Mordecai had stretched his arms upward, and his long thin hands quivered in the air for a moment after he had ceased to speak. Gideon was certainly a little moved, for though there was no long pause before he made a remark in objection, his tone was more mild and deprecatory than before; Pash, meanwhile, pressing his lips together, rubbing his black head with both his hands and wrinkling his brow horizontally, with the expression of one who differs from every speaker, but does not think it worth while to say so. There is a sort of human paste that when it comes near the fire of enthusiasm is only baked into harder shape.

Mordecai had stretched his arms upward as he spoke. Gideon was moved, and replied more mildly than before.


"It may seem well enough on one side to make so much of our memories and inheritance as you do, Mordecai," said Gideon; "but there's another side. It isn't all gratitude and harmless glory. Our people have inherited a good deal of hatred. There's a pretty lot of curses still flying about, and stiff settled rancor inherited from the times of persecution. How will you justify keeping one sort of memory and throwing away the other? There are ugly debts standing on both sides."

"It may seem well enough to make so much of our memories and inheritance, Mordecai," he said; "but there's another side. It isn't all gratitude and harmless glory. Our people have inherited a good deal of hatred and rancour. How will you justify keeping one sort of memory and throwing away the other?"


"I justify the choice as all other choice is justified," said Mordecai. "I cherish nothing for the Jewish nation, I seek nothing for them, but the good which promises good to all the nations. The spirit of our religious life, which is one with our national life, is not hatred of aught but wrong. The Master has said, an offence against man is worse than an offence against God. But what wonder if there is hatred in the breasts of Jews, who are children of the ignorant and oppressed--what wonder, since there is hatred in the breasts of Christians? Our national life was a growing light. Let the central fire be kindled again, and the light will reach afar. The degraded and scorned of our race will learn to think of their sacred land, not as a place for saintly beggary to await death in loathsome idleness, but as a republic where the Jewish spirit manifests itself in a new order founded on the old, purified and enriched by the experience our greatest sons have gathered from the life of the ages. How long is it?--only two centuries since a vessel carried over the ocean the beginning of the great North American nation. The people grew like meeting waters--they were various in habit and sect--there came a time, a century ago, when they needed a polity, and there were heroes of peace among them. What had they to form a polity with but memories of Europe, corrected by the vision of a better? Let our wise and wealthy show themselves heroes. They have the memories of the East and West, and they have the full vision of a better. A new Persia with a purified religion magnified itself in art and wisdom. So will a new Judaea, poised between East and West--a covenant of reconciliation. Will any say, the prophetic vision of your race has been hopelessly mixed with folly and bigotry: the angel of progress has no message for Judaism--it is a half-buried city for the paid workers to lay open--the waters are rushing by it as a forsaken field? I say that the strongest principle of growth lies in human choice. The sons of Judah have to choose that God may again choose them. The Messianic time is the time when Israel shall will the planting of the national ensign. The Nile overflowed and rushed onward: the Egyptian could not choose the overflow, but he chose to work and make channels for the fructifying waters, and Egypt became the land of corn. Shall man, whose soul is set in the royalty of discernment and resolve, deny his rank and say, I am an onlooker, ask no choice or purpose of me? That is the blasphemy of this time. The divine principle of our race is action, choice, resolved memory. Let us contradict the blasphemy, and help to will our own better future and the better future of the world--not renounce our higher gift and say, 'Let us be as if we were not among the populations;' but choose our full heritage, claim the brotherhood of our nation, and carry into it a new brotherhood with the nations of the Gentiles. The vision is there; it will be fulfilled."

"I seek nothing for the Jewish nation but good," said Mordecai. "Our religion does not hate anything but wrong. But what wonder if there is hatred in the breasts of Jews, since there is hatred in the breasts of Christians? Let the central fire be kindled again, and the light will reach afar. The degraded and scorned of our race will learn to think of their sacred land as a republic where the Jewish spirit manifests itself in a new order, purified and enriched by the experience of the ages. It is only two centuries since a vessel carried over the ocean the beginning of the great North American nation. What had they to form a polity with but memories of Europe, corrected by the vision of a better? A new Persia with a purified religion magnified itself in art and wisdom. So will a new Judaea, poised between East and West - a covenant of reconciliation. Will any say that the angel of progress has no message for Judaism? I say that the strongest principle of growth lies in human choice. The sons of Judah have to choose, that God may again choose them. Shall man deny his rank and say, I am an onlooker, ask no choice or purpose of me? That is the blasphemy of this time. The divine principle of our race is action, choice, resolved memory. Let us contradict the blasphemy, and help to will our own better future and the better future of the world. Let us choose our full heritage and claim the brotherhood of our nation. The vision is there; it will be fulfilled."


With the last sentence, which was no more than a loud whisper, Mordecai let his chin sink on his breast and his eyelids fall. No one spoke. It was not the first time that he had insisted on the same ideas, but he was seen to-night in a new phase. The quiet tenacity of his ordinary self differed as much from his present exaltation of mood as a man in private talk, giving reasons for a revolution of which no sign is discernable, differs from one who feels himself an agent in a revolution begun. The dawn of fulfillment brought to his hope by Deronda's presence had wrought Mordecai's conception into a state of impassioned conviction, and he had found strength in his excitement to pour forth the unlocked floods of emotive argument, with a sense of haste as at a crisis which must be seized. But now there had come with the quiescence of fatigue a sort of thankful wonder that he had spoken--a contemplation of his life as a journey which had come at last to this bourne. After a great excitement, the ebbing strength of impulse is apt to leave us in this aloofness from our active self. And in the moments after Mordecai had sunk his head, his mind was wandering along the paths of his youth, and all the hopes which had ended in bringing him hither.

With the last sentence, which was no more than a whisper, Mordecai let his eyelids fall. No one spoke. The dawn of fulfilment brought to his hope by Deronda's presence had wrought Mordecai's mind into a state of impassioned conviction, and he had found strength in his excitement to pour forth the unlocked floods of emotive argument, with a sense of haste.
But now there had come with his fatigue a sort of thankful wonder that he had spoken - a contemplation of his life as a journey which had at last reached this destination. After a great excitement, the ebbing strength of impulse is apt to make us aloof from our active self. Mordecai's mind was wandering along the paths of his youth, and all the hopes which had brought him hither.


Every one felt that the talk was ended, and the tone of phlegmatic discussion made unseasonable by Mordecai's high-pitched solemnity. It was as if they had come together to hear the blowing of the _shophar_, and had nothing to do now but to disperse. The movement was unusually general, and in less than ten minutes the room was empty of all except Mordecai and Deronda. "Good-nights" had been given to Mordecai, but it was evident he had not heard them, for he remained rapt and motionless. Deronda would not disturb this needful rest, but waited for a spontaneous movement.

Everyone felt that the talk was ended, and made a general movement to disperse. Soon the room was empty of all except Mordecai and Deronda. "Good-nights" had been given to Mordecai, but he had not heard them; he remained rapt and motionless, and Deronda waited for him to stir.


"_Perigot_. As the bonny lasse passed by, _Willie_. Hey, ho, bonnilasse! _P_. She roode at me with glauncing eye, _W_. As clear as the crystal glasse. _P_. All as the sunny beame so bright, _W_. Hey, ho, the sunnebeame! _P_. Glaunceth from Phoebus' face forthright, _W_. So love into thy heart did streame." --SPENSER: _Shepard's Calendar_.


"The kindliest symptom, yet the most alarming crisis in the ticklish state of youth; the nourisher and destroyer of hopeful wits; * * * the servitude above freedom; the gentle mind's religion; the liberal superstition."--CHARLES LAMB.


The first sign of the unimagined snow-storm was like the transparent white cloud that seems to set off the blue. Anna was in the secret of Rex's feeling; though for the first time in their lives he had said nothing to her about what he most thought of, and he only took it for granted that she knew it. For the first time, too, Anna could not say to Rex what was continually in her mind. Perhaps it might have been a pain which she would have had to conceal, that he should so soon care for some one else more than for herself, if such a feeling had not been thoroughly neutralized by doubt and anxiety on his behalf. Anna admired her cousin--would have said with simple sincerity, "Gwendolen is always very good to me," and held it in the order of things for herself to be entirely subject to this cousin; but she looked at her with mingled fear and distrust, with a puzzled contemplation as of some wondrous and beautiful animal whose nature was a mystery, and who, for anything Anna knew, might have an appetite for devouring all the small creatures that were her own particular pets. And now Anna's heart was sinking under the heavy conviction which she dared not utter, that Gwendolen would never care for Rex. What she herself held in tenderness and reverence had constantly seemed indifferent to Gwendolen, and it was easier to imagine her scorning Rex than returning any tenderness of his. Besides, she was always thinking of being something extraordinary. And poor Rex! Papa would be angry with him if he knew. And of course he was too young to be in love in that way; and she, Anna had thought that it would be years and years before any thing of that sort came, and that she would be Rex's housekeeper ever so long. But what a heart must that be which did not return his love! Anna, in the prospect of his suffering, was beginning to dislike her too fascinating cousin.

The first sign of the unimagined snow-storm was like the transparent white cloud that sets off the blue. Anna was in the secret of Rex's feeling; though he had said nothing to her about it, and took it for granted that she knew. For the first time, Anna could not tell Rex what was in her mind: she had to conceal her doubt and anxiety on his behalf. Anna admired her cousin - would have said sincerely, "Gwendolen is always very good to me;" but she looked at her with mingled fear and distrust, as at some wondrous animal whose nature was a mystery, and who, for anything Anna knew, might have an appetite for devouring small creatures.
And now Anna's heart was sinking under the heavy conviction that Gwendolen would never care for Rex. Poor Rex! Papa would be angry with him if he knew. He was too young to be in love; and Anna had thought that it would be years before anything of that sort, and that she would be Rex's housekeeper ever so long. But what a heart must that be which did not return his love! Anna, in the prospect of his suffering, was beginning to dislike her too fascinating cousin.


