"But I shall say no more of this at this time; for this is to be felt and not to be talked of; and they who never touched it with their fingers may secretly perhaps laugh at it in their hearts and be never the wiser."--JEREMY TAYLOR.
The Roman Emperor in the legend put to death ten learned Israelites to avenge the sale of Joseph by his brethren. And there have always been enough of his kidney, whose piety lies in punishing who can see the justice of grudges but not of gratitude. For you shall never convince the stronger feeling that it hath not the stronger reason, or incline him who hath no love to believe that there is good ground for loving. As we may learn from the order of word-making, wherein _love_ precedeth _lovable_.
When Deronda presented his letter at the banking-house in the _Schuster Strasse_ at Mainz, and asked for Joseph Kalonymos, he was presently shown into an inner room, where, seated at a table arranging open letters, was the white-bearded man whom he had seen the year before in the synagogue at Frankfort. He wore his hat--it seemed to be the same old felt hat as before--and near him was a packed portmanteau with a wrap and overcoat upon it. On seeing Deronda enter he rose, but did not advance or put out his hand. Looking at him with small penetrating eyes which glittered like black gems in the midst of his yellowish face and white hair, he said in German,
"Good! It is now you who seek me, young man."
"Yes; I seek you with gratitude, as a friend of my grandfather's," said Deronda, "and I am under an obligation to you for giving yourself much trouble on my account." He spoke without difficulty in that liberal German tongue which takes many strange accents to its maternal bosom.
Kalonymos now put out his hand and said cordially, "So you are no longer angry at being something more than an Englishman?"
"On the contrary. I thank you heartily for helping to save me from remaining in ignorance of my parentage, and for taking care of the chest that my grandfather left in trust for me."
"Sit down, sit down," said Kalonymos, in a quick undertone, seating himself again, and pointing to a chair near him. Then deliberately laying aside his hat and showing a head thickly covered, with white hair, he stroked and clutched his beard while he looked examiningly at the young face before him. The moment wrought strongly on Deronda's imaginative susceptibility: in the presence of one linked still in zealous friendship with the grandfather whose hope had yearned toward him when he was unborn, and who, though dead, was yet to speak with him in those written memorials which, says Milton, "contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul whose progeny they are," he seemed to himself to be touching the electric chain of his own ancestry; and he bore the scrutinizing look of Kalonymos with a delighted awe, something like what one feels in the solemn commemoration of acts done long ago but still telling markedly on the life of to-day. Impossible for men of duller fibre--men whose affection is not ready to diffuse itself through the wide travel of imagination, to comprehend, perhaps even to credit this sensibility of Deronda's; but it subsisted, like their own dullness, notwithstanding their lack of belief in it--and it gave his face an expression which seemed very satisfactory to the observer.
He said in Hebrew, quoting from one of the fine hymns in the Hebrew liturgy, "As thy goodness has been great to the former generations, even so may it be to the latter." Then after pausing a little he began, "Young man, I rejoice that I was not yet set off again on my travels, and that you are come in time for me to see the image of my friend as he was in his youth--no longer perverted from the fellowship of your people--no longer shrinking in proud wrath from the touch of him who seemed to be claiming you as a Jew. You come with thankfulness yourself to claim the kindred and heritage that wicked contrivance would have robbed you of. You come with a willing soul to declare, 'I am the grandson of Daniel Charisi.' Is it not so?"
"Assuredly it is," said Deronda. "But let me say that I should at no time have been inclined to treat a Jew with incivility simply because he was a Jew. You can understand that I shrank from saying to a stranger, 'I know nothing of my mother.'"
"A sin, a sin!" said Kalonymos, putting up his hand and closing his eyes in disgust. "A robbery of our people--as when our youths and maidens were reared for the Roman Edom. But it is frustrated. I have frustrated it. When Daniel Charisi--may his Rock and his Redeemer guard him!--when Daniel Charisi was a stripling and I was a lad little above his shoulder, we made a solemn vow always to be friends. He said, 'Let us bind ourselves with duty, as if we were sons of the same mother.' That was his bent from first to last--as he said, to fortify his soul with bonds. It was a saying of his, 'Let us bind love with duty; for duty is the love of law; and law is the nature of the Eternal.' So we bound ourselves. And though we were much apart in our later life, the bond has never been broken. When he was dead, they sought to rob him; but they could not rob him of me. I rescued that remainder of him which he had prized and preserved for his offspring. And I have restored to him the offspring they had robbed him of. I will bring you the chest forthwith."
Kalonymos left the room for a few minutes, and returned with a clerk who carried the chest, set it down on the floor, drew off a leather cover, and went out again. It was not very large, but was made heavy by ornamental bracers and handles of gilt iron. The wood was beautifully incised with Arabic lettering.
"So!" said Kalonymos, returning to his seat. "And here is the curious key," he added, taking it from a small leathern bag. "Bestow it carefully. I trust you are methodic and wary." He gave Deronda the monitory and slightly suspicious look with which age is apt to commit any object to the keeping of youth.
"I shall be more careful of this than of any other property," said Deronda, smiling and putting the key in his breast-pocket. "I never before possessed anything that was a sign to me of so much cherished hope and effort. And I shall never forget that the effort was partly yours. Have you time to tell me more of my grandfather? Or shall I be trespassing in staying longer?"
"Stay yet a while. In an hour and eighteen minutes I start for Trieste," said Kalonymos, looking at his watch, "and presently my sons will expect my attention. Will you let me make you known to them, so that they may have the pleasure of showing hospitality to my friend's grandson? They dwell here in ease and luxury, though I choose to be a wanderer."
"I shall be glad if you will commend me to their acquaintance for some future opportunity," said Deronda. "There are pressing claims calling me to England--friends who may be much in need of my presence. I have been kept away from them too long by unexpected circumstances. But to know more of you and your family would be motive enough to bring me again to Mainz."
"Good! Me you will hardly find, for I am beyond my threescore years and ten, and I am a wanderer, carrying my shroud with me. But my sons and their children dwell here in wealth and unity. The days are changed for us since Karl the Great fetched my ancestors from Italy to bring some tincture of knowledge to our rough German brethren. I and my contemporaries have had to fight for it too. Our youth fell on evil days; but this we have won; we increase our wealth in safety, and the learning of all Germany is fed and fattened by Jewish brains--though they keep not always their Jewish hearts. Have you been left altogether ignorant of your people's life, young man?"
"No," said Deronda, "I have lately, before I had any true suspicion of my parentage, been led to study everything belonging to their history with more interest than any other subject. It turns out that I have been making myself ready to understand my grandfather a little." He was anxious less the time should be consumed before this circuitous course of talk could lead them back to the topic he most cared about. Age does not easily distinguish between what it needs to express and what youth needs to know--distance seeming to level the objects of memory; and keenly active as Joseph Kalonymos showed himself, an inkstand in the wrong place would have hindered his imagination from getting to Beyrout: he had been used to unite restless travel with punctilious observation. But Deronda's last sentence answered its purpose.
"So--you would perhaps have been such a man as he if your education had not hindered; for you are like him in features:--yet not altogether, young man. He had an iron will in his face: it braced up everybody about him. When he was quite young he had already got one deep upright line in his brow. I see none of that in you. Daniel Charisi used to say, 'Better, a wrong will than a wavering; better a steadfast enemy than an uncertain friend; better a false belief than no belief at all.' What he despised most was indifference. He had longer reasons than I can give you."
"Yet his knowledge was not narrow?" said Deronda, with a tacit reference to the usual excuse for indecision--that it comes from knowing too much.
"Narrow? no," said Kalonymos, shaking his head with a compassionate smile "From his childhood upward, he drank in learning as easily as the plant sucks up water. But he early took to medicine and theories about life and health. He traveled to many countries, and spent much of his substance in seeing and knowing. What he used to insist on was that the strength and wealth of mankind depended on the balance of separateness and communication, and he was bitterly against our people losing themselves among the Gentiles; 'It's no better,' said he, 'than the many sorts of grain going back from their variety into sameness.' He mingled all sorts of learning; and in that he was like our Arabic writers in the golden time. We studied together, but he went beyond me. Though we were bosom friends, and he poured himself out to me, we were as different as the inside and outside of the bowl. I stood up for two notions of my own: I took Charisi's sayings as I took the shape of the trees: they were there, not to be disputed about. It came to the same thing in both of us; we were both faithful Jews, thankful not to be Gentiles. And since I was a ripe man, I have been what I am now, for all but age--loving to wander, loving transactions, loving to behold all things, and caring nothing about hardship. Charisi thought continually of our people's future: he went with all his soul into that part of our religion: I, not. So we have freedom, I am content. Our people wandered before they were driven. Young man when I am in the East, I lie much on deck and watch the greater stars. The sight of them satisfies me. I know them as they rise, and hunger not to know more. Charisi was satisfied with no sight, but pieced it out with what had been before and what would come after. Yet we loved each other, and as he said, he bound our love with duty; we solemnly pledged ourselves to help and defend each other to the last. I have fulfilled my pledge." Here Kalonymos rose, and Deronda, rising also, said,
"And in being faithful to him you have caused justice to be done to me. It would have been a robbery of me too that I should never have known of the inheritance he had prepared for me. I thank you with my whole soul."
"Be worthy of him, young man. What is your vocation?" This question was put with a quick abruptness which embarrassed Deronda, who did not feel it quite honest to allege his law-reading as a vocation. He answered,
"I cannot say that I have any."
"Get one, get one. The Jew must be diligent. You will call yourself a Jew and profess the faith of your fathers?" said Kalonymos, putting his hand on Deronda's shoulder and looking sharply in his face.
