all come back," she ended, shudderingly, a chill fear threatening her.

come back - they will all come back." She shuddered.


"By degrees they will be less insistent," said Deronda.


He could not drop her hand or move away from her abruptly.


"Sir Hugo says he shall come to stay at Diplow," said Gwendolen, snatching at previously intended words which had slipped away from her.

"Sir Hugo says he shall come to stay at Diplow," said Gwendolen.


"Probably," said Deronda, and then feeling that the word was cold, he added, correctively, "Yes, I shall come," and then released her hand, with the final friendly pressure of one who has virtually said good-bye.

"Probably," he said, and then feeling that the word was cold, he added, "Yes, I shall come." He released her hand, with a final friendly pressure.


"And not again here, before I leave town?"


said Gwendolen, with timid sadness, looking as pallid as ever.


"If I can be of any use--if you wish me--certainly I will."

"If I can be of any use - if you wish - certainly I will."


"I must wish it," said Gwendolen, impetuously; "you know I must wish it.

"I must wish it," said Gwendolen impetuously; "you know I must wish it.


Deronda felt a pang, which showed itself in his face.


He looked miserable as he said, "I will certainly come."

and looked miserable as he said, "I will certainly come."


Gwendolen perceived the change in his face; but the intense relief of expecting him to come again could not give way to any other feeling, and there was a recovery of the inspired hope and courage in her.

She perceived the change in his face; but her intense relief could not give way to any other feeling, and there was a recovery of hope and courage in her.


"Don't be unhappy about me," she said, in a tone of affectionate assurance.


"I shall remember your words--every one of them.


I shall remember what you believe about me; I shall try."


She looked at him firmly, and put out her hand again as if she had forgotten what had passed since those words of his which she promised to remember.


But there was no approach to a smile on her lips.


She had never smiled since her husband's death.


When she stood still and in silence, she looked like a melancholy statue of the Gwendolen whose laughter had once been so ready when others were grave.

She looked like a melancholy statue of the Gwendolen whose laughter had once been so ready when others were grave.


It is only by remembering the searching anguish which had changed the aspect of the world for her that we can understand her behavior to Deronda--the unreflecting openness, nay, the importunate pleading, with which she expressed her dependence on him.

It is only by remembering her life-changing anguish that we can understand her behaviour to Deronda - the unreflecting openness, the pleading, with which she expressed her dependence on him.


Considerations such as would have filled the minds of indifferent spectators could not occur to her, any more than if flames had been mounting around her, and she had flung herself into his open arms and clung about his neck that he might carry her into safety.

She did not think about how it would appear to others, any more than if flames had been mounting, and she had flung herself into his arms and clung about his neck that he might carry her into safety.


She identified him with the struggling regenerative process in her which had begun with his action.


Is it any wonder that she saw her own necessity reflected in his feeling?

Is it any wonder that she saw her own need reflected in his feeling?


She was in that state of unconscious reliance and expectation which is a common experience with us when we are preoccupied with our own trouble or our own purposes.

She was in that state of unconscious reliance and expectation which is common when we are preoccupied with our own trouble.


We diffuse our feeling over others, and count on their acting from our motives.


Her imagination had not been turned to a future union with Deronda by any other than the spiritual tie which had been continually strengthening; but also it had not been turned toward a future separation from him.

She had not imagined any future union with Deronda other than the spiritual tie between them; but also she had not envisaged a future separation.


Love-making and marriage--how could they now be the imagery in which poor Gwendolen's deepest attachment could spontaneously clothe itself?

Love-making and marriage had no connection with attachment for poor Gwendolen now.


Mighty Love had laid his hand upon her; but what had he demanded of her?


Acceptance of rebuke--the hard task of self-change--confession--endurance.

Acceptance of rebuke - the hard task of self-change - confession - endurance.


She cried as the child cries whose little feet have fallen backward--cried to be taken by the hand, lest she should lose herself.

She cried as the child cries whose little feet have fallen behind - cries to be taken by the hand, lest she should lose herself.


What position could have been more difficult for a man full of tenderness, yet with clear foresight?


He was the only creature who knew the real nature of Gwendolen's trouble: to withdraw himself from any appeal of hers would be to consign her to a dangerous loneliness.

He was the only creature who knew the real nature of Gwendolen's trouble: to withdraw himself from her appeal would be to consign her to a dangerous loneliness.


He could not reconcile himself to the cruelty of apparently rejecting her dependence on him; and yet in the nearer or farther distance he saw a coming wrench, which all present strengthening of their bond would make the harder.

He could not cruelly reject her dependence on him; and yet in the distance he saw a coming wrench, which all present strengthening of their bond would make the harder.


He went once and again to Park Lane before Gwendolen left; but their interviews were in the presence of Mrs. Davilow, and were therefore less agitating.

He went again to Park Lane before Gwendolen left; but their interviews were in the presence of Mrs. Davilow, and were therefore less agitating.


Gwendolen, since she had determined to accept her income, had conceived a project which she liked to speak of: it was to place her mother and sisters with herself in Offendene again, and, as she said, piece back her life unto that time when they first went there, and when everything was happiness about her, only she did not know it.

Gwendolen, since she had determined to accept her income, had decided to move with her mother and sisters to Offendene again, and, as she said, piece back her life unto that time when they first went there, when everything was happiness, only she did not know it.


The idea had been mentioned to Sir Hugo, who was going to exert himself about the letting of Gadsmere for a rent which would more than pay the rent of Offendene.

Sir Hugo was going to arrange the letting of Gadsmere for a rent which would more than pay the rent of Offendene.