It seemed to her, as it did to Rex, that the weeks had been filled with a tumultuous life evident to all observers: if he had been questioned on the subject he would have said that he had no wish to conceal what he hoped would be an engagement which he should immediately tell his father of: and yet for the first time in his life he was reserved not only about his feelings but--which was more remarkable to Anna--about certain actions. She, on her side, was nervous each time her father or mother began to speak to her in private lest they should say anything about Rex and Gwendolen. But the elders were not in the least alive to this agitating drama, which went forward chiefly in a sort of pantomime extremely lucid in the minds thus expressing themselves, but easily missed by spectators who were running their eyes over the _Guardian_ or the _Clerical Gazette_, and regarded the trivialities of the young ones with scarcely more interpretation than they gave to the action of lively ants.

If Rex had been questioned on the subject he would have said that he had no wish to conceal what he hoped would be an engagement: and yet for the first time in his life he was reserved. Anna was nervous each time her father or mother began to speak to her in private lest they should say anything about Rex and Gwendolen. But the elders were not aware of this agitating drama: they regarded the doings of the young ones with scarcely more attention than they gave to the action of lively ants.


"Where are you going, Rex?" said Anna one gray morning when her father had set off in his carriage to the sessions, Mrs. Gascoigne with him, and she had observed that her brother had on his antigropelos, the utmost approach he possessed to a hunting equipment.

"Where are you going, Rex?" said Anna one grey morning when her father had set off in his carriage with Mrs. Gascoigne, and she had observed that her brother had on his hunting gear.


"Going to see the hounds throw off at the Three Barns."

"Going to see the hounds set off at the Three Barns."


"Are you going to take Gwendolen?" said Anna, timidly.

"Are you going to take Gwendolen?" said Anna timidly.


"No, but I thought--Does papa know you are going?"

"No, but - does papa know you are going?"


"Not that I am aware of. I don't suppose he would trouble himself about the matter."

"No, but I don't suppose he would mind."


"Don't let Gwendolen ride after the hounds, Rex," said Anna, whose fears gifted her with second-sight.


"Why not?" said Rex, smiling rather provokingly.


"Papa and mamma and aunt Davilow all wish her not to. They think it is not right for her."


"Why should you suppose she is going to do what is not right?"


"Gwendolen minds nobody sometimes," said Anna getting bolder by dint of a little anger.

"Gwendolen minds nobody sometimes," said Anna.


"Then she would not mind me," said Rex, perversely making a joke of poor Anna's anxiety.


"Oh Rex, I cannot bear it. You will make yourself very unhappy." Here Anna burst into tears.


"Nannie, Nannie, what on earth is the matter with you?" said Rex, a little impatient at being kept in this way, hat on and whip in hand.

"Nannie, Nannie, what on earth is the matter with you?" said Rex, a little impatient.


"She will not care for you one bit--I know she never will!" said the poor child in a sobbing whisper. She had lost all control of herself.

"She will not care for you one bit - I know she never will!" sobbed the poor child.


Rex reddened and hurried away from her out of the hall door, leaving her to the miserable consciousness of having made herself disagreeable in vain.


He did think of her words as he rode along; they had the unwelcomeness which all unfavorable fortune-telling has, even when laughed at; but he quickly explained them as springing from little Anna's tenderness, and began to be sorry that he was obliged to come away without soothing her. Every other feeling on the subject, however, was quickly merged in a resistant belief to the contrary of hers, accompanied with a new determination to prove that he was right. This sort of certainty had just enough kinship to doubt and uneasiness to hurry on a confession which an untouched security might have delayed.

He thought of her unwelcome words as he rode along; but he quickly explained them as springing from little Anna's tenderness, and began to be sorry he had come away without soothing her. While he did not believe she was right, he had just enough doubt and uneasiness to hurry on a confession which he might have delayed.


Gwendolen was already mounted and riding up and down the avenue when Rex appeared at the gate. She had provided herself against disappointment in case he did not appear in time by having the groom ready behind her, for she would not have waited beyond a reasonable time. But now the groom was dismissed, and the two rode away in delightful freedom. Gwendolen was in her highest spirits, and Rex thought that she had never looked so lovely before; her figure, her long white throat, and the curves of her cheek and chin were always set off to perfection by the compact simplicity of her riding dress. He could not conceive a more perfect girl; and to a youthful lover like Rex it seems that the fundamental identity of the good, the true and the beautiful, is already extant and manifest in the object of his love. Most observers would have held it more than equally accountable that a girl should have like impressions about Rex, for in his handsome face there was nothing corresponding to the undefinable stinging quality--as it were a trace of demon ancestry--which made some beholders hesitate in their admiration of Gwendolen.

Gwendolen was already mounted and riding up and down the avenue when Rex appeared. The groom was dismissed, and the two rode away in delightful freedom. Gwendolen was in her highest spirits, and Rex thought that she had never looked so lovely; her figure, her long white throat, and her face were set off to perfection by her riding dress. He could not conceive a more perfect girl.


It was an exquisite January morning in which there was no threat of rain, but a gray sky making the calmest background for the charms of a mild winter scene--the grassy borders of the lanes, the hedgerows sprinkled with red berries and haunted with low twitterings, the purple bareness of the elms, the rich brown of the furrows. The horses' hoofs made a musical chime, accompanying their young voices. She was laughing at his equipment, for he was the reverse of a dandy, and he was enjoying her laughter; the freshness of the morning mingled with the freshness of their youth; and every sound that came from their clear throats, every glance they gave each other, was the bubbling outflow from a spring of joy. It was all morning to them, within and without. And thinking of them in these moments one is tempted to that futile sort of wishing--if only things could have been a little otherwise then, so as to have been greatly otherwise after--if only these two beautiful young creatures could have pledged themselves to each other then and there, and never through life have swerved from that pledge! For some of the goodness which Rex believed in was there. Goodness is a large, often a prospective word; like harvest, which at one stage when we talk of it lies all underground, with an indeterminate future; is the germ prospering in the darkness? at another, it has put forth delicate green blades, and by-and-by the trembling blossoms are ready to be dashed off by an hour of rough wind or rain. Each stage has its peculiar blight, and may have the healthy life choked out of it by a particular action of the foul land which rears or neighbors it, or by damage brought from foulness afar.

It was an exquisite January morning, with the charms of a mild winter scene - the hedgerows sprinkled with red berries and haunted with low twitterings, the purple bareness of the elms, the rich brown of the furrows. The horses' hoofs made a musical chime, accompanying their young voices. She was laughing at his plain equipment, and he was enjoying her laughter; the freshness of the morning mingled with the freshness of their youth; and every sound, every glance flowed from a spring of joy. It was all morning to them.


"Anna had got it into her head that you would want to ride after the hounds this morning," said Rex, whose secret associations with Anna's words made this speech seem quite perilously near the most momentous of subjects.

"Anna got it into her head that you would want to ride after the hounds this morning," said Rex.


"Did she?" said Gwendolen, laughingly. "What a little clairvoyant she is!"


"Shall you?" said Rex, who had not believed in her intending to do it if the elders objected, but confided in her having good reasons.

"Shall you?" said Rex, who had not believed in her intending to do it if the elders objected, but assumed she had good reasons.


"I don't know. I can't tell what I shall do till I get there. Clairvoyants are often wrong: they foresee what is likely. I am not fond of what is likely: it is always dull. I do what is unlikely."

"I don't know. I can't tell what I shall do till I get there. Clairvoyants foresee what is likely, but I am not fond of what is likely: it is always dull. I do what is unlikely."


"Ah, there you tell me a secret. When once I knew what people in general would be likely to do, I should know you would do the opposite. So you would have come round to a likelihood of your own sort. I shall be able to calculate on you. You couldn't surprise me."

"Ah, there you tell me a secret. Now that I know you would do the opposite of what is likely for people in general, you have come round to a likelihood of your own sort. Now you couldn't surprise me."


"Yes, I could. I should turn round and do what was likely for people in general," said Gwendolen, with a musical laugh.


"You see you can't escape some sort of likelihood. And contradictoriness makes the strongest likelihood of all. You must give up a plan."

"You see you can't escape some sort of likelihood."


"No, I shall not. My plan is to do what pleases me." (Here should any young lady incline to imitate Gwendolen, let her consider the set of her head and neck: if the angle there had been different, the chin protrusive, and the cervical vertebrae a trifle more curved in their position, ten to one Gwendolen's words would have had a jar in them for the sweet-natured Rex. But everything odd in her speech was humor and pretty banter, which he was only anxious to turn toward one point.)

"I shall do what pleases me." (If Gwendolen had been any less attractive, ten to one her words would have jarred on the sweet-natured Rex. But he saw only humour and pretty banter.)


"Can you manage to feel only what pleases you?" said he.


"Of course not; that comes from what other people do. But if the world were pleasanter, one would only feel what was pleasant. Girls' lives are so stupid: they never do what they like."

"Girls' lives are so stupid: they never do what they like."


"I thought that was more the case of the men. They are forced to do hard things, and are often dreadfully bored, and knocked to pieces too. And then, if we love a girl very dearly we want to do as she likes, so after all you have your own way."

"I thought that was more the case of men. They are forced to do hard things, and are often dreadfully bored, and knocked to pieces too. And then, if we love a girl very dearly we want to do as she likes, so after all you have your own way."


"I don't believe it. I never saw a married woman who had her own way."


"What should you like to do?" said Rex, quite guilelessly, and in real anxiety.

"What should you like to do?" said Rex guilelessly, and in real anxiety.


"Oh, I don't know!--go to the North Pole, or ride steeple-chases, or go to be a queen in the East like Lady Hester Stanhope," said Gwendolen, flightily. Her words were born on her lips, but she would have been at a loss to give an answer of deeper origin.

"Oh, I don't know! - go to the North Pole, or ride steeple-chases, or be a queen in the East like Lady Hester Stanhope," said Gwendolen, flightily. She would have been at a loss to give a deeper answer.


"You don't mean you would never be married?"


"No; I didn't say that. Only when I married, I should not do as other women do."


"You might do just as you liked if you married a man who loved you more dearly than anything else in the world," said Rex, who, poor youth, was moving in themes outside the curriculum in which he had promised to win distinction. "I know one who does."