"I shall call myself a Jew," said Deronda, deliberately, becoming slightly paler under the piercing eyes of his questioner. "But I will not say that I shall profess to believe exactly as my fathers have believed. Our fathers themselves changed the horizon of their belief and learned of other races. But I think I can maintain my grandfather's notion of separateness with communication. I hold that my first duty is to my own people, and if there is anything to be done toward restoring or perfecting their common life, I shall make that my vocation."
It happened to Deronda at that moment, as it has often happened to others, that the need for speech made an epoch in resolve. His respect for the questioner would not let him decline to answer, and by the necessity to answer he found out the truth for himself.
"Ah, you argue and you look forward--you are Daniel Charisi's grandson," said Kalonymos, adding a benediction in Hebrew.
With that they parted; and almost as soon as Deronda was in London, the aged man was again on shipboard, greeting the friendly stars without any eager curiosity.

When Deronda presented his letter at the banking-house in Mainz, and asked for Joseph Kalonymos, he was shown into an inner room. There, seated at a table arranging letters, was the white-bearded man whom he had seen the year before in the synagogue at Frankfort. Near him was a packed suitcase with a wrap and overcoat upon it. On seeing Deronda enter, he rose, and looking at him with small penetrating eyes, he said in German-
"Good! It is now you who seek me, young man."
"Yes; I seek you with gratitude, as a friend of my grandfather's," said Deronda, speaking in fluent German.
Kalonymos put out his hand and said cordially, "So you are no longer angry at being something more than an Englishman?"
"On the contrary. I thank you heartily for helping to save me from remaining in ignorance of my parentage, and for taking care of the chest that my grandfather left in trust for me."
"Sit down, sit down," said Kalonymos. Laying aside his hat, he examined the young face before him. The presence of his grandfather's friend affected Deronda deeply; he seemed to be touching the electric chain of his own ancestry, and he bore the scrutiny of Kalonymos with delighted awe. This sensibility of Deronda's gave his face an expression which seemed very satisfactory to his observer.
Kalonymos said in Hebrew, quoting from a hymn, "As thy goodness has been great to the former generations, even so may it be to the latter." Then he began, "Young man, I rejoice that you are come in time for me to see the image of my friend as he was in his youth - no longer shrinking in proud wrath from the touch of him who seemed to claim you as a Jew. You come with thankfulness to claim the heritage that wicked contrivance would have robbed you of. You come with a willing soul to declare, 'I am the grandson of Daniel Charisi.' Is it not so?"
"Assuredly," said Deronda. "But let me say that I should never have been inclined to treat a Jew with incivility simply because he was a Jew. I shrank from saying to a stranger, 'I know nothing of my mother.'"
"A sin, a sin!" said Kalonymos in disgust. "A robbery of our people - but it is frustrated. When Daniel Charisi was a stripling and I was a lad little above his shoulder, we made a solemn vow always to be friends. He said, 'Let us bind ourselves with duty, as if we were sons of the same mother.' So we bound ourselves. And though we were much apart in our later life, the bond has never been broken. When he was dead, they sought to rob him; but they could not rob him of me. I rescued that remainder of him which he had prized and preserved for his offspring. I will bring you the chest forthwith."
Kalonymos left the room, and returned with a clerk who carried the chest and set it down on the floor. It was not very large, but was made heavy by ornamental bracers and handles of gilt iron. The wood was beautifully incised with Arabic lettering.
"So!" said Kalonymos. "Here is the key," he added, taking it from a small leathern bag. "Bestow it carefully. I trust you are methodical and wary." He gave Deronda the slightly suspicious look with which age is apt to commit any object to the keeping of youth.
"I shall be more careful of this than of any other property," said Deronda, smiling and putting the key in his breast-pocket. "I never before possessed anything that was a sign of so much cherished hope and effort. Have you time to tell me more of my grandfather?"
"In an hour and eighteen minutes I start for Trieste," said Kalonymos, looking at his watch, "I am a wanderer, carrying my shroud with me. But my sons and their children dwell here in wealth and unity. The days are changed for us since Karl the Great fetched my ancestors from Italy to bring some knowledge to our rough German brethren. Our youth fell on evil days; but this we have won; we increase our wealth in safety, and the learning of all Germany is fed by Jewish brains. Have you been left altogether ignorant of your people's life, young man?"
"No," said Deronda, "I have lately been led to study their history with interest. It turns out that I have been making myself ready to understand my grandfather." He was anxious to learn more about his grandfather, and his last sentence answered its purpose.
"You would perhaps have been such a man as he if your education had not hindered it; for you are like him in features:- yet not altogether. He had an iron will in his face. I see none of that in you. Daniel Charisi used to say, 'Better a wrong will than a wavering; better a false belief than no belief at all.' What he despised most was indifference."
"Yet his knowledge was not narrow?" said Deronda.
"Narrow? no," said Kalonymos. "He drank in learning as easily as the plant sucks up water. But he early took to medicine and theories about life and health. He travelled to many countries, and he was bitterly against our people losing themselves among the Gentiles; 'It's no better,' said he, 'than the many sorts of grain going back from their variety into sameness.' He mingled all sorts of learning; and in that he was like our Arabic writers in the golden time. We studied together, but he went beyond me. Though we were bosom friends, we were as different as the inside and outside of the bowl. Charisi thought continually of our people's future: he went with all his soul into that part of our religion: I, not. If we have freedom, I am content. Our people wandered before they were driven. But Charisi was not satisfied with that, but thought of what would come after. Yet we loved each other, and bound our love with duty; we solemnly pledged to help and defend each other to the last. I have fulfilled my pledge." Here Kalonymos rose, and Deronda, rising also, said-
"I thank you with my whole soul."
"Be worthy of him, young man. What is your vocation?" This question embarrassed Deronda, who did not feel it honest to allege his law-reading as a vocation. He answered-
"I cannot say that I have any."
"Get one, get one. The Jew must be diligent. You will call yourself a Jew and profess the faith of your fathers?" said Kalonymos, looking sharply in his face.
"I shall call myself a Jew," said Deronda, deliberately, becoming slightly paler under those piercing eyes. "But I will not say that I shall profess to believe exactly as my fathers have believed. Our fathers themselves changed the horizon of their belief and learned of other races. I hold that my first duty is to my own people, and if there is anything to be done toward restoring or perfecting their common life, I shall make that my vocation."
It happened to Deronda at that moment, that the need for speech made an epoch in resolve. By the necessity to answer he found out the truth for himself.
"Ah, you argue and you look forward - you are Daniel Charisi's grandson," said Kalonymos, adding a benediction in Hebrew.
With that they parted.


"Er ist geheissen Israel. Ihn hat verwandelt Hexenspruch in einen Hund. * * * * * Aber jeden Freitag Abend, In der Dmm'rungstunde, pltzlich Weicht der Zauber, und der Hund Wird aufs Neu' ein menschlich Wesen." --HEINE: _Prinzessin Sabbath_.
When Deronda arrived at five o'clock, the shop was closed and the door was opened for him by the Christian servant. When she showed him into the room behind the shop he was surprised at the prettiness of the scene. The house was old, and rather extensive at the back: probably the large room he now entered was gloomy by daylight, but now it was agreeably lit by a fine old brass lamp with seven oil-lights hanging above the snow-white cloth spread on the central table. The ceiling and walls were smoky, and all the surroundings were dark enough to throw into relief the human figures, which had a Venetian glow of coloring. The grandmother was arrayed in yellowish brown with a large gold chain in lieu of the necklace, and by this light her yellow face with its darkly-marked eyebrows and framing roll of gray hair looked as handsome as was necessary for picturesque effect. Young Mrs. Cohen was clad in red and black, with a string of large artificial pearls wound round and round her neck: the baby lay asleep in the cradle under a scarlet counterpane; Adelaide Rebekah was in braided amber, and Jacob Alexander was in black velveteen with scarlet stockings. As the four pairs of black eyes all glistened a welcome at Deronda, he was almost ashamed of the supercilious dislike these happy-looking creatures had raised in him by daylight. Nothing could be more cordial than the greeting he received, and both mother and grandmother seemed to gather more dignity from being seen on the private hearth, showing hospitality. He looked round with some wonder at the old furniture: the oaken bureau and high side-table must surely be mere matters of chance and economy, and not due to the family taste. A large dish of blue and yellow ware was set up on the side-table, and flanking it were two old silver vessels; in front of them a large volume in darkened vellum with a deep-ribbed back. In the corner at the farther end was an open door into an inner room, where there was also a light.
Deronda took in these details by parenthetic glances while he met Jacob's pressing solicitude about the knife. He had taken the pains to buy one with the requisites of the hook and white handle, and produced it on demand, saying,
"Is that the sort of thing you want, Jacob?"
It was subjected to a severe scrutiny, the hook and blades were opened, and the article of barter with the cork-screw was drawn forth for comparison.
"Why do you like a hook better than a cork-screw?" said Deronda.
"'Caush I can get hold of things with a hook. A corkscrew won't go into anything but corks. But it's better for you, you can draw corks."
"You agree to change, then?" said Deronda, observing that the grandmother was listening with delight.
"What else have you got in your pockets?" said Jacob, with deliberative seriousness.
"Hush, hush, Jacob, love," said the grandmother. And Deronda, mindful of discipline, answered,
"I think I must not tell you that. Our business was with the knives."
Jacob looked up into his face scanningly for a moment or two, and apparently arriving at his conclusions, said gravely,
"I'll shwop," handing the cork-screw knife to Deronda, who pocketed it with corresponding gravity.