All this was told to Deronda, who willingly dwelt on a subject that seemed to give some soothing occupation to Gwendolen.

All this was told to Deronda, who willingly dwelt on a subject that seemed to soothe Gwendolen.


He said nothing and she asked nothing, of what chiefly occupied himself.


Her mind was fixed on his coming to Diplow before the autumn was over; and she no more thought of the Lapidoths--the little Jewess and her brother--as likely to make a difference in her destiny, than of the fermenting political and social leaven which was making a difference in the history of the world.

Her mind was fixed on his coming to Diplow before the autumn was over; and she never thought of the Lapidoths as likely to make a difference in her destiny.


In fact poor Gwendolen's memory had been stunned, and all outside the lava-lit track of her troubled conscience, and her effort to get deliverance from it, lay for her in dim forgetfulness.

In fact, poor Gwendolen's memory had been stunned, and all outside the lava-lit track of her troubled conscience lay for her in dim forgetfulness.


"It will hardly be denied that even in this frail and corrupted world, we sometimes meet persons who, in their very mien and aspect, as well as in the whole habit of life, manifest such a signature and stamp of virtue, as to make our judgment of them a matter of intuition rather than the result of continued examination."


--ALEXANDER KNOX: quoted in Southey's Life of Wesley.


Mirah said that she had slept well that night; and when she came down in Mab's black dress, her dark hair curling in fresh fibrils as it gradually dried from its plenteous bath, she looked like one who was beginning to take comfort after the long sorrow and watching which had paled her cheek and made blue semicircles under her eyes.

Mirah said that she had slept well that night; and when she came down in Mab's black dress, her dark hair curling as it gradually dried after its bath, she looked like one who was beginning to take comfort after the long sorrow which had paled her cheek and made blue semicircles under her eyes.


It was Mab who carried her breakfast and ushered her down--with some pride in the effect produced by a pair of tiny felt slippers which she had rushed out to buy because there were no shoes in the house small enough for Mirah, whose borrowed dress ceased about her ankles and displayed the cheap clothing that, moulding itself on her feet, seemed an adornment as choice as the sheaths of buds.

Mab ushered her down - with some pride in the pair of tiny felt slippers which she had rushed out to buy because there were no shoes in the house small enough for Mirah.


cried Mab, clasping her hands and stooping toward Mirah's feet, as she entered the parlor; "look at the slippers, how beautiful they fit!

cried Mab, as Mirah entered the parlour; "look at the slippers, how beautifully they fit!'"


I declare she is like the Queen Budoor--'two delicate feet, the work of the protecting and all-recompensing Creator, support her; and I wonder how they can sustain what is above them.'"


Mirah looked down at her own feet in a childlike way and then smiled at Mrs. Meyrick, who was saying inwardly, "One could hardly imagine this creature having an evil thought.

Mirah looked down at her own feet in a childlike way and then smiled at Mrs. Meyrick, who said inwardly, "One could hardly imagine this creature having an evil thought.


But wise people would tell me to be cautious."


She returned Mirah's smile and said, "I fear the feet have had to sustain their burden a little too often lately.

Returning Mirah's smile, she said, "I fear the feet have had to sustain their burden too often lately.


But to-day she will rest and be my companion."


"And she will tell you so many things and I shall not hear them," grumbled Mab, who felt herself in the first volume of a delightful romance and obliged to miss some chapters because she had to go to pupils.

"And she will tell you so many things and I shall not hear them," grumbled Mab, who had to go to pupils.


Kate was already gone to make sketches along the river, and Amy was away on business errands.


It was what the mother wished, to be alone with this stranger, whose story must be a sorrowful one, yet was needful to be told.

It was what the mother wished, to be alone with this stranger, whose story must be sorrowful, yet needed to be told.


The small front parlor was as good as a temple that morning.


The sunlight was on the river and soft air came in through the open window; the walls showed a glorious silent cloud of witnesses--the Virgin soaring amid her cherubic escort; grand Melancholia with her solemn universe; the Prophets and Sibyls; the School of Athens; the Last Supper; mystic groups where far-off ages made one moment; grave Holbein and Rembrandt heads; the Tragic Muse; last-century children at their musings or their play; Italian poets--all were there through the medium of a little black and white.

Soft air came in through the open window of the small front parlour; the walls showed a glorious silent cloud of witnesses - the Virgin soaring amid her cherubic escort; Prophets and Sibyls; the Last Supper; grave Holbein and Rembrandt heads; the Tragic Muse; Italian poets - all there in black and white.


The neat mother who had weathered her troubles, and come out of them with a face still cheerful, was sorting colored wools for her embroidery.

The neat mother who had weathered her troubles cheerfully was sorting wool for her embroidery.


Hafiz purred on the window-ledge, the clock on the mantle-piece ticked without hurry, and the occasional sound of wheels seemed to lie outside the more massive central quiet.

Hafiz purred on the window-ledge, the clock on the mantelpiece ticked without hurry, and the room was peaceful.


Mrs. Meyrick thought that this quiet might be the best invitation to speech on the part of her companion, and chose not to disturb it by remark.

Mrs. Meyrick thought that this quiet might invite her companion to speak, and chose not to disturb it.


Mirah sat opposite in her former attitude, her hands clasped on her lap, her ankles crossed, her eyes at first traveling slowly over the objects around her, but finally resting with a sort of placid reverence on Mrs. Meyrick.

Mirah sat opposite, her hands clasped on her lap, her ankles crossed, her eyes travelling slowly over the objects around her, but finally resting with a sort of reverence on Mrs. Meyrick.