"You might do as you liked if you married a man who loved you more dearly than anything else in the world," said Rex. "I know one who does."


"Don't talk of Mr. Middleton, for heaven's sake," said Gwendolen, hastily, a quick blush spreading over her face and neck; "that is Anna's chant. I hear the hounds. Let us go on."

"Don't talk of Mr. Middleton, for heaven's sake," said Gwendolen, hastily, a quick blush spreading over her face; "I hear the hounds. Let us go."


She put her chestnut to a canter, and Rex had no choice but to follow her. Still he felt encouraged. Gwendolen was perfectly aware that her cousin was in love with her; but she had no idea that the matter was of any consequence, having never had the slightest visitation of painful love herself. She wished the small romance of Rex's devotion to fill up the time of his stay at Pennicote, and to avoid explanations which would bring it to an untimely end. Besides, she objected, with a sort of physical repulsion, to being directly made love to. With all her imaginative delight in being adored, there was a certain fierceness of maidenhood in her.

She put her chestnut to a canter, and Rex had no choice but to follow. Still he felt encouraged. Gwendolen was perfectly aware that he was in love with her; but she had no idea of the importance of the matter to him, having never felt painful love herself. She wished the small romance of Rex's devotion to fill the time, and to avoid explanations which would bring it to an untimely end. Besides, she objected, with a physical repulsion, to being directly made love to. With all her imaginative delight in being adored, there was a certain fierceness of maidenhood in her.


But all other thoughts were soon lost for her in the excitement of the scene at the Three Barns. Several gentlemen of the hunt knew her, and she exchanged pleasant greetings. Rex could not get another word with her. The color, the stir of the field had taken possession of Gwendolen with a strength which was not due to habitual associations, for she had never yet ridden after the hounds--only said she should like to do it, and so drawn forth a prohibition; her mamma dreading the danger, and her uncle declaring that for his part he held that kind of violent exercise unseemly in a woman, and that whatever might be done in other parts of the country, no lady of good position followed the Wessex hunt: no one but Mrs. Gadsby, the yeomanry captain's wife, who had been a kitchenmaid and still spoke like one. This last argument had some effect on Gwendolen, and had kept her halting between her desire to assert her freedom and her horror of being classed with Mrs. Gadsby.

But all other thoughts were soon lost for her in the excitement of the scene at the Three Barns. Several gentlemen of the hunt knew her, and exchanged pleasant greetings. Rex could not get another word with her. The stir of the field had taken possession of Gwendolen, although she had never yet ridden after the hounds - only said she should like to do it, and been forbidden; her mamma dreading the danger, and her uncle declaring that it was unseemly in a lady.


Some of the most unexceptionable women in the neighborhood occasionally went to see the hounds throw off; but it happened that none of them were present this morning to abstain from following, while Mrs. Gadsby, with her doubtful antecedents, grammatical and otherwise, was not visible to make following seem unbecoming. Thus Gwendolen felt no check on the animal stimulus that came from the stir and tongue of the hounds, the pawing of the horses, the varying voices of men, the movement hither and thither of vivid color on the background of green and gray stillness:--that utmost excitement of the coming chase which consists in feeling something like a combination of dog and horse, with the superadded thrill of social vanities and consciousness of centaur-power which belongs to humankind.

Some of the most respectable women in the neighbourhood occasionally went to see the hounds throw off; but none of them were present this morning. At the stir of the hounds and horses, Gwendolen felt that excitement of the coming chase, which consists in feeling something like a combination of dog and horse, with the superadded thrill of centaur-power.


Rex would have felt more of the same enjoyment if he could have kept nearer to Gwendolen, and not seen her constantly occupied with acquaintances, or looked at by would-be acquaintances, all on lively horses which veered about and swept the surrounding space as effectually as a revolving lever.

Rex would have felt the same enjoyment if he could have kept nearer to Gwendolen, and not seen her constantly occupied with acquaintances on lively horses which veered about and swept the surrounding space.


"Glad to see you here this fine morning, Miss Harleth," said Lord Brackenshaw, a middle-aged peer of aristocratic seediness in stained pink, with easy-going manners which would have made the threatened deluge seem of no consequence. "We shall have a first-rate run. A pity you didn't go with us. Have you ever tried your little chestnut at a ditch? you wouldn't be afraid, eh?"

"Glad to see you here this fine morning, Miss Harleth," said Lord Brackenshaw, an easy-going, middle-aged peer of aristocratic seediness in stained pink. "We shall have a first-rate run. Have you ever tried your little chestnut at a ditch? you wouldn't be afraid, eh?"


"Not the least in the world," said Gwendolen. And that was true: she was never fearful in action and companionship. "I have often taken him at some rails and a ditch too, near--"


"Ah, by Jove!" said his lordship, quietly, in notation that something was happening which must break off the dialogue: and as he reined off his horse, Rex was bringing his sober hackney up to Gwendolen's side when--the hounds gave tongue, and the whole field was in motion as if the whirl of the earth were carrying it; Gwendolen along with everything else; no word of notice to Rex, who without a second thought followed too. Could he let Gwendolen go alone? under other circumstances he would have enjoyed the run, but he was just now perturbed by the check which had been put on the impetus to utter his love, and get utterance in return, an impetus which could not at once resolve itself into a totally different sort of chase, at least with the consciousness of being on his father's gray nag, a good horse enough in his way, but of sober years and ecclesiastical habits. Gwendolen on her spirited little chestnut was up with the best, and felt as secure as an immortal goddess, having, if she had thought of risk, a core of confidence that no ill luck would happen to her. But she thought of no such thing, and certainly not of any risk there might be for her cousin. If she had thought of him, it would have struck her as a droll picture that he should be gradually falling behind, and looking round in search of gates: a fine lithe youth, whose heart must be panting with all the spirit of a beagle, stuck as if under a wizard's spell on a stiff clerical hackney, would have made her laugh with a sense of fun much too strong for her to reflect on his mortification. But Gwendolen was apt to think rather of those who saw her than of those whom she could not see; and Rex was soon so far behind that if she had looked she would not have seen him. For I grieve to say that in the search for a gate, along a lane lately mended, Primrose fell, broke his knees, and undesignedly threw Rex over his head.

Just then the hounds gave tongue, and the whole field was in motion as if the whirl of the earth were carrying it; Gwendolen along with everything else. Rex followed her without a second thought. Under other circumstances he would have enjoyed the run, but he was perturbed by her check on his attempt to utter his love; and hampered by his father's grey nag, Primrose, a good horse enough in his way, but of sober years and ecclesiastical habits.
Gwendolen on her spirited little chestnut was up with the best, and felt as secure as an immortal goddess, having no idea of risk for herself or her cousin. If she had thought of Rex, it would have struck her as a droll picture: a fine lithe youth falling behind, stuck on a stiff clerical hackney. But Gwendolen was apt to think rather of those who saw her than of those whom she could not see; and Rex was soon so far behind that if she had looked she would not have seen him. For I grieve to say that in the search for a gate, Primrose fell, broke his knees, and threw Rex over his head.


Fortunately a blacksmith's son who also followed the hounds under disadvantages, namely, on foot (a loose way of hunting which had struck some even frivolous minds as immoral), was naturally also in the rear, and happened to be within sight of Rex's misfortune. He ran to give help which was greatly needed, for Rex was a great deal stunned, and the complete recovery of sensation came in the form of pain. Joel Dagge on this occasion showed himself that most useful of personages, whose knowledge is of a kind suited to the immediate occasion: he not only knew perfectly well what was the matter with the horse, how far they were both from the nearest public-house and from Pennicote Rectory, and could certify to Rex that his shoulder was only a bit out of joint, but also offered experienced surgical aid.

Fortunately a blacksmith's son following the hounds on foot happened to see Rex's misfortune. He ran to give help which was greatly needed, for Rex was stunned and in considerable pain. Joel Dagge assured Rex that his shoulder was only a bit out of joint, and offered experienced surgical aid.


"Lord, sir, let me shove it in again for you! I's seen Nash, the bone-setter, do it, and done it myself for our little Sally twice over. It's all one and the same, shoulders is. If you'll trusten to me and tighten your mind up a bit, I'll do it for you in no time."

"Lord, sir, let me shove it in again for you! I's seen Nash, the bone-setter, do it, and done it myself for our little Sally. If you'll trusten to me and tighten your mind up a bit, I'll do it for you in no time."


"Come then, old fellow," said Rex, who could tighten his mind better than his seat in the saddle. And Joel managed the operation, though not without considerable expense of pain to his patient, who turned so pitiably pale while tightening his mind, that Joel remarked, "Ah, sir, you aren't used to it, that's how it is. I's see lots and lots o' joints out. I see a man with his eye pushed out once--that was a rum go as ever I see. You can't have a bit o' fun wi'out such sort o' things. But it went in again. I's swallowed three teeth mysen, as sure as I'm alive. Now, sirrey" (this was addressed to Primrose), "come alonk--you musn't make believe as you can't."

"Come then, old fellow," said Rex, who could tighten his mind better than his seat in the saddle. And Joel managed the operation, though not without much pain to his patient, who turned so pale that Joel remarked, "Ah, sir, you aren't used to it, that's how it is. I's see lots and lots o' joints out. Now, sirrey" (this was addressed to Primrose), "you come alonk."


Joel being clearly a low character, it is, happily, not necessary to say more of him to the refined reader, than that he helped Rex to get home with as little delay as possible. There was no alternative but to get home, though all the while he was in anxiety about Gwendolen, and more miserable in the thought that she, too, might have had an accident, than in the pain of his own bruises and the annoyance he was about to cause his father. He comforted himself about her by reflecting that every one would be anxious to take care of her, and that some acquaintance would be sure to conduct her home.

Joel being clearly a low character, it is, happily, not necessary to say more of him to the refined reader, than that he helped Rex to get home with as little delay as possible. All the while Rex was anxious about Gwendolen. He comforted himself by reflecting that everyone would take care of her, and that some acquaintance would be sure to conduct her home.