Immediately the small son of Shem ran off into the next room, whence his voice was heard in rapid chat; and then ran back again--when, seeing his father enter, he seized a little velveteen hat which lay on a chair and put it on to approach him. Cohen kept on his own hat, and took no notice of the visitor, but stood still while the two children went up to him and clasped his knees: then he laid his hands on each in turn and uttered his Hebrew benediction; whereupon the wife, who had lately taken baby from the cradle, brought it up to her husband and held it under his outstretched hands, to be blessed in its sleep. For the moment, Deronda thought that this pawnbroker, proud of his vocation, was not utterly prosaic.
"Well, sir, you found your welcome in my family, I think," said Cohen, putting down his hat and becoming his former self. "And you've been punctual. Nothing like a little stress here," he added, tapping his side pocket as he sat down. "It's good for us all in our turn. I've felt it when I've had to make up payments. I began to fit every sort of box. It's bracing to the mind. Now then! let us see, let us see."
"That is the ring I spoke of," said Deronda, taking it from his finger. "I believe it cost a hundred pounds. It will be a sufficient pledge to you for fifty, I think. I shall probably redeem it in a month or so."
Cohen's glistening eyes seemed to get a little nearer together as he met the ingenuous look of this crude young gentleman, who apparently supposed that redemption was a satisfaction to pawnbrokers. He took the ring, examined and returned it, saying with indifference, "Good, good. We'll talk of it after our meal. Perhaps you'll join us, if you've no objection. Me and my wife'll feel honored, and so will mother; won't you, mother?"
The invitation was doubly echoed, and Deronda gladly accepted it. All now turned and stood round the table. No dish was at present seen except one covered with a napkin; and Mrs. Cohen had placed a china bowl near her husband that he might wash his hands in it. But after putting on his hat again, he paused, and called in a loud voice, "Mordecai!"
Can this be part of the religious ceremony? thought Deronda, not knowing what might be expected of the ancient hero. But he heard a "Yes" from the next room, which made him look toward the open door; and there, to his astonishment, he saw the figure of the enigmatic Jew whom he had this morning met with in the book-shop. Their eyes met, and Mordecai looked as much surprised as Deronda--neither in his surprise making any sign of recognition. But when Mordecai was seating himself at the end of the table, he just bent his head to the guest in a cold and distant manner, as if the disappointment of the morning remained a disagreeable association with this new acquaintance.
Cohen now washed his hands, pronouncing Hebrew words the while: afterward, he took off the napkin covering the dish and disclosed the two long flat loaves besprinkled with seed--the memorial of the manna that fed the wandering forefathers--and breaking off small pieces gave one to each of the family, including Adelaide Rebekah, who stood on the chair with her whole length exhibited in her amber-colored garment, her little Jewish nose lengthened by compression of the lip in the effort to make a suitable appearance. Cohen then uttered another Hebrew blessing, and after that, the male heads were uncovered, all seated themselves, and the meal went on without any peculiarity that interested Deronda. He was not very conscious of what dishes he ate from; being preoccupied with a desire to turn the conversation in a way that would enable him to ask some leading question; and also thinking of Mordecai, between whom and himself there was an exchange of fascinated, half-furtive glances. Mordecai had no handsome Sabbath garment, but instead of the threadbare rusty black coat of the morning he wore one of light drab, which looked as if it had once been a handsome loose paletot now shrunk with washing; and this change of clothing gave a still stronger accentuation to his dark-haired, eager face which might have belonged to the prophet Ezekiel--also probably not modish in the eyes of contemporaries. It was noticeable that the thin tails of the fried fish were given to Mordecai; and in general the sort of share assigned to a poor relation--no doubt a "survival" of prehistoric practice, not yet generally admitted to be superstitious.
Mr. Cohen kept up the conversation with much liveliness, introducing as subjects always in taste (the Jew is proud of his loyalty) the Queen and the Royal Family, the Emperor and Empress of the French--into which both grandmother and wife entered with zest. Mrs. Cohen the younger showed an accurate memory of distinguished birthdays; and the elder assisted her son in informing the guest of what occurred when the Emperor and Empress were in England and visited the city ten years before.
"I dare say you know all about it better than we do, sir," said Cohen, repeatedly, by way of preface to full information; and the interesting statements were kept up in a trio.
"Our baby is named _Eu_genie Esther," said young Mrs. Cohen, vivaciously.
"It's wonderful how the Emperor's like a cousin of mine in the face," said the grandmother; "it struck me like lightning when I caught sight of him. I couldn't have thought it."
"Mother and me went to see the Emperor and Empress at the Crystal Palace," said Mr. Cohen. "I had a fine piece of work to take care of, mother; she might have been squeezed flat--though she was pretty near as lusty then as she is now. I said if I had a hundred mothers I'd never take one of 'em to see the Emperor and Empress at the Crystal Palace again; and you may think a man can't afford it when he's got but one mother--not if he'd ever so big an insurance on her." He stroked his mother's shoulder affectionately, and chuckled a little at his own humor.
"Your mother has been a widow a long while, perhaps," said Deronda, seizing his opportunity. "That has made your care for her the more needful."
"Ay, ay, it's a good many _yore-zeit_ since I had to manage for her and myself," said Cohen quickly. "I went early to it. It's that makes you a sharp knife."
"What does--what makes a sharp knife, father?" said Jacob, his cheek very much swollen with sweet-cake.
The father winked at his guest and said, "Having your nose put on the grindstone."
Jacob slipped from his chair with the piece of sweet-cake in his hand, and going close up to Mordecai, who had been totally silent hitherto, said, "What does that mean--putting my nose to the grindstone?"
"It means that you are to bear being hurt without making a noise," said Mordecai, turning his eyes benignantly on the small face close to his. Jacob put the corner of the cake into Mordecai's mouth as an invitation to bite, saying meanwhile, "I shan't though," and keeping his eyes on the cake to observe how much of it went in this act of generosity. Mordecai took a bite and smiled, evidently meaning to please the lad, and the little incident made them both look more lovable. Deronda, however, felt with some vexation that he had taken little by his question.
"I fancy that is the right quarter for learning," said he, carrying on the subject that he might have an excuse for addressing Mordecai, to whom he turned and said, "You have been a great student, I imagine?"
"I have studied," was the quiet answer. "And you?--You know German by the book you were buying."
"Yes, I have studied in Germany. Are you generally engaged in bookselling?" said Deronda.
"No; I only go to Mr. Ram's shop every day to keep it while he goes to meals," said Mordecai, who was now looking at Deronda with what seemed a revival of his original interest: it seemed as if the face had some attractive indication for him which now neutralized the former disappointment. After a slight pause, he said, "Perhaps you know Hebrew?"
"I am sorry to say, not at all."
Mordecai's countenance fell: he cast down his eyelids, looking at his hands, which lay crossed before him, and said no more. Deronda had now noticed more decisively than in their former interview a difficulty in breathing, which he thought must be a sign of consumption.
"I've had something else to do than to get book-learning." said Mr. Cohen,--"I've had to make myself knowing about useful things. I know stones well,"--here he pointed to Deronda's ring. "I'm not afraid of taking that ring of yours at my own valuation. But now," he added, with a certain drop in his voice to a lower, more familiar nasal, "what do you want for it?"
"Fifty or sixty pounds," Deronda answered, rather too carelessly.
Cohen paused a little, thrust his hands into his pockets, fixed on Deronda a pair of glistening eyes that suggested a miraculous guinea-pig, and said, "Couldn't do you that. Happy to oblige, but couldn't go that lengths. Forty pound--say forty--I'll let you have forty on it."
Deronda was aware that Mordecai had looked up again at the words implying a monetary affair, and was now examining him again, while he said, "Very well, I shall redeem it in a month or so."
"Good. I'll make you out the ticket by-and-by," said Cohen, indifferently. Then he held up his finger as a sign that conversation must be deferred. He, Mordecai and Jacob put on their hats, and Cohen opened a thanksgiving, which was carried on by responses, till Mordecai delivered himself alone at some length, in a solemn chanting tone, with his chin slightly uplifted and his thin hands clasped easily before him. Not only in his accent and tone, but in his freedom from the self-consciousness which has reference to others' approbation, there could hardly have been a stronger contrast to the Jew at the other end of the table. It was an unaccountable conjunction--the presence among these common, prosperous, shopkeeping types, of a man who, in an emaciated threadbare condition, imposed a certain awe on Deronda, and an embarrassment at not meeting his expectations.
No sooner had Mordecai finished his devotional strain, than rising, with a slight bend of his head to the stranger, he walked back into his room, and shut the door behind him.
"That seems to be rather a remarkable man," said Deronda, turning to Cohen, who immediately set up his shoulders, put out his tongue slightly, and tapped his own brow. It was clearly to be understood that Mordecai did not come up to the standard of sanity which was set by Mr. Cohen's view of men and things.
"Does he belong to your family?" said Deronda.
This idea appeared to be rather ludicrous to the ladies as well as to Cohen, and the family interchanged looks of amusement.
"No, no," said Cohen. "Charity! charity! he worked for me, and when he got weaker and weaker I took him in. He's an incumbrance; but he brings a blessing down, and he teaches the boy. Besides, he does the repairing at the watches and jewelry."
Deronda hardly abstained from smiling at this mixture of kindliness and the desire to justify it in the light of a calculation; but his willingness to speak further of Mordecai, whose character was made the more enigmatically striking by these new details, was baffled. Mr. Cohen immediately dismissed the subject by reverting to the "accommodation," which was also an act of charity, and proceeded to make out the ticket, get the forty pounds, and present them both in exchange for the diamond ring. Deronda, feeling that it would be hardly delicate to protract his visit beyond the settlement of the business which was its pretext, had to take his leave, with no more decided result than the advance of forty pounds and the pawn-ticket in his breast-pocket, to make a reason for returning when he came up to town after Christmas. He was resolved that he would then endeavor to gain a little more insight into the character and history of Mordecai; from whom also he might gather something decisive about the Cohens--for example, the reason why it was forbidden to ask Mrs. Cohen the elder whether she had a daughter.