"I remember my mother's face better than anything; yet I was not seven when I was taken away, and I am nineteen now."


"I can understand that," said Mrs. Meyrick.


"There are some earliest things that last the longest."


I think my life began with waking up and loving my mother's face: it was so near to me, and her arms were round me, and she sang to me.


One hymn she sang so often, so often: and then she taught me to sing it with her: it was the first I ever sang.

One hymn she sang so often: and she taught it me. It was the first I ever sang.


They were always Hebrew hymns she sang; and because I never knew the meaning of the words they seemed full of nothing but our love and happiness.

They were always Hebrew hymns; and because I never knew the meaning of the words they seemed full of our love and happiness.


When I lay in my little bed and it was all white above me, she used to bend over me, between me and the white, and sing in a sweet, low voice.

When I lay in my little bed, she used to bend over me, and sing in a sweet, low voice.


I can dream myself back into that time when I am awake, and it often comes back to me in my sleep--my hand is very little, I put it up to her face and she kisses it.

I can dream myself back into that time when I am awake, and it often comes back to me in my sleep - my hand is very little, I put it up to her face and she kisses it.


Sometimes in my dreams I begin to tremble and think that we are both dead; but then I wake up and my hand lies like this, and for a moment I hardly know myself.

Sometimes in my dreams I begin to tremble and think we are both dead; but then I wake up and my hand lies like this, and for a moment I hardly know myself.


But if I could see my mother again I should know her."


"You must expect some change after twelve years," said Mrs. Meyrick, gently.


"See my grey hair: ten years ago it was bright brown.


The days and months pace over us like restless little birds, and leave the marks of their feet backward and forward; especially when they are like birds with heavy hearts--then they tread heavily."


"Ah, I am sure her heart has been heavy for want of me.

"I am sure her heart has been heavy for want of me.


But to feel her joy if we could meet again, and I could make her know I love her and give her deep comfort after all her mourning!

But to feel her joy if we could meet again, and I could give her comfort after all her mourning!


If that could be, I should mind nothing; I should be glad that I have lived through my trouble.

If that could be, I should be glad that I have lived through my trouble.


The world seemed miserable and wicked; none helped me so that I could bear their looks and words; I felt that my mother was dead, and death was the only way to her.

The world seemed miserable and wicked; nobody helped me, I felt that my mother was dead, and death was the only way to her.


But then in the last moment--yesterday, when I longed for the water to close over me--and I thought that death was the best image of mercy--then goodness came to me living, and I felt trust in the living.

But then in the last moment, when I longed for the water to close over me, then goodness came to me, and I felt trust in the living.


And--it is strange--but I began to hope that she was living too.

And - it is strange - but I began to hope that she was living too.


And now I with you--here--this morning, peace and hope have come into me like a flood.

And now this morning, peace and hope have come into me like a flood.


I want nothing; I can wait; because I hope and believe and am grateful--oh, so grateful!

I can wait; because I hope and believe and am grateful - oh, so grateful!


You have not thought evil of me--you have not despised me."

You have not thought evil of me - you have not despised me."


Mirah spoke with low-toned fervor, and sat as still as a picture all the while.


"Many others would have felt as we do, my dear," said Mrs. Meyrick, feeling a mist come over her eyes as she looked at her work.


"But I did not meet them--they did not come to me."


"How was it that you were taken from your mother?"


It is dreadful to speak of, yet I must tell you--I must tell you everything.

"It is dreadful to speak of, yet I must tell you everything.


I thought we were only going on a little journey; and I was pleased.


There was a box with all my little things in.


But we went on board a ship, and got farther and farther away from the land.

but we went on board a ship, and got farther and farther away from the land.


Then I was ill; and I thought it would never end--it was the first misery, and it seemed endless.

Then I was ill; and I thought it would never end.


I knew nothing then, and believed what my father said.

I knew nothing then, and believed my father when he said


He comforted me, and told me I should go back to my mother.


But it was America we had reached, and it was long years before we came back to Europe.


At first I often asked my father when we were going back; and I tried to learn writing fast, because I wanted to write to my mother; but one day when he found me trying to write a letter, he took me on his knee and told me that my mother and brother were dead; that was why we did not go back.

"At first I often asked my father when we were going back; and I tried to learn writing fast, because I wanted to write to my mother; but one day when he found me writing a letter, he took me on his knee and told me that my mother and brother were dead; that was why we did not go back.


I remember my brother a little; he carried me once; but he was not always at home.


I believed my father when he said that they were dead.


I saw them under the earth when he said they were there, with their eyes forever closed.

I saw them under the earth, with their eyes forever closed.


I never thought of its not being true; and I used to cry every night in my bed for a long while.

I never thought of its not being true; and I used to cry every night in my bed.


Then when she came so often to me, in my sleep, I thought she must be living about me though I could not always see her, and that comforted me.

Then when she came so often to me, in my sleep, I thought she must be living around me though I could not always see her, and that comforted me.


I was never afraid in the dark, because of that; and very often in the day I used to shut my eyes and bury my face and try to see her and to hear her singing.

Very often I used to shut my eyes and try to see her and to hear her singing.


I came to do that at last without shutting my eyes."


Mirah paused with a sweet content in her face, as if she were having her happy vision, while she looked out toward the river.

Mirah paused with a sweet content in her face, while she looked out toward the river.


"Still your father was not unkind to you, I hope," said Mrs. Meyrick, after a minute, anxious to recall her.

"Still your father was not unkind to you, I hope," said Mrs. Meyrick anxiously.


"No; he petted me, and took pains to teach me.