Mr. Gascoigne was already at home, and was writing letters in his study, when he was interrupted by seeing poor Rex come in with a face which was not the less handsome and ingratiating for being pale and a little distressed. He was secretly the favorite son, and a young portrait of the father; who, however, never treated him with any partiality--rather, with an extra rigor. Mr. Gascoigne having inquired of Anna, knew that Rex had gone with Gwendolen to the meet at the Three Barns.

Mr. Gascoigne was at home writing in his study, having learnt from Anna that Rex and Gwendolen had gone to the meet, when he was interrupted by seeing poor Rex come in looking pale and distressed.


"What is the matter?" he said hastily, not laying down his pen.


"I'm very sorry, sir; Primrose has fallen down and broken his knees."


"Where have you been with him?" said Mr. Gascoigne, with a touch of severity. He rarely gave way to temper.


"To the Three Barns to see the hounds throw off."


"Yes, sir. I didn't go at any fences, but the horse got his leg into a hole."


"And you got hurt yourself, I hope, eh!"


"I got my shoulder put out, but a young blacksmith put it in again for me. I'm just a little battered, that's all."


"I'm very sorry about the horse, sir; I knew it would be a vexation to you."


"And what has become of Gwendolen?" said Mr. Gascoigne, abruptly. Rex, who did not imagine that his father had made any inquiries about him, answered at first with a blush, which was the more remarkable for his previous paleness. Then he said, nervously,

"And what has become of Gwendolen?" said Mr. Gascoigne, abruptly. Rex answered with a nervous blush that was the more remarkable for his previous paleness-


"I am anxious to know--I should like to go or send at once to Offendene--but she rides so well, and I think she would keep up--there would most likely be many round her."

"I am anxious to know - I would like to go to Offendene - but she rides so well, and there would most likely be many round her."


"I suppose it was she who led you on, eh?" said Mr. Gascoigne, laying down his pen, leaning back in his chair, and looking at Rex with more marked examination.

"I suppose it was she who led you on, eh?" said Mr. Gascoigne, looking at Rex with more marked examination.


"It was natural for her to want to go: she didn't intend it beforehand--she was led away by the spirit of the thing. And, of course, I went when she went."

"She didn't intend it beforehand - she was led away by the spirit of the thing. And, of course, I went when she went."


Mr. Gascoigne left a brief interval of silence, and then said, with quiet irony,--"But now you observe, young gentleman, that you are not furnished with a horse which will enable you to play the squire to your cousin. You must give up that amusement. You have spoiled my nag for me, and that is enough mischief for one vacation. I shall beg you to get ready to start for Southampton to-morrow and join Stilfox, till you go up to Oxford with him. That will be good for your bruises as well as your studies."

Mr. Gascoigne, after a brief interval of silence, said, with quiet irony, "But now you see that you are not furnished with a horse which will enable you to play the squire to your cousin. You must give up that amusement. You have spoiled my nag for me, and that is enough mischief for one vacation. I shall beg you to get ready to start for Southampton tomorrow and join Stilfox, till you go up to Oxford with him."


Poor Rex felt his heart swelling and comporting itself as if it had been no better than a girl's.


"I hope you will not insist on my going immediately, sir."


"No, not that--but--" here Rex bit his lips and felt the tears starting, to his great vexation; then he rallied and tried to say more firmly, "I want to go to Offendene, but I can go this evening."

He bit his lips and felt the tears starting, to his great vexation; then he tried to say more firmly, "I want to go to Offendene."


"I am going there myself. I can bring word about Gwendolen, if that is what you want."


Rex broke down. He thought he discerned an intention fatal to his happiness, nay, his life. He was accustomed to believe in his father's penetration, and to expect firmness. "Father, I can't go away without telling her that I love her, and knowing that she loves me."

Rex broke down. "Father, I can't go away without telling her that I love her, and knowing that she loves me."


Mr. Gascoigne was inwardly going through some self-rebuke for not being more wary, and was now really sorry for the lad; but every consideration was subordinate to that of using the wisest tactics in the case. He had quickly made up his mind and to answer the more quietly,

Mr. Gascoigne was inwardly going through some self-rebuke for not being more wary, and was now really sorry for the lad; but deciding on the wisest tactics in the case, he answered quietly-


"My dear boy, you are too young to be taking momentous, decisive steps of that sort. This is a fancy which you have got into your head during an idle week or two: you must set to work at something and dismiss it. There is every reason against it. An engagement at your age would be totally rash and unjustifiable; and moreover, alliances between first cousins are undesirable. Make up your mind to a brief disappointment. Life is full of them. We have all got to be broken in; and this is a mild beginning for you."

"My dear boy, you are too young to be taking momentous steps of that sort. This is the fancy of an idle week or two: you must dismiss it. There is every reason against it. An engagement at your age would be totally rash; and moreover, alliances between first cousins are undesirable. Make up your mind to a brief disappointment. Life is full of them. We have all got to be broken in; and this is a mild beginning for you."


"No, not mild. I can't bear it. I shall be good for nothing. I shouldn't mind anything, if it were settled between us. I could do anything then," said Rex, impetuously. "But it's of no use to pretend that I will obey you. I can't do it. If I said I would, I should be sure to break my word. I should see Gwendolen again."

"No, not mild. I can't bear it. I shall be good for nothing. If it were settled between us, I could do anything," said Rex, impetuously. "But it's of no use to pretend that I will obey you, and never see Gwendolen again."


"Well, wait till to-morrow morning, that we may talk of the matter again--you will promise me that," said Mr. Gascoigne, quietly; and Rex did not, could not refuse.

"Well, wait till tomorrow morning, that we may talk of it again," said Mr. Gascoigne; and Rex could not refuse.


The rector did not even tell his wife that he had any other reason for going to Offendene that evening than his desire to ascertain that Gwendolen had got home safely. He found her more than safe--elated. Mr. Quallon, who had won the brush, had delivered the trophy to her, and she had brought it before her, fastened on the saddle; more than that, Lord Brackenshaw had conducted her home, and had shown himself delighted with her spirited riding. All this was told at once to her uncle, that he might see how well justified she had been in acting against his advice; and the prudential rector did feel himself in a slight difficulty, for at that moment he was particularly sensible that it was his niece's serious interest to be well regarded by the Brackenshaws, and their opinion as to her following the hounds really touched the essence of his objection. However, he was not obliged to say anything immediately, for Mrs. Davilow followed up Gwendolen's brief triumphant phrases with,

When the rector went to Offendene that evening, he found Gwendolen not only safe, but elated. She had been given the fox's brush, and had fastened it on her saddle; and Lord Brackenshaw had conducted her home, and had shown himself delighted with her spirited riding. All this was told to her uncle, to justify her acting against his advice; and the rector did feel himself in a slight difficulty, for he wished his niece to be well-regarded by the Brackenshaws. Mrs. Davilow put in-


"Still, I do hope you will not do it again, Gwendolen. I should never have a moment's quiet. Her father died by an accident, you know."

"I do hope you will not do it again, Gwendolen. I should never have a moment's quiet. Her father died by an accident, you know."


Here Mrs. Davilow had turned away from Gwendolen, and looked at Mr. Gascoigne.


"Mamma, dear," said Gwendolen, kissing her merrily, and passing over the question of the fears which Mrs. Davilow had meant to account for, "children don't take after their parents in broken legs."

"Mamma, dear," said Gwendolen merrily, "children don't take after their parents in broken legs."


Not one word had yet been said about Rex. In fact there had been no anxiety about him at Offendene. Gwendolen had observed to her mamma, "Oh, he must have been left far behind, and gone home in despair," and it could not be denied that this was fortunate so far as it made way for Lord Brackenshaw's bringing her home. But now Mr. Gascoigne said, with some emphasis, looking at Gwendolen,

Not one word had yet been said about Rex. In fact there had been no anxiety about him at Offendene. Gwendolen had observed to her mamma, "Oh, he must have been left far behind, and gone home in despair." But now Mr. Gascoigne said, with some emphasis-


"Well, the exploit has ended better for you than for Rex."


"Yes, I dare say he had to make a terrible round. You have not taught Primrose to take the fences, uncle," said Gwendolen, without the faintest shade of alarm in her looks and tone.

"Yes, I dare say he had a terrible round." said Gwendolen, without the faintest sign of alarm.


"Rex has had a fall," said Mr. Gascoigne, curtly, throwing himself into an arm-chair resting his elbows and fitting his palms and fingers together, while he closed his lips and looked at Gwendolen, who said,

"Rex has had a fall," said Mr. Gascoigne, curtly, throwing himself into an arm-chair while he watched Gwendolen, who said-


"Oh, poor fellow! he is not hurt, I hope?" with a correct look of anxiety such as elated mortals try to super-induce when their pulses are all the while quick with triumph; and Mrs. Davilow, in the same moment, uttered a low "Good heavens! There!"

"Oh, poor fellow! he is not hurt, I hope?" with a correct look of superficial anxiety.


Mr. Gascoigne went on: "He put his shoulder out, and got some bruises, I believe." Here he made another little pause of observation; but Gwendolen, instead of any such symptoms as pallor and silence, had only deepened the compassionateness of her brow and eyes, and said again, "Oh, poor fellow! it is nothing serious, then?" and Mr. Gascoigne held his diagnosis complete. But he wished to make assurance doubly sure, and went on still with a purpose.

"He put his shoulder out, and got some bruises." Here Mr Gascoigne made another pause of observation; but Gwendolen, instead of turning pale and silent, only said again,
"Oh, poor fellow! it is nothing serious, then?" and Mr. Gascoigne held his diagnosis complete. But wishing to make assurance doubly sure, he went on.


"He got his arm set again rather oddly. Some blacksmith--not a parishioner of mine--was on the field--a loose fish, I suppose, but handy, and set the arm for him immediately. So after all, I believe, I and Primrose come off worst. The horse's knees are cut to pieces. He came down in a hole, it seems, and pitched Rex over his head."

"He got his arm set again rather oddly. Some blacksmith set it for him immediately. I believe Primrose came off worst. His knees are cut to pieces. He came down in a hole, and pitched Rex over his head."