When Deronda arrived at five o'clock, the servant showed him into the room behind the closed shop. He was surprised at the prettiness of the scene. The house was old, and extensive at the back: the large room was lit by a fine old brass lamp with seven oil-lights hanging above the snow-white cloth spread on the central table.
The dark surroundings threw into relief the human figures, with a Venetian glow of colouring. By this light, the grandmother's face with its darkly-marked eyebrows and framing roll of grey hair looked picturesquely handsome. Young Mrs. Cohen was clad in red and black, with a string of large artificial pearls wound round and round her neck: the baby lay asleep in the cradle; Adelaide Rebekah was in braided amber, and Jacob was in black velveteen with scarlet stockings.
Deronda was almost ashamed of the supercilious dislike these happy-looking creatures had raised in him by daylight. Nothing could be more cordial than the greeting he received, and both mother and grandmother seemed more dignified in this setting. He looked round with some wonder at the old oak bureau and high side-table, where a large blue and yellow dish was set up between two old silver vessels; in front of them lay a large volume in darkened vellum. In the far corner was an open door into an inner room, where there was also a light.
Deronda took in these details while he met Jacob's pressing solicitude about the knife. He had taken the pains to buy one with a hook and white handle, and produced it on demand, saying,-
"Is that the sort of thing you want, Jacob?"
It was subjected to a severe scrutiny, with Jacob's own knife being drawn forth for comparison.
"Why do you like a hook better than a cork-screw?" said Deronda.
"'Caush I can get hold of things with a hook. A corkscrew won't go into anything but corks. But it's better for you, you can draw corks."
"You agree to change, then?" said Deronda, observing that the grandmother was listening with delight.
"What else have you got in your pockets?" said Jacob.
"Hush, Jacob, love," said the grandmother. And Deronda answered-
"I think I must not tell you that. Our business was with the knives."
Jacob scanned his face for a moment, before saying gravely-
"I'll shwop," handing the cork-screw knife to Deronda, who pocketed it with equal gravity.
Immediately Jacob ran off into the next room, whence his voice was heard in rapid chat; and then ran back again - when, seeing his father enter, he seized a little velveteen hat from a chair and put it on. Cohen kept on his own hat, and stood still while the two children went up to him and clasped his knees. Then he laid his hands on each in turn and uttered his Hebrew benediction; whereupon the wife lifted the baby and brought it to her husband to be blessed in its sleep. For the moment, Deronda thought that this pawnbroker was not utterly prosaic.
"Welcome, sir," said Cohen, putting down his hat. "You've been punctual. Nothing like a little stress here," he added, tapping his side pocket as he sat down. "It's good for us all in our turn. It's bracing to the mind. Now then! let us see."
"That is the ring I spoke of," said Deronda, taking it from his finger. "I believe it cost a hundred pounds. It will be a sufficient pledge to you for fifty, I think. I shall probably redeem it in a month or so."
Cohen's glistening eyes seemed to get a little nearer together as met the innocent look of this young gentleman, who apparently supposed that redemption was a satisfaction to pawnbrokers. He examined the ring and returned it, saying with indifference, "Good, good. We'll talk of it after our meal. Perhaps you'll join us. Me and my wife'll feel honoured, and so will mother."
Deronda gladly accepted. All now turned and stood round the table, which held no dish at present except one covered with a napkin; and Mrs. Cohen had placed a china bowl near her husband that he might wash his hands in it. But after putting on his hat again, he paused, and called in a loud voice, "Mordecai!"
Deronda heard a "Yes" from the next room, and to his astonishment, from it stepped the figure of the enigmatic Jew whom he had met in the book-shop. Their eyes met, and Mordecai looked as much surprised as Deronda - though neither made any sign of recognition. But as Mordecai came to the table, he just bent his head to the guest in a cold and distant manner, as if still feeling the disappointment of the morning.
Cohen now washed his hands, pronouncing Hebrew words: then he took off the napkin covering the dish and disclosed the two long flat loaves besprinkled with seed - the memorial of the manna that fed the wandering forefathers - and breaking off small pieces gave one to each of the family, including Adelaide Rebekah, who stood on the chair in her amber-coloured garment, trying to look suitably solemn. Cohen then uttered another Hebrew blessing, and after that, the male heads were uncovered, all seated themselves, and the meal went on without any peculiarity that interested Deronda.
He was not very conscious of what dishes he ate; being preoccupied with a desire to turn the conversation in a way that would let him ask about Mirah; and also thinking of Mordecai, with whom he exchanged fascinated, furtive glances. Mordecai had no handsome Sabbath garment, but instead of the threadbare rusty black coat of the morning he wore a light one, which looked as if it had once been a handsome loose jacket, now shrunk with washing, which gave a stronger accentuation to his dark-haired, eager face. Deronda noticed that Mordecai was given the thin tails of the fried fish: the sort of share assigned to a poor relation.
Mr. Cohen kept up the conversation with much liveliness, introducing as subjects the Queen and the Royal Family, and the French Emperor and Empress - into which both grandmother and wife entered with zest.
"It's wonderful how the Emperor resembles a cousin of mine," said the grandmother; "it struck me like lightning when I saw him."
"We went to see the Emperor and Empress at the Crystal Palace," said Mr. Cohen. "I had hard work to take care of mother; she might have been squeezed flat. If I had a hundred mothers I'd never take one of 'em to see the Emperor and Empress at the Crystal Palace again; a man can't afford it when he's got but one mother." He stroked his mother's shoulder affectionately.
"Your mother has been a widow a long while, perhaps," said Deronda, seizing his opportunity. "That has made your care for her the more needful."
"Ay, ay, it's a good many years since I had to manage for her and myself," said Cohen. "It's that makes you a sharp knife."
"What makes a sharp knife, father?" said Jacob, his cheek swollen with cake.
The father winked at his guest and said, "Having your nose put to the grindstone."
Jacob slipped from his chair, cake in hand, and going to Mordecai, who had been silent hitherto, said, "What does that mean - putting my nose to the grindstone?"
"It means that you are to bear being hurt without making a noise," said Mordecai, turning his eyes benignly on the small face close to his. Jacob put the corner of the cake into Mordecai's mouth as an invitation to bite, keeping his eyes on it to observe how much of it went in this act of generosity. Mordecai took a bite and smiled, and the little incident made them both look more lovable. Deronda, however, felt that he had gathered little by his question.
Turning to Mordecai, he said, "You have been a great student, I imagine?"
"I have studied," was the quiet answer. "And you? You know German by the book you were buying."
"Yes, I have studied in Germany. Are you generally engaged in bookselling?" said Deronda.
"No; I only go to Mr. Ram's shop every day to keep it while he goes to meals," said Mordecai, who was now looking at Deronda with a revival of his original interest. After a slight pause, he said, "Perhaps you know Hebrew?"
"I am sorry to say, not at all."
Mordecai's countenance fell: he cast down his eyelids and said no more. Deronda noticed a definite difficulty in the other man's breathing, which he thought must be a sign of consumption.
"I've been too busy for book-learning." said Mr. Cohen. "I've had to learn about useful things. I know stones well," - here he pointed to Deronda's ring. "Now, what do you want for it?"
"Fifty or sixty pounds," Deronda answered, rather too carelessly.
Cohen paused a little, hands in his pockets, fixed on Deronda a pair of glistening eyes that suggested a miraculous guinea-pig, and said,
"Couldn't do you that. Happy to oblige, but say forty pound - I'll let you have forty on it."
Deronda was aware that Mordecai had looked up and was examining him again, while he said, "Very well, I shall redeem it in a month or so."
"Good. I'll make you out the ticket by-and-by," said Cohen. Then he, Mordecai and Jacob put on their hats, and he began a thanksgiving, which was carried on by responses, till Mordecai spoke alone at some length, in a solemn chant, with his chin uplifted and his thin hands clasped. There could hardly have been a stronger contrast to the Jew at the other end of the table. It was unaccountable - the presence among these common, prosperous, shopkeeping types, of a man who, in an emaciated threadbare condition, imposed a certain awe on Deronda, and an embarrassment at not meeting his expectations.
No sooner had Mordecai finished his prayer than he rose, and with a slight bend of his head to the stranger, walked back into his room, and shut the door behind him.
"That seems to be rather a remarkable man," said Deronda, turning to Cohen, who tapped his own brow, indicating that Mordecai did not come up to his standard of sanity.
"Does he belong to your family?" said Deronda.
The family exchanged looks of amusement.
"No, no," said Cohen. "Charity! he worked for me, and when he got weaker I took him in. He's an encumbrance; but he brings a blessing, and he teaches the boy. Besides, he repairs the watches and jewellery."
Deronda smiled at this mixture of kindliness and the desire to justify it; but Mr. Cohen immediately dismissed the subject of Mordecai by reverting to business. He proceeded to make out the ticket, got the forty pounds, and presented them both in exchange for the diamond ring.
Deronda, feeling he could protract his visit no longer, had to take his leave, with no more result than a pawn-ticket in his pocket to make a reason for returning after Christmas. He was resolved that he would then try to learn more about Mordecai; from whom also he might gather knowledge about the Cohens - for example, the reason why it was forbidden to ask Mrs. Cohen the elder whether she had a daughter.

Book 4 - GWENDOLEN GETS HER CHOICE | Chapter 34


"A wild dedication of yourselves To unpath'd waters, undreamed shores." --SHAKESPEARE.