He was an actor; and I found out, after, that the 'Coburg' I used to hear of his going to at home was a theatre.


But he had more to do with the theatre than acting.


He had not always been an actor; he had been a teacher, and knew many languages.


His acting was not very good; I think, but he managed the stage, and wrote and translated plays.

His acting was not very good, I think; but he managed the stage, and wrote and translated plays.


An Italian lady, a singer, lived with us a long time.

An Italian Signora, a singer, lived with us a long time.


They both taught me, and I had a master besides, who made me learn by heart and recite.


I worked quite hard, though I was so little; and I was not nine when I first went on the stage.

I worked hard, though I was so little; I was not nine when I first went on the stage.


I could easily learn things, and I was not afraid.


But then and ever since I hated our way of life.


My father had money, and we had finery about us in a disorderly way; always there were men and women coming and going; there was loud laughing and disputing, strutting, snapping of fingers, jeering, faces I did not like to look at--though many petted and caressed me.

My father had money, and we had finery in a disorderly way; always there were men and women coming and going; laughing and disputing, strutting, snapping fingers, jeering - though many petted and caressed me.


Even at first when I understood nothing, I shrank away from all those things outside me into companionship with thoughts that were not like them; and I gathered thoughts very fast, because I read many things--plays and poetry, Shakespeare and Schiller, and learned evil and good.

and shrank away into my thoughts; I read plays and poetry, Shakespeare and Schiller, and learned evil and good.


"My father began to believe that I might be a great singer: my voice was considered wonderful for a child; and he had the best teaching for me.


But it was painful that he boasted of me, and set me to sing for show at any minute, as if I had been a musical box.

But it was painful that he boasted of me, and made me sing for show as if I had been a musical box.


Once when I was nine years old, I played the part of a little girl who had been forsaken and did not know it, and sat singing to herself while she played with flowers.


I did it without any trouble; but the clapping and all the sounds of the theatre were hateful to me; and I never liked the praise I had, because it all seemed very hard and unloving: I missed the love and trust I had been born into.

I did it without any trouble; but the clapping was hateful to me; and the praise I had seemed hard and unloving: I missed the love and trust I had been born into.


I made a life in my own thoughts quite different from everything about me: I chose what seemed to me beautiful out of the plays and everything, and made my world out of it; and it was like a sharp knife always grazing me that we had two sorts of life which jarred so with each other--women looking good and gentle on the stage, and saying good things as if they felt them, and directly after I saw them with coarse, ugly manners.

I made a life in my own thoughts quite different from everything about me: I chose what seemed to me beautiful out of the plays, and made my world out of it; and it was like a sharp knife that the two sorts of life jarred so with each other - women seeming good and gentle on the stage, and directly afterwards using coarse, ugly manners.


My father sometimes noticed my shrinking ways; and Signora said one day, when I had been rehearsing, 'She will never be an artist: she has no notion of being anybody but herself.

"Signora said one day, 'She will never be an artist: she has no notion of being anybody but herself.


That does very well now, but by-and-by you will see--she will have no more face and action than a singing-bird.'

That does very well now, but by-and-by she will have no more face and action than a singing-bird.'


My father was angry, and they quarreled.

My father was angry, and they quarrelled.


I sat alone and cried, because what she had said was like a long unhappy future unrolled before me.

I sat alone and cried, because I saw a long unhappy future before me.


I did not want to be an artist; but this was what my father expected of me.

I did not want to be an artist; but my father expected it.


After a while Signora left us, and a governess used to come and give me lessons in different things, because my father began to be afraid of my singing too much; but I still acted from time to time.

"Then Signora left us, and a governess came, but I still acted from time to time.


Rebellious feelings grew stronger in me, and I wished to get away from this life; but I could not tell where to go, and I dreaded the world.

I wished to get away; but I could not tell where to go, and I was afraid of the world.


Besides, I felt it would be wrong to leave my father: I dreaded doing wrong, for I thought I might get wicked and hateful to myself, in the same way that many others seemed hateful to me.

Besides, I felt it would be wrong to leave my father: I dreaded doing wrong and getting wicked.


For so long, so long I had never felt my outside world happy; and if I got wicked I should lose my world of happy thoughts where my mother lived with me.

For so long, I had never felt my outside world happy; and if I got wicked I should lose my world of happy thoughts where my mother lived with me.


That was my childish notion all through those years.


"Had you no teaching about what was your duty?"


She did not like to say "religion"--finding herself on inspection rather dim as to what the Hebrew religion might have turned into at this date.

She did not like to say "religion" - finding herself rather vague as to what the Hebrew religion involved.


"No--only that I ought to do what my father wished.

"No - only that I ought to do what my father wished.


He did not follow our religion at New York, and I think he wanted me not to know much about it.

He did not follow our religion at New York.


But because my mother used to take me to the synagogue, and I remembered sitting on her knee and looking through the railing and hearing the chanting and singing, I longed to go.


One day when I was quite small I slipped out and tried to find the synagogue, but I lost myself a long while till a peddler questioned me and took me home.

Once when I was small I slipped out and tried to find the synagogue, but I lost myself till a peddler questioned me and took me home.


My father, missing me, had been much in fear, and was very angry.


I too had been so frightened at losing myself that it was long before I thought of venturing out again.

I had been so frightened that it was long before I thought of venturing out again.


But after Signora left us we went to rooms where our landlady was a Jewess and observed her religion.

"After Signora left, we went to rooms where our landlady was a practising Jewess.


I asked her to take me with her to the synagogue; and I read in her prayer-books and Bible, and when I had money enough I asked her to buy me books of my own, for these books seemed a closer companionship with my mother: I knew that she must have looked at the very words and said them.