Gwendolen's face had allowably become contented again, since Rex's arm had been reset; and now, at the descriptive suggestions in the latter part of her uncle's speech, her elated spirits made her features less unmanageable than usual; the smiles broke forth, and finally a descending scale of laughter.

Gwendolen's face had become contented again, since Rex's arm had been reset; and now laughter broke forth.


"You are a pretty young lady--to laugh at other people's calamities," said Mr. Gascoigne, with a milder sense of disapprobation than if he had not had counteracting reasons to be glad that Gwendolen showed no deep feeling on the occasion.


"Pray forgive me, uncle. Now Rex is safe, it is so droll to fancy the figure he and Primrose would cut--in a lane all by themselves--only a blacksmith running up. It would make a capital caricature of 'Following the Hounds.'"

"Pray forgive me, uncle," she said. "Now Rex is safe, it is so droll to fancy the scene. It would make a capital caricature of 'Following the Hounds.'"


Gwendolen rather valued herself on her superior freedom in laughing where others might only see matter for seriousness. Indeed, the laughter became her person so well that her opinion of its gracefulness was often shared by others; and it even entered into her uncle's course of thought at this moment, that it was no wonder a boy should be fascinated by this young witch--who, however, was more mischievous than could be desired.

Gwendolen rather valued herself on her superior freedom in laughing where others might only see matter for seriousness. Indeed, she laughed so gracefully that her opinion was often shared by others; and it even entered into her uncle's head that it was no wonder a boy should be fascinated by this young witch.


"How can you laugh at broken bones, child?" said Mrs. Davilow, still under her dominant anxiety. "I wish we had never allowed you to have the horse. You will see that we were wrong," she added, looking with a grave nod at Mr. Gascoigne--"at least I was, to encourage her in asking for it."

"How can you laugh at broken bones, child?" said Mrs. Davilow. "I was wrong to encourage you in asking for that horse."


"Yes, seriously, Gwendolen," said Mr. Gascoigne, in a judicious tone of rational advice to a person understood to be altogether rational, "I strongly recommend you--I shall ask you to oblige me so far--not to repeat your adventure of to-day. Lord Brackenshaw is very kind, but I feel sure that he would concur with me in what I say. To be spoken of as 'the young lady who hunts' by way of exception, would give a tone to the language about you which I am sure you would not like. Depend upon it, his lordship would not choose that Lady Beatrice or Lady Maria should hunt in this part of the country, if they were old enough to do so. When you are married, it will be different: you may do whatever your husband sanctions. But if you intend to hunt, you must marry a man who can keep horses."

"Yes, seriously, Gwendolen," said Mr. Gascoigne, in a judicious tone, "I strongly recommend you not to repeat today's adventure. Lord Brackenshaw is very kind, but I feel sure he would agree. Depend upon it, his lordship would not let his daughters hunt, if they were old enough to do so. When you are married, you may do whatever your husband sanctions. But if you intend to hunt, you must marry a man who can keep horses."


"I don't know why I should do anything so horrible as to marry without _that_ prospect, at least," said Gwendolen, pettishly. Her uncle's speech had given her annoyance, which she could not show more directly; but she felt that she was committing herself, and after moving carelessly to another part of the room, went out.

"I should certainly not marry without that prospect, at least," said Gwendolen, pettishly. Her uncle's speech had annoyed her, and she went out.


"She always speaks in that way about marriage," said Mrs. Davilow; "but it will be different when she has seen the right person."


"Her heart has never been in the least touched, that you know of?" said Mr. Gascoigne.

"Her heart has never been touched?" said Mr. Gascoigne.


Mrs. Davilow shook her head silently. "It was only last night she said to me, 'Mamma, I wonder how girls manage to fall in love. It is easy to make them do it in books. But men are too ridiculous.'"

Mrs. Davilow shook her head. "It was only last night she said to me, 'Mamma, I wonder how girls manage to fall in love. Men are too ridiculous.'"


Mr. Gascoigne laughed a little, and made no further remark on the subject. The next morning at breakfast he said,

Mr. Gascoigne laughed a little, and made no further remark.
The next morning at breakfast he said-


"Oh, not very mellow yet, sir; only beginning to turn a little."


"You don't feel quite ready for a journey to Southampton?"

Do you feel ready for a journey to Southampton?"


"Not quite," answered Rex, with his heart metaphorically in his mouth.

"Not quite," answered Rex, with his heart in his mouth.


"Well, you can wait till to-morrow, and go to say goodbye to them at Offendene."

"Well, you can wait till tomorrow, and go to say goodbye to them at Offendene."


Mrs. Gascoigne, who now knew the whole affair, looked steadily at her coffee lest she also should begin to cry, as Anna was doing already.

Mrs. Gascoigne, who now knew the whole affair, looked steadily at her coffee lest she should begin to cry, as Anna was doing already.


Mr. Gascoigne felt that he was applying a sharp remedy to poor Rex's acute attack, but he believed it to be in the end the kindest. To let him know the hopelessness of his love from Gwendolen's own lips might be curative in more ways than one.

Mr. Gascoigne felt that he was applying a sharp remedy to poor Rex, but he believed it to be kindest to let him know the hopelessness of his love from Gwendolen's own lips.


"I can only be thankful that she doesn't care about him," said Mrs. Gascoigne, when she joined her husband in his study. "There are things in Gwendolen I cannot reconcile myself to. My Anna is worth two of her, with all her beauty and talent. It looks very ill in her that she will not help in the schools with Anna--not even in the Sunday-school. What you or I advise is of no consequence to her: and poor Fannie is completely under her thumb. But I know you think better of her," Mrs. Gascoigne ended with a deferential hesitation.


"Oh, my dear, there is no harm in the girl. It is only that she has a high spirit, and it will not do to hold the reins too tight. The point is, to get her well married. She has a little too much fire in her for her present life with her mother and sisters. It is natural and right that she should be married soon--not to a poor man, but one who can give her a fitting position."


Presently Rex, with his arm in a sling, was on his two miles' walk to Offendene. He was rather puzzled by the unconditional permission to see Gwendolen, but his father's real ground of action could not enter into his conjectures. If it had, he would first have thought it horribly cold-blooded, and then have disbelieved in his father's conclusions.

Presently Rex, with his arm in a sling, was on his two miles' walk to Offendene. He was rather puzzled by the unconditional permission to see Gwendolen, but his father's real reason never entered his head.


When he got to the house, everybody was there but Gwendolen. The four girls, hearing him speak in the hall, rushed out of the library, which was their school-room, and hung round him with compassionate inquiries about his arm. Mrs. Davilow wanted to know exactly what had happened, and where the blacksmith lived, that she might make him a present; while Miss Merry, who took a subdued and melancholy part in all family affairs, doubted whether it would not be giving too much encouragement to that kind of character. Rex had never found the family troublesome before, but just now he wished them all away and Gwendolen there, and he was too uneasy for good-natured feigning. When at last he had said, "Where is Gwendolen?" and Mrs. Davilow had told Alice to go and see if her sister were come down, adding, "I sent up her breakfast this morning. She needed a long rest." Rex took the shortest way out of his endurance by saying, almost impatiently, "Aunt, I want to speak to Gwendolen--I want to see her alone."

When he got to the house, the four younger girls rushed out and hung round him with compassionate inquiries about his arm, while Mrs. Davilow wanted to know exactly what had happened. Rex had never found the family troublesome before, but just now he wished them all away and Gwendolen there.
"Where is Gwendolen?" he said. "Aunt, I want to speak to Gwendolen - I want to see her alone."


"Very well, dear; go into the drawing-room. I will send her there," said Mrs. Davilow, who had observed that he was fond of being with Gwendolen, as was natural, but had not thought of this as having any bearing on the realities of life: it seemed merely part of the Christmas holidays which were spinning themselves out.

"Very well, dear; go into the drawing-room. I will send her there," said Mrs. Davilow, who had observed that he was fond of being with Gwendolen, but had not thought of this as significant.


Rex for his part thought that the realities of life were all hanging on this interview. He had to walk up and down the drawing-room in expectation for nearly ten minutes--ample space for all imaginative fluctuations; yet, strange to say, he was unvaryingly occupied in thinking what and how much he could do, when Gwendolen had accepted him, to satisfy his father that the engagement was the most prudent thing in the world, since it inspired him with double energy for work. He was to be a lawyer, and what reason was there why he should not rise as high as Eldon did? He was forced to look at life in the light of his father's mind.

Rex for his part felt that his life was hanging on this interview. He had to walk up and down the drawing-room in expectation for nearly ten minutes; yet, strange to say, he was occupied only in thinking how, once Gwendolen had accepted him, he could satisfy his father that the engagement was prudent.


But when the door opened and she whose presence he was longing for entered, there came over him suddenly and mysteriously a state of tremor and distrust which he had never felt before. Miss Gwendolen, simple as she stood there, in her black silk, cut square about the round white pillar of her throat, a black band fastening her hair which streamed backward in smooth silky abundance, seemed more queenly than usual. Perhaps it was that there was none of the latent fun and tricksiness which had always pierced in her greeting of Rex. How much of this was due to her presentiment from what he had said yesterday that he was going to talk of love? How much from her desire to show regret about his accident? Something of both. But the wisdom of ages has hinted that there is a side of the bed which has a malign influence if you happen to get out on it; and this accident befalls some charming persons rather frequently. Perhaps it had befallen Gwendolen this morning. The hastening of her toilet, the way in which Bugle used the brush, the quality of the shilling serial mistakenly written for her amusement, the probabilities of the coming day, and, in short, social institutions generally, were all objectionable to her. It was not that she was out of temper, but that the world was not equal to the demands of her fine organism.

But when the door opened and Gwendolen entered, he felt suddenly a tremor and distrust which he had never felt before. Miss Gwendolen, in her black silk, a black band fastening her silky abundance of hair, seemed more queenly than usual, with none of her usual latent fun. How much of this was due to her fear that he was going to talk of love? How much from her desire to show regret about his accident? Something of both. But perhaps Gwendolen was also out of temper - or not exactly that, but felt the world unequal to her demands.