On the day when Gwendolen Harleth was married and became Mrs. Grandcourt, the morning was clear and bright, and while the sun was low a slight frost crisped the leaves. The bridal party was worth seeing, and half Pennicote turned out to see it, lining the pathway up to the church. An old friend of the rector's performed the marriage ceremony, the rector himself acting as father, to the great advantage of the procession. Only two faces, it was remarked, showed signs of sadness--Mrs. Davilow's and Anna's. The mother's delicate eyelids were pink, as if she had been crying half the night; and no one was surprised that, splendid as the match was, she should feel the parting from a daughter who was the flower of her children and of her own life. It was less understood why Anna should be troubled when she was being so well set off by the bridesmaid's dress. Every one else seemed to reflect the brilliancy of the occasion--the bride most of all. Of her it was agreed that as to figure and carriage she was worthy to be a "lady o' title": as to face, perhaps it might be thought that a title required something more rosy; but the bridegroom himself not being fresh-colored--being indeed, as the miller's wife observed, very much of her own husband's complexion--the match was the more complete. Anyhow he must be very fond of her; and it was to be hoped that he would never cast it up to her that she had been going out to service as a governess, and her mother to live at Sawyer's Cottage--vicissitudes which had been much spoken of in the village. The miller's daughter of fourteen could not believe that high gentry behaved badly to their wives, but her mother instructed her--"Oh, child, men's men: gentle or simple, they're much of a muchness. I've heard my mother say Squire Pelton used to take his dogs and a long whip into his wife's room, and flog 'em there to frighten her; and my mother was lady's-maid there at the very time."
"That's unlucky talk for a wedding, Mrs. Girdle," said the tailor. "A quarrel may end wi' the whip, but it begins wi' the tongue, and it's the women have got the most o' that."
"The Lord gave it 'em to use, I suppose," said Mrs. Girdle. "_He_ never meant you to have it all your own way."
"By what I can make out from the gentleman as attends to the grooming at Offendene," said the tailor, "this Mr. Grandcourt has wonderful little tongue. Everything must be done dummy-like without his ordering."
"Then he's the more whip, I doubt," said Mrs. Girdle. "_She's_ got tongue enough, I warrant her. See, there they come out together!"
"What wonderful long corners she's got to her eyes!" said the tailor. "She makes you feel comical when she looks at you."
Gwendolen, in fact, never showed more elasticity in her bearing, more lustre in her long brown glance: she had the brilliancy of strong excitement, which will sometimes come even from pain. It was not pain, however, that she was feeling: she had wrought herself up to much the same condition as that in which she stood at the gambling-table when Deronda was looking at her, and she began to lose. There was an enjoyment in it: whatever uneasiness a growing conscience had created was disregarded as an ailment might have been, amidst the gratification of that ambitious vanity and desire for luxury within her which it would take a great deal of slow poisoning to kill. This morning she could not have said truly that she repented her acceptance of Grandcourt, or that any fears in hazy perspective could hinder the glowing effect of the immediate scene in which she was the central object. That she was doing something wrong--that a punishment might be hanging over her--that the woman to whom she had given a promise and broken it, was thinking of her in bitterness and misery with a just reproach--that Deronda with his way of looking into things very likely despised her for marrying Grandcourt, as he had despised her for gambling--above all, that the cord which united her with this lover and which she had heretofore held by the hand, was now being flung over her neck,--all this yeasty mingling of dimly understood facts with vague but deep impressions, and with images half real, half fantastic, had been disturbing her during the weeks of her engagement. Was that agitating experience nullified this morning? No: it was surmounted and thrust down with a sort of exulting defiance as she felt herself standing at the game of life with many eyes upon her, daring everything to win much--or if to lose, still with _clat_ and a sense of importance. But this morning a losing destiny for herself did not press upon her as a fear: she thought that she was entering on a fuller power of managing circumstances--with all the official strength of marriage, which some women made so poor a use of. That intoxication of youthful egoism out of which she had been shaken by trouble, humiliation, and a new sense of culpability, had returned upon her under a newly-fed strength of the old fumes. She did not in the least present the ideal of the tearful, tremulous bride. Poor Gwendolen, whom some had judged much too forward and instructed in the world's ways!--with her erect head and elastic footstep she was walking among illusions; and yet, too, there was an under-consciousness of her that she was a little intoxicated.
"Thank God you bear it so well, my darling!" said Mrs. Davilow, when she had helped Gwendolen to doff her bridal white and put on her traveling dress. All the trembling had been done by the poor mother, and her agitation urged Gwendolen doubly to take the morning as if it were a triumph.
"Why, you might have said that, if I had been going to Mrs. Mompert's, you dear, sad, incorrigible mamma!" said Gwendolen just putting her hands to her mother's cheeks with laughing tenderness--then retreating a little and spreading out her arms as if to exhibit herself: "Here am I--Mrs. Grandcourt! what else would you have me, but what I am sure to be? You know you were ready to die with vexation when you thought that I would not be Mrs. Grandcourt."
"Hush, hush, my child, for heaven's sake!" said Mrs. Davilow, almost in a whisper. "How can I help feeling it when I am parting from you. But I can bear anything gladly if you are happy."
"Not gladly, mamma, no!" said Gwendolen, shaking her head, with a bright smile. "Willingly you would bear it, but always sorrowfully. Sorrowing is your sauce; you can take nothing without it." Then, clasping her mother's shoulders and raining kisses first on one cheek and then on the other between her words, she said, gaily, "And you shall sorrow over my having everything at my beck---and enjoying everything glorious--splendid houses--and horses--and diamonds, I shall have diamonds--and going to court--and being Lady Certainly--and Lady Perhaps--and grand here--and tantivy there--and always loving you better than anybody else in the world."
"My sweet child!--But I shall not be jealous if you love your husband better; and he will expect to be first."
Gwendolen thrust out her lips and chin with a pretty grimace, saying, "Rather a ridiculous expectation. However, I don't mean to treat him ill, unless he deserves it."
Then the two fell into a clinging embrace, and Gwendolen could not hinder a rising sob when she said, "I wish you were going with me, mamma."
But the slight dew on her long eyelashes only made her the more charming when she gave her hand to Grandcourt to be led to the carriage.
The rector looked in on her to give a final "Good-bye; God bless you; we shall see you again before long," and then returned to Mrs. Davilow, saying half cheerfully, half solemnly,
"Let us be thankful, Fanny. She is in a position well suited to her, and beyond what I should have dared to hope for. And few women can have been chosen more entirely for their own sake. You should feel yourself a happy mother."
* * * * *
There was a railway journey of some fifty miles before the new husband and wife reached the station near Ryelands. The sky had veiled itself since the morning, and it was hardly more than twilight when they entered the park-gates, but still Gwendolen, looking out of the carriage-window as they drove rapidly along, could see the grand outlines and the nearer beauties of the scene--the long winding drive bordered with evergreens backed by huge gray stems: then the opening of wide grassy spaces and undulations studded with dark clumps; till at last came a wide level where the white house could be seen, with a hanging wood for a back-ground, and the rising and sinking balustrade of a terrace in front.
Gwendolen had been at her liveliest during the journey, chatting incessantly, ignoring any change in their mutual position since yesterday; and Grandcourt had been rather ecstatically quiescent, while she turned his gentle seizure of her hand into a grasp of his hand by both hers, with an increased vivacity as of a kitten that will not sit quiet to be petted. She was really getting somewhat febrile in her excitement; and now in this drive through the park her usual susceptibility to changes of light and scenery helped to make her heart palpitate newly. Was it at the novelty simply, or the almost incredible fulfilment about to be given to her girlish dreams of being "somebody"--walking through her own furlong of corridor and under her own ceilings of an out-of-sight loftiness, where her own painted Spring was shedding painted flowers, and her own fore-shortened Zephyrs were blowing their trumpets over her; while her own servants, lackeys in clothing but men in bulk and shape, were as nought in her presence, and revered the propriety of her insolence to them:--being in short the heroine of an admired play without the pains of art? Was it alone the closeness of this fulfilment which made her heart flutter? or was it some dim forecast, the insistent penetration of suppressed experience, mixing the expectation of a triumph with the dread of a crisis? Hers was one of the natures in which exultation inevitably carries an infusion of dread ready to curdle and declare itself.
She fell silent in spite of herself as they approached the gates, and when her husband said, "Here we are at home!" and for the first time kissed her on the lips, she hardly knew of it: it was no more than the passive acceptance of a greeting in the midst of an absorbing show. Was not all her hurrying life of the last three months a show, in which her consciousness was a wondering spectator? After the half-willful excitement of the day, a numbness had come over her personality.
But there was a brilliant light in the hall--warmth, matting, carpets, full-length portraits, Olympian statues, assiduous servants. Not many servants, however: only a few from Diplow in addition to those constantly in charge of the house; and Gwendolen's new maid, who had come with her, was taken under guidance by the housekeeper. Gwendolen felt herself being led by Grandcourt along a subtly-scented corridor, into an ante-room where she saw an open doorway sending out a rich glow of light and color.
"These are our dens," said Grandcourt. "You will like to be quiet here till dinner. We shall dine early."
He pressed her hand to his lips and moved away, more in love than he had ever expected to be.
Gwendolen, yielded up her hat and mantle, threw herself into a chair by the glowing hearth, and saw herself repeated in glass panels with all her faint-green satin surroundings. The housekeeper had passed into this boudoir from the adjoining dressing-room and seemed disposed to linger, Gwendolen thought, in order to look at the new mistress of Ryelands, who, however, being impatient for solitude said to her, "Will you tell Hudson when she has put out my dress to leave everything? I shall not want her again, unless I ring."