I asked her to take me to the synagogue; and I read in her prayer-books and Bible, and asked her to buy me books of my own, for they seemed a closer companionship with my mother: I knew that she must have looked at the very words and said them.


In that way I have come to know a little of our religion, and the history of our people, besides piecing together what I read in plays and other books about Jews and Jewesses; because I was sure my mother obeyed her religion.

In that way I have come to know a little of our religion, and the history of our people.
"I was sure my mother obeyed her religion,


I had left off asking my father about her.

but I had stopped asking my father about her.


It is very dreadful to say it, but I began to disbelieve him.

It is dreadful to say it, but I began to disbelieve him.


I had found that he did not always tell the truth, and made promises without meaning to keep them; and that raised my suspicion that my mother and brother were still alive though he had told me they were dead.

I found that he did not always tell the truth or keep his promises; and I suspected that my mother and brother were still alive.


For in going over the past again as I got older and knew more, I felt sure that my mother had been deceived, and had expected to see us back again after a very little while; and my father taking me on his knee and telling me that my mother and brother were both dead seemed to me now but a bit of acting, to set my mind at rest.

For in going over the past, I felt sure that my mother had been deceived, and had expected to see us again after a very little while; and my father had told me a falsehood.


The cruelty of that falsehood sank into me, and I hated all untruth because of it.

The cruelty of it sank into me, and I hated all untruth because of it.


I wrote to my mother secretly: I knew the street, Colman Street, where we lived, and that it was not Blackfriars Bridge and the Coburg, and that our name was Cohen then, though my father called us Lapidoth, because, he said, it was a name of his forefathers in Poland.

"I wrote to my mother secretly: I knew the street, Colman Street, where we lived, and that our name was Cohen then, though my father called us Lapidoth, which was a name of his forefathers in Poland.


I sent my letter secretly; but no answer came, and I thought there was no hope for me.

I sent my letter secretly; but no answer came, and I lost hope.


Our life in America did not last much longer.


My father suddenly told me we were to pack up and go to Hamburg, and I was rather glad.

Then my father suddenly told me we were to go to Hamburg, and I was glad.


I hoped we might get among a different sort of people, and I knew German quite well--some German plays almost all by heart.

I hoped we might get among a different sort of people, and I knew German quite well.


My father spoke it better than he spoke English.


I was thirteen then, and I seemed to myself quite old--I knew so much, and yet so little.

I was thirteen then, and I felt old - I knew so much, and yet so little.


I think other children cannot feel as I did.


I had often wished that I had been drowned when I was going away from my mother.


But I set myself to obey and suffer: what else could I do?


One day when we were on our voyage, a new thought came into my mind.

"One day on our voyage, a new thought came to me.


I was not very ill that time, and I kept on deck a good deal.


My father acted and sang and joked to amuse people on board, and I used often to hear remarks about him.

My father sang and joked to amuse people on board, and


One day, when I was looking at the sea and nobody took notice of me, I overheard a gentleman say, 'Oh, he is one of those clever Jews--a rascal, I shouldn't wonder.

I overheard a gentleman say, 'Oh, he is one of those clever Jews - a rascal, I shouldn't wonder.


There's no race like them for cunning in the men and beauty in the women.


I wonder what market he means that daughter for.'


When I heard this it darted into my mind that the unhappiness in my life came from my being a Jewess, and that always to the end the world would think slightly of me and that I must bear it, for I should be judged by that name; and it comforted me to believe that my suffering was part of the affliction of my people, my part in the long song of mourning that has been going on through ages and ages.

Then it darted into my mind that the unhappiness in my life came from my being a Jewess, and that always the world would think little of me and judge me by that name; and it comforted me to believe that my suffering was part of the affliction of my people, my part in the long song of mourning that has been going on through ages and ages.


For if many of our race were wicked and made merry in their wickedness--what was that but part of the affliction borne by the just among them, who were despised for the sins of their brethren?--But you have not rejected me."


Mirah had changed her tone in this last sentence, having suddenly reflected that at this moment she had reason not for complaint but for gratitude.

Mirah said this last sentence in a different tone of voice.


"And we will try to save you from being judged unjustly by others, my poor child," said Mrs. Meyrick, who had now given up all attempt at going on with her work, and sat listening with folded hands and a face hardly less eager than Mab's would have been.

"And we will try to save you from being judged unjustly by others, my poor child," said Mrs. Meyrick.


"After that we lived in different towns--Hamburg and Vienna, the longest.

"After that we lived in Hamburg and Vienna.


I began to study singing again: and my father always got money about the theatres.

I began to study singing again: and my father made money in theatres.


I think he brought a good deal of money from America, I never knew why we left.


For some time he was in great spirits about my singing, and he made me rehearse parts and act continually.


He looked forward to my coming out in the opera.


But by-and-by it seemed that my voice would never be strong enough--it did not fulfill its promise.

But it seemed that my voice would never be strong enough.


My master at Vienna said, 'Don't strain it further: it will never do for the public:--it is gold, but a thread of gold dust.'

My master at Vienna said, 'Don't strain it further: it will never do for the public:- it is gold, but a thread of gold dust.'


My father was bitterly disappointed: we were not so well off at that time.


I think I have not quite told you what I felt about my father.


I knew he was fond of me and meant to indulge me, and that made me afraid of hurting him; but he always mistook what would please me and give me happiness.

I knew he was fond of me, and that made me afraid of hurting him; but he always mistook what would please me and give me happiness.