However it might be, Rex saw an awful majesty about her as she entered and put out her hand to him, without the least approach to a smile in eyes or mouth. The fun which had moved her in the evening had quite evaporated from the image of his accident, and the whole affair seemed stupid to her. But she said with perfect propriety, "I hope you are not much hurt, Rex; I deserve that you should reproach me for your accident."

However it might be, Rex saw an awful majesty about her as she entered and put out her hand without a smile. She said with perfect propriety, "I hope you are not much hurt, Rex. You should reproach me for your accident."


"Not at all," said Rex, feeling the soul within him spreading itself like an attack of illness. "There is hardly any thing the matter with me. I am so glad you had the pleasure: I would willingly pay for it by a tumble, only I was sorry to break the horse's knees."

"Not at all," said Rex, feeling the soul within him spreading like an attack of illness. "There is hardly any thing the matter with me. I am so glad you had the pleasure, only I was sorry to break the horse's knees."


Gwendolen walked to the hearth and stood looking at the fire in the most inconvenient way for conversation, so that he could only get a side view of her face.

Gwendolen walked to the hearth and stood looking at the fire.


"My father wants me to go to Southampton for the rest of the vacation," said Rex, his baritone trembling a little.

"My father wants me to go to Southampton," said Rex, his voice trembling a little.


"Southampton! That's a stupid place to go to, isn't it?" said Gwendolen, chilly.


"It would be to me, because you would not be there." Silence.


"Should you mind about me going away, Gwendolen?"


"Of course. Every one is of consequence in this dreary country," said Gwendolen, curtly. The perception that poor Rex wanted to be tender made her curl up and harden like a sea-anemone at the touch of a finger.

"Of course. All company matters in this dreary country," she said curtly. The perception that poor Rex wanted to be tender made her curl up and harden.


"Are you angry with me, Gwendolen? Why do you treat me in this way all at once?" said Rex, flushing, and with more spirit in his voice, as if he too were capable of being angry.

"Are you angry with me, Gwendolen? Why do you treat me in this way?" said Rex, flushing, and with spirit.


Gwendolen looked round at him and smiled. "Treat you? Nonsense! I am only rather cross. Why did you come so very early? You must expect to find tempers in dishabille."

Gwendolen looked round at him and smiled. "Treat you? Nonsense! I am only rather cross."


"Be as cross with me as you like--only don't treat me with indifference," said Rex, imploringly. "All the happiness of my life depends on your loving me--if only a little--better than any one else."

"Be as cross as you like - only don't treat me with indifference," implored Rex. "All the happiness of my life depends on your loving me."


He tried to take her hand, but she hastily eluded his grasp and moved to the other end of the hearth, facing him.

He tried to take her hand, but she hastily eluded his grasp and moved away.


"Pray don't make love to me! I hate it!" she looked at him fiercely.

"Pray don't make love to me! I hate it!" she said fiercely.


Rex turned pale and was silent, but could not take his eyes off her, and the impetus was not yet exhausted that made hers dart death at him. Gwendolen herself could not have foreseen that she should feel in this way. It was all a sudden, new experience to her. The day before she had been quite aware that her cousin was in love with her; she did not mind how much, so that he said nothing about it; and if any one had asked her why she objected to love-making speeches, she would have said, laughingly, "Oh I am tired of them all in the books." But now the life of passion had begun negatively in her. She felt passionately averse to this volunteered love.

Rex turned pale and was silent, but could not take his eyes off her. Gwendolen herself had not foreseen that she should feel this way. It was all a sudden, new experience to her. The day before she had been quite aware that her cousin was in love with her; she did not mind, so long as he said nothing about it. But now she felt passionately averse to this volunteered love.


To Rex at twenty the joy of life seemed at an end more absolutely than it can do to a man at forty. But before they had ceased to look at each other, he did speak again.

To Rex the joy of life seemed at an end.


"Is that last word you have to say to me, Gwendolen? Will it always be so?"


She could not help seeing his wretchedness and feeling a little regret for the old Rex who had not offended her. Decisively, but yet with some return of kindness, she said,

She could not help feeling a little regret for the old Rex. Decisively, but yet with some return of kindness, she said-


"About making love? Yes. But I don't dislike you for anything else."


There was just a perceptible pause before he said a low "good-bye." and passed out of the room. Almost immediately after, she heard the heavy hall door bang behind him.

There was a pause before he said a low "good-bye" and left the room. She heard the heavy hall door bang behind him.


Mrs. Davilow, too, had heard Rex's hasty departure, and presently came into the drawing-room, where she found Gwendolen seated on the low couch, her face buried, and her hair falling over her figure like a garment. She was sobbing bitterly. "My child, my child, what is it?" cried the mother, who had never before seen her darling struck down in this way, and felt something of the alarmed anguish that women, feel at the sight of overpowering sorrow in a strong man; for this child had been her ruler. Sitting down by her with circling arms, she pressed her cheek against Gwendolen's head, and then tried to draw it upward. Gwendolen gave way, and letting her head rest against her mother, cried out sobbingly, "Oh, mamma, what can become of my life? there is nothing worth living for!"

Mrs. Davilow, too, heard it, and came into the drawing-room, where she found Gwendolen seated on the low couch, her face buried, sobbing bitterly.
"My child, my child, what is it?" cried the mother, who had never before seen her darling struck down in this way, and felt an alarmed anguish; for this child had been her ruler. She pressed her cheek against Gwendolen's, and Gwendolen, letting her head rest against her mother, cried out sobbingly, "Oh, mamma, what can become of my life? there is nothing worth living for!


"Why, dear?" said Mrs. Davilow. Usually she herself had been rebuked by her daughter for involuntary signs of despair.


"I shall never love anybody. I can't love people. I hate them."


"The time will come, dear, the time will come."


Gwendolen was more and more convulsed with sobbing; but putting her arms round her mother's neck with an almost painful clinging, she said brokenly, "I can't bear any one to be very near me but you."

Gwendolen was convulsed with sobbing; but putting her arms round her mother's neck with an almost painful clinging, she said brokenly, "I can't bear anyone to be very near me but you."


Then the mother began to sob, for this spoiled child had never shown such dependence on her before: and so they clung to each other.


"One day still fierce 'mid many a day struck calm." --BROWNING: _The King and the Book_.


Meanwhile Ezra and Mirah, whom Gwendolen did not include in her thinking about Deronda, were having their relation to him drawn closer and brought into fuller light.


The father Lapidoth had quitted his daughter at the doorstep, ruled by that possibility of staking something in play or betting which presented itself with the handling of any sum beyond the price of staying actual hunger, and left no care for alternative prospects or resolutions. Until he had lost everything he never considered whether he would apply to Mirah again or whether he would brave his son's presence. In the first moment he had shrunk from encountering Ezra as he would have shrunk from any other situation of disagreeable constraint; and the possession of Mirah's purse was enough to banish the thought of future necessities. The gambling appetite is more absolutely dominant than bodily hunger, which can be neutralized by an emotional or intellectual excitation; but the passion for watching chances--the habitual suspensive poise of the mind in actual or imaginary play--nullifies the susceptibility of other excitation. In its final, imperious stage, it seems the unjoyous dissipation of demons, seeking diversion on the burning marl of perdition.

When the father Lapidoth quitted his daughter at the doorstep, he was ruled by that lure of gambling which left no care for alternative prospects or resolutions. Until he had lost everything, he never considered whether he would apply to Mirah again or whether he would brave his son's presence. In the first moment he had shrunk from encountering Ezra; and the possession of Mirah's purse was enough to banish the thought of future necessities. The gambling appetite is more absolutely dominant than hunger. In its final, imperious stage, it seems the joyless dissipation of demons, seeking diversion amidst the burning rocks of hell.


But every form of selfishness, however abstract and unhuman, requires the support of at least one meal a day; and though Lapidoth's appetite for food and drink was extremely moderate, he had slipped into a shabby, unfriendly form of life in which the appetite could not be satisfied without some ready money. When, in a brief visit at a house which announced "Pyramids" on the window-blind, he had first doubled and trebled and finally lost Mirah's thirty shillings, he went out with her empty purse in his pocket, already balancing in his mind whether he should get another immediate stake by pawning the purse, or whether he should go back to her giving himself a good countenance by restoring the purse, and declaring that he had used the money in paying a score that was standing against him. Besides, among the sensibilities still left strong in Lapidoth was the sensibility to his own claims, and he appeared to himself to have a claim on any property his children might possess, which was stronger than the justice of his son's resentment. After all, to take up his lodging with his children was the best thing he could do; and the more he thought of meeting Ezra the less he winced from it, his imagination being more wrought on by the chances of his getting something into his pocket with safety and without exertion, than by the threat of a private humiliation. Luck had been against him lately; he expected it to turn--and might not the turn begin with some opening of supplies which would present itself through his daughter's affairs and the good friends she had spoken of? Lapidoth counted on the fascination of his cleverness--an old habit of mind which early experience had sanctioned: and it is not only women who are unaware of their diminished charm, or imagine that they can feign not to be worn out.

But every form of selfishness requires the support of at least one meal a day; and though Lapidoth's appetite for food and drink was extremely moderate, he had slipped into a shabby form of life in which he could not eat without some ready money. When, in a brief visit to a gambling-house, he had first doubled and trebled and finally lost Mirah's thirty shillings, he went out with her empty purse in his pocket, wondering whether he should get another stake by pawning the purse, or go back to her, giving himself a good countenance by restoring the purse, and declaring that he had used the money in paying a debt.
Lapidoth felt himself to have a claim on any property his children might possess. After all, to take up his lodging with his children was the best thing he could do; and the more he thought of meeting Ezra the less he winced from it, influenced more by the chances of getting money without exertion, than by the threat of a private humiliation. Luck had been against him lately; he expected it to turn - and might not the turn begin with some supplies from his daughter and the good friends she had spoken of? Lapidoth counted on the fascination of his cleverness: it is not only women who are unaware of their diminished charm, or imagine that they can feign not to be worn out.