The housekeeper, coming forward, said, "Here is a packet, madam, which I was ordered to give into nobody's hands but yours, when you were alone. The person who brought it said it was a present particularly ordered by Mr. Grandcourt; but he was not to know of its arrival till he saw you wear it. Excuse me, madam; I felt it right to obey orders."
Gwendolen took the packet and let it lie on her lap till she heard the doors close. It came into her mind that the packet might contain the diamonds which Grandcourt had spoken of as being deposited somewhere and to be given to her on her marriage. In this moment of confused feeling and creeping luxurious languor she was glad of this diversion--glad of such an event as having her own diamonds to try on.
Within all the sealed paper coverings was a box, but within the box there _was_ a jewel-case; and now she felt no doubt that she had the diamonds. But on opening the case, in the same instant that she saw them gleam she saw a letter lying above them. She knew the handwriting of the address. It was as if an adder had lain on them. Her heart gave a leap which seemed to have spent all her strength; and as she opened the bit of thin paper, it shook with the trembling of her hands. But it was legible as print, and thrust its words upon her.
These diamonds, which were once given with ardent love to Lydia Glasher, she passes on to you. You have broken your word to her, that you might possess what was hers. Perhaps you think of being happy, as she once was, and of having beautiful children such as hers, who will thrust hers aside. God is too just for that. The man you have married has a withered heart. His best young love was mine: you could not take that from me when you took the rest. It is dead: but I am the grave in which your chance of happiness is buried as well as mine. You had your warning. You have chosen to injure me and my children. He had meant to marry me. He would have married me at last, if you had not broken your word. You will have your punishment. I desire it with all my soul.
Will you give him this letter to set him against me and ruin us more--me and my children? Shall you like to stand before your husband with these diamonds on you, and these words of mine in his thoughts and yours? Will he think you have any right to complain when he has made you miserable? You took him with your eyes open. The willing wrong you have done me will be your curse.
It seemed at first as if Gwendolen's eyes were spell-bound in reading the horrible words of the letter over and over again as a doom of penance; but suddenly a new spasm of terror made her lean forward and stretch out the paper toward the fire, lest accusation and proof at once should meet all eyes. It flew like a feather from her trembling fingers and was caught up in a great draught of flame. In her movement the casket fell on the floor and the diamonds rolled out. She took no notice, but fell back in her chair again helpless. She could not see the reflections of herself then; they were like so many women petrified white; but coming near herself you might have seen the tremor in her lips and hands. She sat so for a long while, knowing little more than that she was feeling ill, and that those written words kept repeating themselves to her.
Truly here were poisoned gems, and the poison had entered into this poor young creature.
After that long while, there was a tap at the door and Grandcourt entered, dressed for dinner. The sight of him brought a new nervous shock, and Gwendolen screamed again and again with hysterical violence. He had expected to see her dressed and smiling, ready to be led down. He saw her pallid, shrieking as it seemed with terror, the jewels scattered around her on the floor. Was it a fit of madness?
In some form or other the furies had crossed his threshold.

On the day Gwendolen Harleth married Mr. Grandcourt, the morning was clear and bright, and a slight frost crisped the leaves. Half Pennicote turned out to see the bridal party, lining the pathway to the church. An old friend of the rector's performed the marriage ceremony, the rector himself acting as the father of the bride.
Only two faces showed signs of sadness - Mrs. Davilow's and Anna's. The mother's delicate eyelids were pink, as if she had been crying half the night; and no one was surprised that, splendid as the match was, she should feel the parting from a daughter who was the flower of her children. It was less understood why Anna should be troubled. Everyone else seemed to reflect the brilliancy of the occasion - the bride most of all. It was agreed that as to figure she was worthy to be a "lady o' title": as to face, perhaps she might be a little more rosy, but she matched her husband's complexion. Anyhow he must be very fond of her; and it was to be hoped that he would never cast it up to her that she had been going out to service as a governess.
Gwendolen, in fact, never showed more spring in her step, more lustre in her eyes: she had the brilliancy of strong excitement. She had wrought herself up to much the same condition as that in which she stood at the gambling-table when Deronda was looking at her, and she began to lose. There was an enjoyment in it: the uneasiness of her growing conscience was disregarded, amidst the gratification of her ambitious vanity and desire for luxury. This morning she could not have said truly that she repented her acceptance of Grandcourt, or that any hazy fears marred the glowing scene in which she was the central object.
That she was doing something wrong - that a punishment might be hanging over her - that Deronda very likely despised her for marrying Grandcourt, as he had despised her for gambling - above all, that the cord which united her with this lover and which she had until now held by the hand, was now being flung over her neck - all these dimly understood facts and vague impressions had been disturbing her during the weeks of her engagement. But this morning that agitation was thrust down with exulting defiance as she felt herself standing at the game of life with many eyes upon her, daring everything to win - or if to lose, to lose with clat and importance.
But this morning she did not fear a losing destiny: she thought that she was entering on a fuller power of managing circumstances. The youthful egoism out of which she had been shaken by trouble, humiliation, and a sense of culpability, had returned to her with newly-fed strength. She did not in the least appear a tearful, tremulous bride. With erect head and elastic footstep, she was walking among illusions; and yet, too, she was conscious that she was a little intoxicated.
"Thank God you bear it so well, my darling!" said Mrs. Davilow, when she helped Gwendolen to doff her bridal white and put on her travelling dress.
"Why, you might have said that, if I had been going to Mrs. Mompert's, you dear, sad, mamma!" said Gwendolen, putting her hands to her mother's cheeks with laughing tenderness. "Here am I - Mrs. Grandcourt! what else would you have me? You were ready to die with vexation when you thought that I would not be Mrs. Grandcourt."
"Hush, my child, for heaven's sake!" said Mrs. Davilow. "How can I help feeling it when I am parting from you? But I can bear anything gladly if you are happy."
"Not gladly, mamma, no!" said Gwendolen, shaking her head, and smiling. "Willingly you would bear it, but always sorrowfully. Sorrowing is your sauce; you can take nothing without it." Then, kissing her, she said, gaily, "And you shall sorrow over my having everything glorious - splendid houses, horses - and diamonds, I shall have diamonds - and being Lady Perhaps - and grand here - and tantivy there - and always loving you better than anybody else in the world."
"My sweet child! But I shall not be jealous if you love your husband better; and he will expect to be first."
Gwendolen thrust out her lips and chin with a pretty grimace, saying, "Rather a ridiculous expectation. However, I don't mean to treat him ill, unless he deserves it."
Then the two fell into a clinging embrace, and Gwendolen could not hinder a rising sob when she said, "I wish you were going with me, mamma."
But the slight dew on her long eyelashes only made her the more charming when she gave her hand to Grandcourt to be led to the carriage.
* * * * *
There was a railway journey of some fifty miles before the new husband and wife reached the station near Ryelands. It was hardly more than twilight when they entered the park-gates, but still Gwendolen, looking out of the carriage-window, could see the grand outlines of the scene - the long winding drive bordered with evergreens: then the opening of wide grassy spaces; till at last the white house appeared, with a wood for a background, and a terrace in front.
Gwendolen had been at her liveliest during the journey, chatting incessantly, ignoring any change in their position since yesterday; and Grandcourt had been rather ecstatically quiescent, while she turned his gentle seizure of her hand into a grasp of his hand by both hers, vivacious as a kitten that will not sit quiet to be petted.
She was really somewhat feverish in her excitement; and now in this drive through the park her heart palpitated newly. Was it at the novelty, or the almost incredible fulfilment about to be given to her girlish dreams of being "somebody" - walking through her own furlong of corridor, while her servants were as nought in her presence - being in short the heroine of an admired play without the pains of art? Was it the closeness of this fulfilment which made her heart flutter? or was it some dim forecast, the insistent penetration of suppressed experience, creating the dread of a crisis?
She fell silent as they approached the gates, and when her husband said, "Here we are at home!" and for the first time kissed her on the lips, she hardly knew of it: it was no more than the passive acceptance of a greeting in the midst of an absorbing show. Was not all her hurrying life of the last three months a show, in which her consciousness was a wondering spectator? After the excitement of the day, a numbness had come over her.
But there was a brilliant light in the hall - warmth, carpets, full-length portraits, Olympian statues, assiduous servants. Not many servants, however: and Gwendolen's new maid, who had come with her, was taken under guidance by the housekeeper. Gwendolen was led by Grandcourt along a subtly-scented corridor, into an ante-room where she saw an open doorway sending out a rich glow of light and colour.
"These are our dens," said Grandcourt. "You will like to be quiet here till dinner. We shall dine early."
He pressed her hand to his lips and moved away, more in love than he had ever expected to be.
Gwendolen took off her hat and cloak, threw herself into a chair by the glowing hearth, and saw herself repeated in glass panels with all her faint-green satin surroundings.
The housekeeper had entered and seemed disposed to linger; from curiosity, Gwendolen thought, and she said, "Will you tell Hudson I shall not want her again, unless I ring?"
Coming forward, the housekeeper said, "Here is a packet, madam, which I was ordered to give into nobody's hands but yours, when you were alone. The person who brought it said it was a present particularly ordered by Mr. Grandcourt; but he was not to know of its arrival till he saw you wear it. Excuse me, madam; I felt it right to obey orders."
Gwendolen took the packet and let it lie on her lap till she heard the doors close. It came into her mind that the packet might contain the diamonds which Grandcourt had mentioned as being deposited somewhere and to be given to her on her marriage. In this moment of confused feeling and creeping luxurious languor she was glad of this diversion, of having her own diamonds to try on.
Within the sealed paper coverings was a box: within the box there was a jewel-case; and now she felt no doubt that she had the diamonds. But on opening the case, she saw a letter lying above them. She knew the handwriting. It was as if an adder had lain on them. Her heart gave a leap; and as she opened the paper, it shook in her trembling hands. It thrust its words upon her.