It was his nature to take everything lightly; and I soon left off asking him any questions about things that I cared for much, because he always turned them off with a joke.

It was his nature to take everything lightly; and I soon stopped asking him questions about things that I cared for, because he always turned them off with a joke.


He would even ridicule our own people; and once when he had been imitating their movements and their tones in praying, only to make others laugh, I could not restrain myself--for I always had an anger in my heart about my mother--and when we were alone, I said, 'Father, you ought not to mimic our own people before Christians who mock them: would it not be bad if I mimicked you, that they might mock you?'

He would even ridicule our own people, imitating them to make others laugh.
"Once, I said, 'Father, you ought not to mimic our own people before Christians who mock them: would it not be bad if I mimicked you, so that they might mock you?'


But he only shrugged his shoulders and laughed and pinched my chin, and said, 'You couldn't do it, my dear."

But he only shrugged and laughed, and said, 'You couldn't do it, my dear.'


It was this way of turning off everything, that made a great wall between me and my father, and whatever I felt most I took the most care to hide from him.

This mockery made a great wall between me and my father.


For there were some things--when they were laughed at I could not bear it: the world seemed like a hell to me.


Is this world and all the life upon it only like a farce or a vaudeville, where you find no great meanings?

Is this world like a farce, with no great meanings?


Why then are there tragedies and grand operas, where men do difficult things and choose to suffer?

Why then are there tragedies and grand operas?


I think it is silly to speak of all things as a joke.


And I saw that his wishing me to sing the greatest music, and parts in grand operas, was only wishing for what would fetch the greatest price.

And I saw that his wishing me to sing the greatest music, was only to fetch the greatest price.


That hemmed in my gratitude for his affectionateness, and the tenderest feeling I had toward him was pity.


I thought he seemed worse--less good to others than to me.

I thought he seemed less good to others than to me.


Every now and then in the latter years his gaiety went away suddenly, and he would sit at home silent and gloomy; or he would come in and fling himself down and sob, just as I have done myself when I have been in trouble.

Sometimes he would sit at home silent and gloomy; or fling himself down and sob.


If I put my hand on his knee and say, 'What is the matter, father?'


he would make no answer, but would draw my arm round his neck and put his arm round me and go on crying.

he would not answer, but would put his arm round me and go on crying.


There never came any confidence between us; but oh, I was sorry for him.


At those moments I knew he must feel his life bitter, and I pressed my cheek against his head and prayed.


Those moments were what most bound me to him; and I used to think how much my mother once loved him, else she would not have married him.

Those moments bound me to him; and I used to think how much my mother must have once loved him.


We had been at Pesth and we came back to Vienna.


In spite of what my master Leo had said, my father got me an engagement, not at the opera, but to take singing parts at a suburb theatre in Vienna.

My father got me singing parts at a theatre in Vienna.


He had nothing to do with the theatre then; I did not understand what he did, but I think he was continually at a gambling house, though he was careful always about taking me to the theatre.

I think he spent his own time at a gambling house.


The plays I acted in were detestable to me.


Men came about us and wanted to talk to me: women and men seemed to look at me with a sneering smile; it was no better than a fiery furnace.


Perhaps I make it worse than it was--you don't know that life: but the glare and the faces, and my having to go on and act and sing what I hated, and then see people who came to stare at me behind the scenes--it was all so much worse than when I was a little girl.

The glare and the faces, and having to go on and act and sing what I hated, and then to see people who came to stare at me behind the scenes - it was all much worse than when I was little.


I went through with it; I did it; I had set my mind to obey my father and work, for I saw nothing better that I could do.

I went through with it; I had set my mind to obey my father and work.


But I felt that my voice was getting weaker, and I knew that my acting was not good except when it was not really acting, but the part was one that I could be myself in, and some feeling within me carried me along.

But I felt that my voice was getting weaker.


"Then, in the midst of all this, the news came to me one morning that my father had been taken to prison, and he had sent for me.

"Then, in the midst of all this, news came to me that my father had been taken to prison, and had sent for me.


He did not tell me the reason why he was there, but he ordered me to go to an address he gave me, to see a Count who would be able to get him released.

He did not tell me why he was there, but he ordered me to go to an address he gave me, to see a Count who would get him released.


The address was to some public rooms where I was to ask for the Count, and beg him to come to my father.

The address was to some public rooms; I found the Count


I found him, and recognized him as a gentleman whom I had seen the other night for the first time behind the scenes.


That agitated me, for I remembered his way of looking at me and kissing my hand--I thought it was in mockery.

That agitated me, for I remembered his way of looking at me and kissing my hand.


But I delivered my errand, and he promised to go immediately to my father, who came home again that very evening, bringing the Count with him.

But I delivered my errand, and he promised to go immediately to my father, who came home that very evening, bringing the Count.


I now began to feel a horrible dread of this man, for he worried me with his attentions, his eyes were always on me: I felt sure that whatever else there might be in his mind toward me, below it all there was scorn for the Jewess and the actress.

"I now began to feel a horrible dread of this man, for he worried me with his attentions.


And when he came to me the next day in the theatre and would put my shawl around me, a terror took hold of me; I saw that my father wanted me to look pleased.

His eyes were always on me: when he came to the theatre the next day and wanted to put my shawl around me, a terror took hold of me.


The Count was neither very young nor very old; his hair and eyes were pale; he was tall and walked heavily, and his face was heavy and grave except when he looked at me.

The Count walked heavily, and his face was heavy and grave except when he looked at me.


He smiled at me, and his smile went through me with horror: I could not tell why he was so much worse to me than other men.

He smiled at me, and his smile went through me with horror: I could not tell why.