The result of Lapidoth's rapid balancing was that he went toward the little square in Brompton with the hope that, by walking about and watching, he might catch sight of Mirah going out or returning, in which case his entrance into the house would be made easier. But it was already evening--the evening of the day next to that which he had first seen her; and after a little waiting, weariness made him reflect that he might ring, and if she were not at home he might ask the time at which she was expected. But on coming near the house he knew that she was at home: he heard her singing.

The result was that he went toward the little square in Brompton in hope of catching sight of Mirah. It was evening, two days after he had first seen her; and on coming near the house he knew that she was at home: he heard her singing.


Mirah, seated at the piano, was pouring forth "_Herz, mein Herz_," while Ezra was listening with his eyes shut, when Mrs. Adam opened the door, and said in some embarrassment,

Mirah, seated at the piano, was pouring forth "Herz, mein Herz," while Ezra was listening, when Mrs. Adam opened the door, and said in some embarrassment,


"A gentleman below says he is your father, miss."


"I will go down to him," said Mirah, starting up immediately and looking at her brother.

"I will go down to him," said Mirah, starting up immediately.


"No, Mirah, not so," said Ezra, with decision. "Let him come up, Mrs. Adam."

"No, Mirah, not so," said Ezra, with decision. "Let him come up."


Mirah stood with her hands pinching each other, and feeling sick with anxiety, while she continued looking at Ezra, who had also risen, and was evidently much shaken. But there was an expression in his face which she had never seen before; his brow was knit, his lips seemed hardened with the same severity that gleamed from his eye.

Mirah stood, feeling sick with anxiety. Ezra had also risen, evidently much shaken. But there was a severe expression in his face which she had never seen before.


When Mrs. Adam opened the door to let in the father, she could not help casting a look at the group, and after glancing from the younger man to the elder, said to herself as she closed the door, "Father, sure enough." The likeness was that of outline, which is always most striking at the first moment; the expression had been wrought into the strongest contrasts by such hidden or inconspicuous differences as can make the genius of a Cromwell within the outward type of a father who was no more than a respectable parishioner.


Lapidoth had put on a melancholy expression beforehand, but there was some real wincing in his frame as he said,

He had put on a melancholy expression, but there was some real wincing in his frame as he said-


"Well, Ezra, my boy, you hardly know me after so many years."


"I know you--too well--father," said Ezra, with a slow biting solemnity which made the word father a reproach.

"I know you too well - father," said Ezra, with a slow biting solemnity which made the word father a reproach.


"Ah, you are not pleased with me. I don't wonder at it. Appearances have been against me. When a man gets into straits he can't do just as he would by himself or anybody else, _I_'ve suffered enough, I know," said Lapidoth, quickly. In speaking he always recovered some glibness and hardihood; and now turning toward Mirah, he held out her purse, saying, "Here's your little purse, my dear. I thought you'd be anxious about it because of that bit of writing. I've emptied it, you'll see, for I had a score to pay for food and lodging. I knew you would like me to clear myself, and here I stand--without a single farthing in my pocket--at the mercy of my children. You can turn me out if you like, without getting a policeman. Say the word, Mirah; say, 'Father, I've had enough of you; you made a pet of me, and spent your all on me, when I couldn't have done without you; but I can do better without you now,'--say that, and I'm gone out like a spark. I shan't spoil your pleasure again." The tears were in his voice as usual, before he had finished.

"Ah, you are not pleased with me. I don't wonder at it. When a man gets into straits he can't do just as he would by others. I've suffered enough, I know," said Lapidoth glibly; and turning toward Mirah, he said, "Here's your purse, my dear. I thought you'd be anxious about it because of that bit of writing. I've emptied it, for I had a debt to pay for food and lodging. I knew you would like me to clear myself, and here I stand - without a farthing - at the mercy of my children. You can turn me out if you like. Say the word, Mirah; say, 'Father, I've had enough of you; you made a pet of me, and spent your all on me; but I can do without you now,' - say that, and I'm gone out like a spark. I shan't spoil your pleasure again." The tears were in his voice before he had finished.


"You know I could never say it, father," answered Mirah, with not the less anguish because she felt the falsity of everything in his speech except the implied wish to remain in the house.

"You know I could never say it, father," answered Mirah, with not the less anguish because she felt the falsity of his speech.


"Mirah, my sister, leave us!" said Ezra, in a tone of authority.

"Mirah, my sister, leave us!" said Ezra, with authority.


She looked at her brother falteringly, beseechingly--in awe of his decision, yet unable to go without making a plea for this father who was like something that had grown in her flesh with pain. She went close to her brother, and putting her hand in his, said, in a low voice, but not so low as to be unheard by Lapidoth, "Remember, Ezra--you said my mother would not have shut him out."

She looked at her brother beseechingly - in awe, yet unable to go without making a plea for this father who was like something that had grown painfully in her flesh. Going close to her brother, she said, "Remember, Ezra - you said my mother would not have shut him out."


She left the room, but after going a few steps up the stairs, sat down with a palpitating heart. If, because of anything her brother said to him, he went away--

She left the room, but sat a little way up the stairs, with a palpitating heart.


Lapidoth had some sense of what was being prepared for him in his son's mind, but he was beginning to adjust himself to the situation and find a point of view that would give him a cool superiority to any attempt at humiliating him. This haggard son, speaking as from a sepulchre, had the incongruity which selfish levity learns to see in suffering, and until the unrelenting pincers of disease clutch its own flesh. Whatever preaching he might deliver must be taken for a matter of course, as a man finding shelter from hail in an open cathedral might take a little religious howling that happened to be going on there.

Lapidoth had some sense of what was being prepared for him in his son's mind, but he was beginning to adjust himself to a cool superiority. This haggard son, speaking as from a sepulchre, had an incongruous appearance to his selfish levity. Whatever preaching his son might deliver must be taken for a matter of course, as a man finding shelter from hail in an open cathedral might take a little religious howling that happened to be going on there.


Lapidoth was not born with this sort of callousness: he had achieved it.


"This home that we have here," Ezra began, "is maintained partly by the generosity of a beloved friend who supports me, and partly by the labors of my sister, who supports herself. While we have a home we will not shut you out from it. We will not cast you out to the mercy of your vices. For you are our father, and though you have broken your bond, we acknowledge ours. But I will never trust you. You absconded with money, leaving your debts unpaid; you forsook my mother; you robbed her of her little child and broke her heart; you have become a gambler, and where shame and conscience were there sits an insatiable desire; you were ready to sell my sister--you had sold her, but the price was denied you. The man who has done these things must never expect to be trusted any more. We will share our food with you--you shall have a bed, and clothing. We will do this duty to you, because you are our father. But you will never be trusted. You are an evil man: you made the misery of our mother. That such a man is our father is a brand on our flesh which will not cease smarting. But the Eternal has laid it upon us; and though human justice were to flog you for crimes, and your body fell helpless before the public scorn, we would still say, 'This is our father; make way, that we may carry him out of your sight.'"

"This home that we have here," Ezra began, "is maintained partly by the generosity of a beloved friend, and partly by the labours of my sister. While we have a home we will not shut you out from it. For you are our father, and though you have broken your bond, we acknowledge ours. But I will never trust you. You absconded with money, leaving your debts unpaid; you forsook my mother; you robbed her of her little child and broke her heart; you have become a gambler, and where shame and conscience were there sits an insatiable desire; you were ready to sell my sister - you had sold her, but the price was denied you. The man who has done these things must never expect to be trusted any more. We will share our food with you - you shall have a bed, and clothing, because you are our father. But you will never be trusted. You are an evil man: you made the misery of our mother. That such a man is our father is a painful brand on our flesh. But the Eternal has laid it upon us; and though human justice were to flog you for crimes, and your body fell helpless before public scorn, we would still say, 'This is our father; make way, that we may carry him out of your sight.'"


Lapidoth, in adjusting himself to what was coming, had not been able to foresee the exact intensity of the lightning or the exact course it would take--that it would not fall outside his frame but through it. He could not foresee what was so new to him as this voice from the soul of his son. It touched that spring of hysterical excitability which Mirah used to witness in him when he sat at home and sobbed. As Ezra ended, Lapidoth threw himself into a chair and cried like a woman, burying his face against the table--and yet, strangely, while this hysterical crying was an inevitable reaction in him under the stress of his son's words, it was also a conscious resource in a difficulty; just as in early life, when he was a bright-faced curly young man, he had been used to avail himself of this subtly-poised physical susceptibility to turn the edge of resentment or disapprobation.

Lapidoth, in adjusting himself to what was coming, had not been able to foresee the intensity of the lightning or the exact course it would take - that it would not fall outside his frame but through it. He could not foresee this voice from the soul of his son. It touched his spring of hysterical excitability. He threw himself into a chair and cried like a woman, burying his face - and yet, strangely, while this hysterical crying was a reaction under the stress of his son's words, it was also a conscious resource in a difficulty; just as in early life, when he was a bright-faced curly-haired young man, he had been used to avail himself of his ready tears to turn the edge of disapproval.


Ezra sat down again and said nothing--exhausted by the shock of his own irrepressible utterance, the outburst of feelings which for years he had borne in solitude and silence. His thin hands trembled on the arms of the chair; he would hardly have found voice to answer a question; he felt as if he had taken a step toward beckoning Death. Meanwhile Mirah's quick expectant ear detected a sound which her heart recognized: she could not stay out of the room any longer. But on opening the door her immediate alarm was for Ezra, and it was to his side that she went, taking his trembling hand in hers, which he pressed and found support in; but he did not speak or even look at her. The father with his face buried was conscious that Mirah had entered, and presently lifted up his head, pressed his handkerchief against his eyes, put out his hand toward her, and said with plaintive hoarseness, "Good-bye, Mirah; your father will not trouble you again. He deserves to die like a dog by the roadside, and he will. If your mother had lived, she would have forgiven me--thirty-four years ago I put the ring on her finger under the _Chuppa_, and we were made one. She would have forgiven me, and we should have spent our old age together. But I haven't deserved it. Good-bye."

