insincerity for him. His plenteous, flexible sympathy had ended by
falling into one current with that reflective analysis which tends to
neutralize sympathy. Few men were able to keep themselves clearer of
vices than he; yet he hated vices mildly, being used to think of them
less in the abstract than as a part of mixed human natures having an
individual history, which it was the bent of his mind to trace with
understanding and pity. With the same innate balance he was fervidly
democratic in his feeling for the multitude, and yet, through his
affections and imagination, intensely conservative; voracious of
speculations on government and religion, yet loth to part with
long-sanctioned forms which, for him, were quick with memories and
sentiments that no argument could lay dead. We fall on the leaning
side; and Deronda suspected himself of loving too well the losing
causes of the world. Martyrdom changes sides, and he was in danger of
changing with it, having a strong repugnance to taking up that clue of
success which the order of the world often forces upon us and makes it
treason against the common weal to reject. And yet his fear of falling
into an unreasoning narrow hatred made a check for him: he apologized
for the heirs of privilege; he shrank with dislike from the loser’s
bitterness and the denunciatory tone of the unaccepted innovator. A too
reflective and diffusive sympathy was in danger of paralyzing in him
that indignation against wrong and that selectness of fellowship which
are the conditions of moral force; and in the last few years of
confirmed manhood he had become so keenly aware of this that what he
most longed for was either some external event, or some inward light,
that would urge him into a definite line of action, and compress his
wandering energy. He was ceasing to care for knowledge—he had no
ambition for practice—unless they could both be gathered up into one
current with his emotions; and he dreaded, as if it were a
dwelling-place of lost souls, that dead anatomy of culture which turns
the universe into a mere ceaseless answer to queries, and knows, not
everything, but everything else about everything—as if one should be
ignorant of nothing concerning the scent of violets except the scent
itself for which one had no nostril. But how and whence was the needed
event to come?—the influence that would justify partiality, and make
him what he longed to be, yet was unable to make himself—an organic
part of social life, instead of roaming in it like a yearning
disembodied spirit, stirred with a vague social passion, but without
fixed local habitation to render fellowship real? To make a little
difference for the better was what he was not contented to live
without; but how to make it? It is one thing to see your road, another
to cut it. He found some of the fault in his birth and the way he had
been brought up, which had laid no special demands on him and had given
him no fixed relationship except one of a doubtful kind; but he did not
attempt to hide from himself that he had fallen into a meditative
numbness, and was gliding farther and farther from that life of
practically energetic sentiment which he would have proclaimed (if he
had been inclined to proclaim anything) to be the best of all life, and
for himself the only way worth living. He wanted some way of keeping
emotion and its progeny of sentiments—which make the savors of
life—substantial and strong in the face of a reflectiveness that
threatened to nullify all differences. To pound the objects of
sentiment into small dust, yet keep sentiment alive and active, was
something like the famous recipe for making cannon—to first take a
round hole and then enclose it with iron; whatever you do keeping fast
hold of your round hole. Yet how distinguish what our will may wisely
save in its completeness, from the heaping of cat-mummies and the
expensive cult of enshrined putrefactions?

Something like this was the common under-current in Deronda’s mind
while he was reading law or imperfectly attending to polite
conversation. Meanwhile he had not set about one function in particular
with zeal and steadiness. Not an admirable experience, to be proposed
as an ideal; but a form of struggle before break of day which some
young men since the patriarch have had to pass through, with more or
less of bruising if not laming.

I have said that under his calm exterior he had a fervor which made him
easily feel the presence of poetry in everyday events; and the forms of
the Juden-gasse, rousing the sense of union with what is remote, set
him musing on two elements of our historic life which that sense raises
into the same region of poetry;—the faint beginnings of faiths and
institutions, and their obscure lingering decay; the dust and withered
remnants with which they are apt to be covered, only enhancing for the
awakened perception the impressiveness either of a sublimely
penetrating life, as in the twin green leaves that will become the
sheltering tree, or of a pathetic inheritance in which all the grandeur
and the glory have become a sorrowing memory.