'These diamonds, which were once given with ardent love to Lydia Glasher, she passes on to you. You have broken your word to her, so that you might possess what was hers. Perhaps you think of being happy; but the man you have married has a withered heart. His best young love was mine. It is dead: but I am the grave in which your chance of happiness is buried. You had your warning. You have chosen to injure me and my children. He had meant to marry me. He would have married me at last, if you had not broken your word. You will have your punishment. I desire it with all my soul.
'Will you give him this letter to set him against me and ruin us - me and my children? Shall you like to stand before your husband with these diamonds on you, and these words in his thoughts and yours? Will he think you have any right to complain when he has made you miserable? You took him with your eyes open. The wrong you have done me will be your curse.'
It seemed at first as if Gwendolen's eyes were spell-bound in reading the horrible words of the letter over and over again; but a sudden spasm of terror made her lean forward and stretch out the paper toward the fire. It flew like a feather from her trembling fingers and was caught up in a great draught of flame. The casket fell on the floor and the diamonds rolled out. She took no notice, but fell back in her chair again helpless. She sat so for a long while, knowing little more than that she was feeling ill, and that those written words kept repeating themselves to her.
Truly here were poisoned gems, and the poison had entered this poor young creature.
After that long while, there was a tap at the door and Grandcourt entered, dressed for dinner. The sight of him brought a new nervous shock, and Gwendolen screamed again and again with hysterical violence. He had expected to see her dressed and smiling, ready to be led down. He saw her pallid, shrieking as it seemed with terror, the jewels scattered around her on the floor. Was it a fit of madness?
In some form or other the Furies had crossed his threshold.

Book 4 - GWENDOLEN GETS HER CHOICE | Chapter 31


"All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame." --COLERIDGE.
Deronda's eagerness to confess his love could hardly have had a stronger stimulus than Hans had given it in his assurance that Mirah needed relief from jealousy. He went on his next visit to Ezra with the determination to be resolute in using--nay, in requesting--an opportunity of private conversation with her. If she accepted his love, he felt courageous about all other consequences, and as her betrothed husband he would gain a protective authority which might be a desirable defense for her in future difficulties with her father. Deronda had not observed any signs of growing restlessness in Lapidoth, or of diminished desire to recommend himself; but he had forebodings of some future struggle, some mortification, or some intolerable increase of domestic disquietude in which he might save Ezra and Mirah from being helpless victims.
His forebodings would have been strengthened if he had known what was going on in the father's mind. That amount of restlessness, that desultoriness of attention, which made a small torture to Ezra, was to Lapidoth an irksome submission to restraint, only made bearable by his thinking of it as a means of by-and-by securing a well-conditioned freedom. He began with the intention of awaiting some really good chance, such as an opening for getting a considerable sum from Deronda; but all the while he was looking about curiously, and trying to discover where Mirah deposited her money and her keys. The imperious gambling desire within him, which carried on its activity through every other occupation, and made a continuous web of imagination that held all else in its meshes, would hardly have been under the control of a contracted purpose, if he had been able to lay his hands on any sum worth capturing. But Mirah, with her practical clear-sightedness, guarded against any frustration of the promise she had given to Ezra, by confiding all money, except what she was immediately in want of, to Mrs. Meyrick's care, and Lapidoth felt himself under an irritating completeness of supply in kind as in a lunatic asylum where everything was made safe against him. To have opened a desk or drawer of Mirah's, and pocketed any bank-notes found there, would have been to his mind a sort of domestic appropriation which had no disgrace in it; the degrees of liberty a man allows himself with other people's property being often delicately drawn, even beyond the boundary where the law begins to lay its hold--which is the reason why spoons are a safer investment than mining shares. Lapidoth really felt himself injuriously treated by his daughter, and thought that he ought to have had what he wanted of her other earnings as he had of her apple-tart. But he remained submissive; indeed, the indiscretion that most tempted him, was not any insistence with Mirah, but some kind of appeal to Deronda. Clever persons who have nothing else to sell can often put a good price on their absence, and Lapidoth's difficult search for devices forced upon him the idea that his family would find themselves happier without him, and that Deronda would be willing to advance a considerable sum for the sake of getting rid of him. But, in spite of well-practiced hardihood, Lapidoth was still in some awe of Ezra's imposing friend, and deferred his purpose indefinitely.
On this day, when Deronda had come full of a gladdened consciousness, which inevitably showed itself in his air and speech, Lapidoth was at a crisis of discontent and longing that made his mind busy with schemes of freedom, and Deronda's new amenity encouraged them. This pre-occupation was at last so strong as to interfere with his usual show of interest in what went forward, and his persistence in sitting by even when there was reading which he could not follow. After sitting a little while, he went out to smoke and walk in the square, and the two friends were all the easier. Mirah was not at home, but she was sure to be in again before Deronda left, and his eyes glowed with a secret anticipation: he thought that when he saw her again he should see some sweetness of recognition for himself to which his eyes had been sealed before. There was an additional playful affectionateness in his manner toward Ezra.
"This little room is too close for you, Ezra," he said, breaking off his reading. "The week's heat we sometimes get here is worse than the heat in Genoa, where one sits in the shaded coolness of large rooms. You must have a better home now. I shall do as I like with you, being the stronger half." He smiled toward Ezra, who said,
"I am straitened for nothing except breath. But you, who might be in a spacious palace, with the wide green country around you, find this a narrow prison. Nevertheless, I cannot say, 'Go.'"
"Oh, the country would be a banishment while you are here," said Deronda, rising and walking round the double room, which yet offered no long promenade, while he made a great fan of his handkerchief. "This is the happiest room in the world to me. Besides, I will imagine myself in the East, since I am getting ready to go there some day. Only I will not wear a cravat and a heavy ring there," he ended emphatically, pausing to take off those superfluities and deposit them on a small table behind Ezra, who had the table in front of him covered with books and papers.
"I have been wearing my memorable ring ever since I came home," he went on, as he reseated himself. "But I am such a Sybarite that I constantly put it off as a burden when I am doing anything. I understand why the Romans had summer rings--_if_ they had them. Now then, I shall get on better."
They were soon absorbed in their work again. Deronda was reading a piece of rabbinical Hebrew under Ezra's correction and comment, and they took little notice when Lapidoth re-entered and took a seat somewhat in the background.
His rambling eyes quickly alighted on the ring that sparkled on the bit of dark mahogany. During his walk, his mind had been occupied with the fiction of an advantageous opening for him abroad, only requiring a sum of ready money, which, on being communicated to Deronda in private, might immediately draw from him a question as to the amount of the required sum: and it was this part of his forecast that Lapidoth found the most debatable, there being a danger in asking too much, and a prospective regret in asking too little. His own desire gave him no limit, and he was quite without guidance as to the limit of Deronda's willingness. But now, in the midst of these airy conditions preparatory to a receipt which remained indefinite, this ring, which on Deronda's finger had become familiar to Lapidoth's envy, suddenly shone detached and within easy grasp. Its value was certainly below the smallest of the imaginary sums that his purpose fluctuated between; but then it was before him as a solid fact, and his desire at once leaped into the thought (not yet an intention) that if he were quietly to pocket that ring and walk away he would have the means of comfortable escape from present restraint, without trouble, and also without danger; for any property of Deronda's (available without his formal consent) was all one with his children's property, since their father would never be prosecuted for taking it. The details of this thinking followed each other so quickly that they seemed to rise before him as one picture. Lapidoth had never committed larceny; but larceny is a form of appropriation for which people are punished by law; and, take this ring from a virtual relation, who would have been willing to make a much heavier gift, would not come under the head of larceny. Still, the heavier gift was to be preferred, if Lapidoth could only make haste enough in asking for it, and the imaginary action of taking the ring, which kept repeating itself like an inward tune, sank into a rejected idea. He satisfied his urgent longing by resolving to go below, and watch for the moment of Deronda's departure, when he would ask leave to join him in his walk and boldly carry out his meditated plan. He rose and stood looking out of the window, but all the while he saw what lay beyond him--the brief passage he would have to make to the door close by the table where the ring was. However he was resolved to go down; but--by no distinct change of resolution, rather by a dominance of desire, like the thirst of the drunkard--it so happened that in passing the table his fingers fell noiselessly on the ring, and he found himself in the passage with the ring in his hand. It followed that he put on his hat and quitted the house. The possibility of again throwing himself on his children receded into the indefinite distance, and before he was out on the square his sense of haste had concentrated itself on selling the ring and getting on shipboard.
Deronda and Ezra were just aware of his exit; that was all. But, by-and-by, Mirah came in and made a real interruption. She had not taken off her hat; and when Deronda rose and advanced to shake hands with her, she said, in a confusion at once unaccountable and troublesome to herself,
"I only came in to see that Ezra had his new draught. I must go directly to Mrs. Meyrick's to fetch something."
"Pray allow me to walk with you," said Deronda urgently. "I must not tire Ezra any further; besides my brains are melting. I want to go to Mrs. Meyrick's: may I go with you?"
"Oh, yes," said Mirah, blushing still more, with the vague sense of something new in Deronda, and turning away to pour out Ezra's draught; Ezra meanwhile throwing back his head with his eyes shut, unable to get his mind away from the ideas that had been filling it while the reading was going on. Deronda for a moment stood thinking of nothing but the walk, till Mirah turned round again and brought the draught, when he suddenly remembered that he had laid aside his cravat, and saying--"Pray excuse my dishabille--I did not mean you to see it," he went to the little table, took up his cravat, and exclaimed with a violent impulse of surprise, "Good heavens, where is my ring gone?" beginning to search about on the floor.