Ezra sat down again and said nothing - exhausted by the outburst of feelings which for years he had borne in silence. His thin hands trembled on the arms of the chair; he felt as if he had taken a step toward beckoning Death. Meanwhile Mirah recognized the sound of weeping, and opened the door. But her immediate alarm was for Ezra, and it was to his side that she went, taking his trembling hand, which he pressed without looking at her.
The father was conscious that Mirah had entered, and presently lifted up his head, pressed his handkerchief against his eyes, and said with plaintive hoarseness, "Good-bye, Mirah; your father will not trouble you again. He deserves to die like a dog by the roadside, and he will. If your mother had lived, she would have forgiven me, and we should have spent our old age together. But I haven't deserved it. Good-bye."


He rose from the chair as he said the last "good-bye." Mirah had put her hand in his and held him. She was not tearful and grieving, but frightened and awe-struck, as she cried out,

He rose from the chair. Mirah, frightened and awe-struck, cried out-


"No, father, no!" Then turning to her brother, "Ezra, you have not forbidden him?--Stay, father, and leave off wrong things. Ezra, I cannot bear it. How can I say to my father, 'Go and die!'"

"No, father, no!" Then turning to her brother, "Ezra, you have not forbidden him? I cannot bear it. How can I say to my father, 'Go and die!'"


"I have not said it," Ezra answered, with great effort. "I have said, stay and be sheltered."


"Then you will stay, father--and be taken care of--and come with me," said Mirah, drawing him toward the door.

"Then you will stay, father - and be taken care of - and come with me," said Mirah, drawing him toward the door.


This was really what Lapidoth wanted. And for the moment he felt a sort of comfort in recovering his daughter's dutiful attendance, that made a change of habits seem possible to him. She led him down to the parlor below, and said,

This was really what Lapidoth wanted. And for the moment he felt a sort of comfort in his daughter's care that made a change of habits seem possible. She led him down to the parlour below, and said-


"This is my sitting-room when I am not with Ezra, and there is a bed-room behind which shall be yours. You will stay and be good, father. Think that you are come back to my mother, and that she has forgiven you--she speaks to you through me." Mirah's tones were imploring, but she could not give one of her former caresses.

"This is my sitting-room when I am not with Ezra, and there is a bedroom behind which shall be yours. You will stay and be good, father. Think that you are come back to my mother, and that she has forgiven you through me." Mirah's tones were imploring.


Lapidoth quickly recovered his composure, began to speak to Mirah of the improvement in her voice, and other easy subjects, and when Mrs. Adam came to lay out his supper, entered into converse with her in order to show her that he was not a common person, though his clothes were just now against him.

Lapidoth quickly recovered his composure, and began to speak to Mirah of the improvement in her voice. When Mrs. Adam came to lay out his supper, he talked to her to show her that he was not a common person, though his clothes were just now against him.


But in his usual wakefulness at night, he fell to wondering what money Mirah had by her, and went back over old Continental hours at _Roulette_, reproducing the method of his play, and the chances that had frustrated it. He had had his reasons for coming to England, but for most things it was a cursed country.

But that night, he fell to wondering what money Mirah had by her, and went back over old times at Roulette, reproducing the method of his play, and the chances that had frustrated it.


These were the stronger visions of the night with Lapidoth, and not the worn frame of his ireful son uttering a terrible judgment. Ezra did pass across the gaming-table, and his words were audible; but he passed like an insubstantial ghost, and his words had the heart eaten out of them by numbers and movements that seemed to make the very tissue of Lapidoth's consciousness.

These were the stronger visions of the night with Lapidoth, and not the worn frame of his son uttering a terrible judgment. Ezra did pass across the gaming-table, and his words were audible; but he passed like an insubstantial ghost, and his words had the heart eaten out of them by numbers that seemed to make the very tissue of Lapidoth's consciousness.


"No man," says a Rabbi, by way of indisputable instance, "may turn the bones of his father and mother into spoons"--sure that his hearers felt the checks against that form of economy. The market for spoons has never expanded enough for any one to say, "Why not?" and to argue that human progress lies in such an application of material. The only check to be alleged is a sentiment, which will coerce none who do not hold that sentiments are the better part of the world's wealth.

Book 4 - GWENDOLEN GETS HER CHOICE | Chapter 33


Deronda meanwhile took to a less fashionable form of exercise than riding in Rotten Row. He went often rambling in those parts of London which are most inhabited by common Jews. He walked to the synagogues at times of service, he looked into shops, he observed faces:--a process not very promising of particular discovery. Why did he not address himself to an influential Rabbi or other member of a Jewish community, to consult on the chances of finding a mother named Cohen, with a son named Ezra, and a lost daughter named Mirah? He thought of doing so--after Christmas. The fact was, notwithstanding all his sense of poetry in common things, Deronda, where a keen personal interest was aroused, could not, more than the rest of us, continuously escape suffering from the pressure of that hard unaccommodating Actual, which has never consulted our taste and is entirely unselect. Enthusiasm, we know, dwells at ease among ideas, tolerates garlic breathed in the middle ages, and sees no shabbiness in the official trappings of classic processions: it gets squeamish when ideals press upon it as something warmly incarnate, and can hardly face them without fainting. Lying dreamily in a boat, imagining one's self in quest of a beautiful maiden's relatives in Cordova elbowed by Jews in the time of Ibn-Gebirol, all the physical incidents can be borne without shock. Or if the scenery of St. Mary Axe and Whitechapel were imaginatively transported to the borders of the Rhine at the end of the eleventh century, when in the ears listening for the signals of the Messiah, the Hep! Hep! Hep! of the Crusaders came like the bay of blood-hounds; and in the presence of those devilish missionaries with sword and firebrand the crouching figure of the reviled Jew turned round erect, heroic, flashing with sublime constancy in the face of torture and death--what would the dingy shops and unbeautiful faces signify to the thrill of contemplative emotion? But the fervor of sympathy with which we contemplate a grandiose martyrdom is feeble compared with the enthusiasm that keeps unslacked where there is no danger, no challenge--nothing but impartial midday falling on commonplace, perhaps half-repulsive, objects which are really the beloved ideas made flesh. Here undoubtedly lies the chief poetic energy: in the force of imagination that pierces or exalts the solid fact, instead of floating among cloud-pictures. To glory in a prophetic vision of knowledge covering the earth, is an easier exercise of believing imagination than to see its beginning in newspaper placards, staring at you from the bridge beyond the corn-fields; and it might well happen to most of us dainty people that we were in the thick of the battle of Armageddon without being aware of anything more than the annoyance of a little explosive smoke and struggling on the ground immediately about us.

Deronda, meanwhile, often went rambling in those parts of London which are most inhabited by ordinary Jews. He walked to synagogues, he looked into shops, he observed faces: a process not very promising of discovery. Why did he not consult a Rabbi on the chances of finding a mother named Cohen, with a son named Ezra, and a lost daughter named Mirah? He thought of doing so - after Christmas.
The fact was that Deronda, for all his sense of the poetic, could not escape the pressure of that hard unaccommodating Actual, which does not consult our taste. Enthusiasm dwells at ease among ideas; but it gets squeamish when faced with bodily reality. Dreamily imagining oneself in quest of a beautiful maiden's relatives in Cordova, elbowed by Jews in the time of Ibn Gebirol, the incidents can be borne without shock. Or suppose the Crusaders of the eleventh century were transported to Whitechapel as they hounded a reviled Jew, who turned round erect and heroic in the face of death - what would the dingy shops signify then? But the chief poetic energy lies in the enthusiasm that is not diminished by the commonplace nature of its beloved ideas made flesh: the force of imagination that pierces the solid fact, instead of floating among cloud-pictures.


It lay in Deronda's nature usually to contemn the feeble, fastidious sympathy which shrinks from the broad life of mankind; but now, with Mirah before him as a living reality, whose experience he had to care for, he saw every common Jew and Jewess in the light of a comparison with her, and had a presentiment of the collision between her idea of the unknown mother and brother and the discovered fact--a presentiment all the keener in him because of a suppressed consciousness that a not unlike possibility of collision might lie hidden in his own lot. Not that he would have looked with more complacency of expectation at wealthy Jews, outdoing the lords of the Philistines in their sports; but since there was no likelihood of Mirah's friends being found among that class, their habits did not immediately affect him. In this mood he rambled, without expectation of a more pregnant result than a little preparation of his own mind, perhaps for future theorizing as well as practice--very much as if, Mirah being related to Welsh miners, he had gone to look more closely at the ways of those people, not without wishing at the same time to get a little light of detail on the history of Strikes.

Deronda was usually inclined to condemn the feeble, fastidious sympathy which shrinks from the broad life of mankind; but now, with Mirah before him as a living reality, he saw every Jew and Jewess in the light of comparison with her, and feared a collision between her idea of the unknown mother and brother, and the fact. His fear was all the keener because of a suppressed knowledge that a similar collision might lie hidden in his own lot.
In this mood he rambled without expecting any more result than the preparation of his own mind - as if, Mirah being related to Welsh miners, he had gone to look more closely at the ways of those people, perhaps wishing at the same time to learn something about the history of Strikes.


He really did not long to find anybody in particular; and when, as his habit was, he looked at the name over a shop door, he was well content that it was not Ezra Cohen. I confess, he particularly desired that Ezra Cohen should not keep a shop. Wishes are held to be ominous; according to which belief the order of the world is so arranged that if you have an impious objection to a squint, your offspring is the more likely to be born with one; also, that if you happened to desire a squint you would not get it. This desponding view of probability the hopeful entirely reject, taking their wishes as good and sufficient security for all kinds of fulfilment. Who is absolutely neutral? Deronda happening one morning to turn into a little side street out of the noise and obstructions of Holborn, felt the scale dip on the desponding side.

He did not wish to find anybody in particular; and whenever he looked at the name over a shop door, he was well content that it was not Ezra Cohen. I confess, he particularly desired that Ezra Cohen should not keep a shop. But wishes are held to be ominous; so Deronda felt the scale of superstition dip against him when one morning he turned out of the noise of Holborn into a little side street.