Some feelings are like our hearing: they come as sounds do, before we know their reason.


My father talked to me about him when we were alone, and praised him--said what a good friend he had been.

My father praised him to me, saying what a good friend he had been, and


I said nothing, because I supposed he had got my father out of prison.


When the Count came again, my father left the room.

when the Count came again, my father left the room.


He asked me if I liked being on the stage.

The Count asked me if I liked being on stage.


I said No, I only acted in obedience to my father.


He always spoke French, and called me _petite ange_ and such things, which I felt insulting.


I knew he meant to make love to me, and I had it firmly in my mind that a nobleman and one who was not a Jew could have no love for me that was not half contempt.


But then he told me that I need not act any longer; he wished me to visit him at his beautiful place, where I might be queen of everything.

Then he told me that I need not act any longer; he wished me to visit him at his beautiful place, where I might be queen of everything.


It was difficult to me to speak, I felt so shaken with anger: I could only say, 'I would rather stay on the stage forever,' and I left him there.

It was difficult for me to speak, I felt so shaken with anger: I could only say, 'I would rather stay on the stage forever.'


Hurrying out of the room I saw my father sauntering in the passage.

I hurried out of the room and saw my father sauntering in the passage.


It had sunk into me that my father was in a conspiracy with that man against me.


But the next day he persuaded me to come out: he said that I had mistaken everything, and he would explain: if I did not come out and act and fulfill my engagement, we should be ruined and he must starve.

"Next day my father persuaded me to come out: he said that I had mistaken everything: if I did not come out and act and fulfil my engagement, we should be ruined and he must starve.


So I went on acting, and for a week or more the Count never came near me.

So I went on acting, and for a week the Count never came near me.


My father changed our lodgings, and kept at home except when he went to the theatre with me.

My father changed our lodgings, and stayed at home.


He began one day to speak discouragingly of my acting, and say, I could never go on singing in public--I should lose my voice--I ought to think of my future, and not put my nonsensical feelings between me and my fortune.

He began one day to say, I could never go on singing in public - I should lose my voice - I ought to think of my future, and not put nonsensical feelings between me and my fortune.


You will be brought down to sing and beg at people's doors.


You have had a splendid offer and ought to accept it.'


I could not speak: a horror took possession of me when I thought of my mother and of him.

I could not speak: a horror took possession of me.


I felt for the first time that I should not do wrong to leave him.


But the next day he told me that he had put an end to my engagement at the theatre, and that we were to go to Prague.

"But the next day he told me that we were to go to Prague.


I was getting suspicious of everything, and my will was hardening to act against him.


It took us two days to pack and get ready; and I had it in my mind that I might be obliged to run away from my father, and then I would come to London and try if it were possible to find my mother.

It took us two days to get ready; and I thought that I might be obliged to run away from my father, and then I would come to London and try to find my mother.


I had a little money, and I sold some things to get more.


I packed a few clothes in a little bag that I could carry with me, and I kept my mind on the watch.

I packed a few clothes in a little bag, and I kept on the watch.


My father's silence--his letting drop that subject of the Count's offer--made me feel sure that there was a plan against me.

My father's silence about the Count's offer made me feel sure that there was a plan against me.


I felt as if it had been a plan to take me to a madhouse.


I once saw a picture of a madhouse, that I could never forget; it seemed to me very much like some of the life I had seen--the people strutting, quarreling, leering--the faces with cunning and malice in them.


It was my will to keep myself from wickedness; and I prayed for help.


I had seen what despised women were: and my heart turned against my father, for I saw always behind him that man who made me shudder.


You will think I had not enough reason for my suspicions, and perhaps I had not, outside my own feeling; but it seemed to me that my mind had been lit up, and all that might be stood out clear and sharp.

"You will think I had not enough reason for my suspicions, and perhaps I had not; but it seemed to me that my mind had been lit up, and that all was clear and sharp.


If I slept, it was only to see the same sort of things, and I could hardly sleep at all.


Through our journey I was everywhere on the watch.

Throughout our journey I was always on the watch.


I don't know why, but it came before me like a real event, that my father would suddenly leave me and I should find myself with the Count where I could not get away from him.

I feared that my father would suddenly leave me and I should find myself with the Count.


I thought God was warning me: my mother's voice was in my soul.


It was dark when we reached Prague, and though the strange bunches of lamps were lit it was difficult to distinguish faces as we drove along the street.

"It was dark when we reached Prague, and difficult to distinguish faces as we drove along the street.


My father chose to sit outside--he was always smoking now--and I watched everything in spite of the darkness.


I do believe I could see better then than I ever did before: the strange clearness within seemed to have got outside me.


It was not my habit to notice faces and figures much in the street; but this night I saw every one; and when we passed before a great hotel I caught sight only of a back that was passing in--the light of the great bunch of lamps a good way off fell on it.

; and when we passed before a great hotel I caught sight of a back that was passing.


I knew it--before the face was turned, as it fell into shadow, I knew who it was.

I knew it - before the face was turned, I knew who it was.


I put on my plainest things--the cloak and hat I have worn ever since; and I sat watching for the light and the sound of the doors being unbarred.

I put on my plainest things, and I sat watching for the light and the sound of the doors being unbarred.


Some one rose early--at four o'clock, to go to the railway.

Some one rose at four o'clock, to go to the railway.


I slipped out, with my little bag under my cloak, and none noticed me.


I had been a long while attending to the railway guide that I might learn the way to England; and before the sun had risen I was in the train for Dresden.

I had been reading the railway guide so that I might learn the way to England; and before the sun had risen I was in the train for Dresden.