Ezra looked round the corner of his chair. Mirah, quick as thought, went to the spot where Deronda was seeking, and said, "Did you lay it down?"
"Yes," said Deronda, still unvisited by any other explanation than that the ring had fallen and was lurking in shadow, indiscernable on the variegated carpet. He was moving the bits of furniture near, and searching in all possible and impossible places with hand and eyes.
But another explanation had visited Mirah and taken the color from her cheeks. She went to Ezra's ear and whispered "Was my father here?" He bent his head in reply, meeting her eyes with terrible understanding. She darted back to the spot where Deronda was still casting down his eyes in that hopeless exploration which we are apt to carry on over a space we have examined in vain. "You have not found it?" she said, hurriedly.
He, meeting her frightened gaze, immediately caught alarm from it and answered, "I perhaps put it in my pocket," professing to feel for it there.
She watched him and said, "It is not there?--you put it on the table," with a penetrating voice that would not let him feign to have found it in his pocket; and immediately she rushed out of the room. Deronda followed her--she was gone into the sitting-room below to look for her father--she opened the door of the bedroom to see if he were there--she looked where his hat usually hung--she turned with her hands clasped tight and her lips pale, gazing despairingly out of the window. Then she looked up at Deronda, who had not dared to speak to her in her white agitation. She looked up at him, unable to utter a word--the look seemed a tacit acceptance of the humiliation she felt in his presence. But he, taking her clasped hands between both his, said, in a tone of reverent adoration,
"Mirah, let me think that he is my father as well as yours--that we can have no sorrow, no disgrace, no joy apart. I will rather take your grief to be mine than I would take the brightest joy of another woman. Say you will not reject me--say you will take me to share all things with you. Say you will promise to be my wife--say it now. I have been in doubt so long--I have had to hide my love so long. Say that now and always I may prove to you that I love you with complete love."
The change in Mirah had been gradual. She had not passed at once from anguish to the full, blessed consciousness that, in this moment of grief and shame, Deronda was giving her the highest tribute man can give to woman. With the first tones and the first words, she had only a sense of solemn comfort, referring this goodness of Deronda's to his feeling for Ezra. But by degrees the rapturous assurance of unhoped-for good took possession of her frame: her face glowed under Deronda's as he bent over her; yet she looked up still with intense gravity, as when she had first acknowledged with religious gratitude that he had thought her "worthy of the best;" and when he had finished, she could say nothing--she could only lift up her lips to his and just kiss them, as if that were the simplest "yes." They stood then, only looking at each other, he holding her hands between his--too happy to move, meeting so fully in their new consciousness that all signs would have seemed to throw them farther apart, till Mirah said in a whisper: "Let us go and comfort Ezra."

Deronda went on his next visit to Ezra eager to confess his love and determined to request a private conversation with Mirah. If she accepted him, he would be able to protect her in any difficulties with her father. Deronda had forebodings of some future struggle in which he might save Ezra and Mirah from being helpless victims.
His forebodings would have been strengthened if he had known what was going on in the father's mind. Lapidoth's submission to restraint was only made bearable to him by his thinking of it as a means of by-and-by securing freedom. He intended to await an opening for getting a large sum from Deronda; but meanwhile he was trying to discover where Mirah kept her money and her keys. The imperious desire to gamble, which was present through every other occupation, would hardly have been under his control if he had been able to lay his hands on any sum. But Mirah, with her practical clear-sightedness, confided all money to Mrs. Meyrick's care.
If Lapidoth had found and pocketed any bank-notes of Mirah's, he would have considered it a sort of domestic appropriation which held no disgrace; for he really felt himself badly treated by his daughter, and thought that he ought to have what he wanted of her earnings. However, he was most tempted to approach Deronda, whom he felt might be willing to advance a considerable sum for the sake of getting rid of him. But Lapidoth was still in some awe of Ezra's imposing friend, and deferred this approach.
When Deronda came, full of a gladdened consciousness, Lapidoth was at a crisis of discontent that made his mind busy with schemes of freedom. He was so restless that he could not show any interest in what went forward; and at last he went out to smoke and walk in the square. The two friends were all the easier. Mirah was not at home, but she was sure to be in again before Deronda left, and his eyes glowed with a secret anticipation: and there was a playful affectionateness in his manner toward Ezra.
"This little room is too close for you, Ezra," he said, breaking off his reading. "You must have a better home now. I shall do as I like with you, being the stronger half." He smiled at Ezra, who said-
"I lack nothing except breath. But you, who might have the wide green country around you, find this a narrow prison."
"The country would be a banishment while you are here," said Deronda, rising and walking round the room, while he made a fan of his handkerchief. "This is the happiest room in the world to me. I will imagine myself in the East, since I am getting ready to go there some day. Only I will not wear a cravat and a heavy ring there," he ended, pausing to take these off and put them on a small table behind Ezra.
"I have been wearing my memorial ring ever since I came home," he went on, as he reseated himself. "But it is a burden when I am doing anything. Now I shall get on better."
They were soon absorbed in their work again. Deronda was reading a piece of rabbinical Hebrew under Ezra's correction, and they took little notice when Lapidoth re-entered and sat in the background.
His rambling eyes quickly alighted on the ring that sparkled on the dark mahogany. During his walk, he had been creating a fiction about an advantageous opening for him abroad, only requiring a sum of ready money, which Deronda might supply. Lapidoth had been debating how large a sum; he did not know the limit of Deronda's willingness.
But now, in the midst of these airy fantasies, this ring, which Lapidoth had seen with envy on Deronda's finger, suddenly shone detached and within easy grasp. Its value was certainly below the imaginary sums in his head: but it was before him as a solid fact, and his desire at once leaped into the thought that if he were quietly to pocket that ring and walk away he would have the means of comfortable escape without trouble, and also without danger; for any property of Deronda's was all one with his children's property, since their father would never be prosecuted for taking it. The details of this thinking followed each other so quickly that they seemed to rise before him as one picture.
Still, the gift was to be preferred, if Lapidoth could only make haste enough in asking for it, and the imaginary action of taking the ring, which kept repeating itself like an inward tune, sank into a rejected idea. He resolved to go below, and watch for the moment of Deronda's departure, when he would ask leave to join him in his walk and boldly carry out his plan. He rose and stood looking out of the window, but all the while he saw the brief passage to the door past the table where the ring was. However, he was resolved to go down; but - by no distinct change of resolution - it so happened that in passing the table his fingers fell noiselessly on the ring, and he found himself in the passage with the ring in his hand. It followed that he put on his hat and quitted the house. The possibility of again throwing himself on his children receded into the indefinite distance, and before he was out of the square his sense of haste had concentrated itself on selling the ring and getting on shipboard.
Deronda and Ezra were aware of his exit; that was all. But, by-and-by, Mirah came in and made a real interruption. She had not taken off her hat; and when Deronda rose to shake hands with her, she said, in a confusion at once unaccountable and troublesome to herself-
"I only came to see that Ezra had his medicine. I must go directly to Mrs. Meyrick's."
"Pray allow me to walk with you," said Deronda urgently. "I must not tire Ezra any further; besides, my brains are melting. I want to go to Mrs. Meyrick's: may I go with you?"
"Oh, yes," said Mirah, blushing still more, with the vague sense of something new in Deronda, and turning away to pour out Ezra's draught.
Deronda suddenly remembered that he had laid aside his cravat, and saying- "Pray excuse my dishabille," he went to the little table, took up his cravat, and exclaimed in surprise, "Good heavens, where is my ring gone?" beginning to search about on the floor.
Ezra looked round, quick as thought, went to the spot where Deronda was seeking, and said, "Did you lay it down?"
"Yes," said Deronda, still assuming that the ring had fallen and was lurking in shadow, indiscernible on the variegated carpet. He was moving the bits of furniture nearby.
But another explanation had taken the colour from Mirah's cheeks. She went to Ezra's ear and whispered "Was my father here?" He nodded, meeting her eyes with terrible understanding. She darted back to the spot where Deronda was still hunting in vain. "You have not found it?" she said, hurriedly.
He, meeting her frightened gaze, immediately caught her alarm and answered, "Perhaps I put it in my pocket."
"You put it on the table," she said, with a penetrating voice that would not let him feign to have found it in his pocket; and immediately she rushed out of the room. Deronda followed her: she was gone into the sitting-room below to look for her father - she opened the door of his bedroom - she looked where his hat usually hung - she turned with her hands clasped tight and her lips pale, gazing despairingly out of the window. Then she looked up at Deronda, unable to utter a word in her humiliation. But he, taking her clasped hands between his, said, in a tone of reverent adoration-
"Mirah, let me think that he is my father as well as yours - that we can have no sorrow, no disgrace, no joy apart. I will rather take your grief to be mine than I would take the brightest joy of another woman. Say you will take me to share all things with you. Say you will promise to be my wife. I have been in doubt so long - I have had to hide my love so long. Say that now and always I may prove to you that I love you with complete love."
The change in Mirah was gradual. She did not pass at once from anguish to the full, blessed consciousness that, in this moment of grief and shame, Deronda was giving her the highest tribute man can give to woman. With the first words, she had only a sense of comfort, referring this goodness of Deronda's to his feeling for Ezra. But by degrees the rapturous assurance of love took possession of her: her face glowed under Deronda's as he bent over her; yet she looked up still with intense gravity, as when she had first acknowledged with gratitude that he had thought her "worthy of the best;" and when he had finished, she could say nothing - she could only lift up her lips to kiss his. They stood then, looking at each other, he holding her hands between his - too happy to move, till Mirah whispered: "Let us go and comfort Ezra."