I did not know whether my money would last out, but I trusted.


I could sell the things in my bag, and the little rings in my ears, and I could live on bread only.


My only terror was lest my father should follow me.


I came on, and on, and on, only eating bread now and then.


When I got to Brussels I saw that I should not have enough money, and I sold all that I could sell; but here a strange thing happened.

"When I got to Brussels I saw that I should not have enough money, and I sold all that I could; but here a strange thing happened.


Putting my hand into the pocket of my cloak, I found a half-napoleon.


Wondering and wondering how it came there, I remembered that on the way from Cologne there was a young workman sitting against me.

Wondering how it came there, I remembered that on the way from Cologne there was a young workman sitting next to me.


I was frightened at every one, and did not like to be spoken to.

I was frightened at everyone, and did not like to be spoken to.


At first he tried to talk, but when he saw that I did not like it, he left off.

At first he tried to talk, but when he saw I did not like it, he left off.


It was a long journey; I ate nothing but a bit of bread, and he once offered me some of the food he brought in, but I refused it.

It was a long journey; I ate nothing but a bit of bread, and he offered me some of his food, but I refused it.


I do believe it was he who put that bit of gold in my pocket.

I believe he put that bit of gold in my pocket.


Without it I could hardly have got to Dover, and I did walk a good deal of the way from Dover to London.


I knew I should look like a miserable beggar-girl.


I wanted not to look very miserable, because if I found my mother it would grieve her to see me so.

, and I felt it would grieve my mother to see me so.


But oh, how vain my hope was that she would be there to see me come!


As soon as I set foot in London, I began to ask for Lambeth and Blackfriars Bridge, but they were a long way off, and I went wrong.

"As soon as I reached London, I began to ask for Lambeth and Blackfriars Bridge, but they were a long way off, and I went wrong.


At last I got to Blackfriars Bridge and asked for Colman Street.


I saw it in my mind--our doorsteps, and the white tiles hung in the windows, and the large brick building opposite with wide doors.


At last when I asked a tradesman where the Coburg Theatre and Colman Street were, he said, 'Oh, my little woman, that's all done away with.

A tradesman said, 'Oh, that's done away with.


The old streets have been pulled down; everything is new.'


I turned away and felt as if death had laid a hand on me.

I felt as if death had laid a hand on me.


young woman; what is it you're wanting with Colman Street, eh?'


But his tone was what I could not bear; and how could I tell him what I wanted?


I felt blinded and bewildered with a sudden shock.


I suddenly felt that I was very weak and weary, and yet where could I go?

I felt blinded, weak and weary, and yet where could I go?


for I looked so poor and dusty, and had nothing with me--I looked like a street-beggar.


And I was afraid of all places where I could enter.


It seemed that I had been in a fever of hope--delirious--all the way from Prague: I thought that I was helped, and I did nothing but strain my mind forward and think of finding my mother; and now--there I stood in a strange world.

It seemed that I had been in a fever of hope - delirious - all the way from Prague: and now I stood in a strange world.


All who saw me would think ill of me, and I must herd with beggars.


I stood on the bridge and looked along the river.

I crossed the bridge and looked along the river.


Many of them seemed poor, and I felt as if it would be a refuge to get away from the streets; perhaps the boat would take me where I could soon get into a solitude.

; perhaps that would take me where I could soon find solitude.


I had still some pence left, and I bought a loaf when I went on the boat.


I wanted to have a little time and strength to think of life and death.


And now again it seemed that if ever I were to find my mother again, death was the way to her.

It seemed that death was the way to find my mother.


I ate, that I might have strength to think.


The boat set me down at a place along the river--I don't know where--and it was late in the evening.

The boat set me down at a place along the river.


I found some large trees apart from the road, and I sat down under them that I might rest through the night.

I sat down under some trees that I might rest through the night.


Sleep must have soon come to me, and when I awoke it was morning.


The birds were singing, and the dew was white about me, I felt chill and oh, so lonely!

the birds were singing, and the dew was white about me. I felt chill and oh, so lonely!


I got up and walked and followed the river a long way and then turned back again.


There was no reason why I should go anywhere.


The world about me seemed like a vision that was hurrying by while I stood still with my pain.


My thoughts were stronger than I was; they rushed in and forced me to see all my life from the beginning; ever since I was carried away from my mother I had felt myself a lost child taken up and used by strangers, who did not care what my life was to me, but only what I could do for them.

I saw all my life from the beginning; ever since I was carried away from my mother I had felt myself a lost child and used by strangers, who did not care what my life was to me, but only what I could do for them.


It seemed all a weary wandering and heart-loneliness--as if I had been forced to go to merrymakings without the expectation of joy.


I was lost again, and I dreaded lest any stranger should notice me and speak to me.

I was lost again, and I dreaded lest any stranger should notice me.


I had seen so many in my life who made themselves glad with scorning, and laughed at another's shame.


This life seemed to be closing in upon me with a wall of fire--everywhere there was scorching that made me shrink.

This life seemed to be closing in upon me with a scorching wall of fire that made me shrink.


And I began to think that my despair was the voice of God telling me to die.

"I began to think that my despair was the voice of God telling me to die.


But it would take me long to die of hunger.


Then I thought of my people, how they had been driven from land to land and been afflicted, and multitudes had died of misery in their wandering--was I the first?


And in the wars and troubles when Christians were cruelest, our fathers had sometimes slain their children and afterward themselves: it was to save them from being false apostates.

; and in the wars when Christians were cruellest, our fathers had sometimes slain their children and afterward themselves.