This imaginative stirring, as he turned out of the Juden-gasse, and
continued to saunter in the warm evening air, meaning to find his way
to the synagogue, neutralized the repellent effect of certain ugly
little incidents on his way. Turning into an old book-shop to ask the
exact time of service at the synagogue, he was affectionately directed
by a precocious Jewish youth, who entered cordially into his wanting,
not the fine new building of the Reformed but the old Rabbinical school
of the orthodox; and then cheated him like a pure Teuton, only with
more amenity, in his charge for a book quite out of request as one
“nicht so leicht zu bekommen.” Meanwhile at the opposite counter a deaf
and grisly tradesman was casting a flinty look at certain cards,
apparently combining advantages of business with religion, and
shoutingly proposed to him in Jew-dialect by a dingy man in a tall coat
hanging from neck to heel, a bag in hand, and a broad low hat
surmounting his chosen nose—who had no sooner disappeared than another
dingy man of the same pattern issued from the background glooms of the
shop and also shouted in the same dialect. In fact, Deronda saw various
queer-looking Israelites not altogether without guile, and just
distinguishable from queer-looking Christians of the same mixed
_morale_. In his anxiety about Mirah’s relatives, he had lately been
thinking of vulgar Jews with a sort of personal alarm. But a little
comparison will often diminish our surprise and disgust at the
aberrations of Jews and other dissidents whose lives do not offer a
consistent or lovely pattern of their creed; and this evening Deronda,
becoming more conscious that he was falling into unfairness and
ridiculous exaggeration, began to use that corrective comparison: he
paid his thaler too much, without prejudice to his interests in the
Hebrew destiny, or his wish to find the _Rabbinische Schule_, which he
arrived at by sunset, and entered with a good congregation of men.

He happened to take his seat in a line with an elderly man from whom he
was distant enough to glance at him more than once as rather a
noticeable figure—his ample white beard and felt hat framing a profile
of that fine contour which may as easily be Italian as Hebrew. He
returned Deronda’s notice till at last their eyes met; an undesirable
chance with unknown persons, and a reason to Deronda for not looking
again; but he immediately found an open prayer-book pushed toward him
and had to bow his thanks. However, the congregation had mustered, the
reader had mounted to the _almemor_ or platform, and the service began.
Deronda, having looked enough at the German translation of the Hebrew
in the book before him to know that he was chiefly hearing Psalms and
Old Testament passages or phrases, gave himself up to that strongest
effect of chanted liturgies which is independent of detailed verbal
meaning—like the effect of an Allegri’s _Miserere_ or a Palestrina’s
_Magnificat_. The most powerful movement of feeling with a liturgy is
the prayer which seeks for nothing special, but is a yearning to escape
from the limitations of our own weakness and an invocation of all Good
to enter and abide with us; or else a self-oblivious lifting up of
Gladness, a _Gloria in excelsis_ that such Good exists; both the
yearning and the exaltation gathering their utmost force from the sense
of communion in a form which has expressed them both, for long
generations of struggling fellow-men. The Hebrew liturgy, like others,
has its transitions of litany, lyric, proclamation, dry statement and
blessing; but this evening, all were one for Deronda: the chant of the
_Chazaris_ or Reader’s grand wide-ranging voice with its passage from
monotony to sudden cries, the outburst of sweet boys’ voices from the
little choir, the devotional swaying of men’s bodies backward and
forward, the very commonness of the building and shabbiness of the
scene where a national faith, which had penetrated the thinking of half
the world, and moulded the splendid forms of that world’s religion, was
finding a remote, obscure echo—all were blent for him as one
expression of a binding history, tragic and yet glorious. He wondered
at the strength of his own feeling; it seemed beyond the occasion—what
one might imagine to be a divine influx in the darkness, before there
was any vision to interpret. The whole scene was a coherent strain, its
burden a passionate regret, which, if he had known the liturgy for the
Day of Reconciliation, he might have clad in its antithetic burden;
“Happy the eye which saw all these things; but verily to hear only of
them afflicts our soul. Happy the eye that saw our temple and the joy
of our congregation; but verily to hear only of them afflicts our soul.
Happy the eye that saw the fingers when tuning every kind of song; but
verily to hear only of them afflicts our soul.”

But with the cessation of the devotional sounds and the movement of
many indifferent faces and vulgar figures before him there darted into
his mind the frigid idea that he had probably been alone in his
feeling, and perhaps the only person in the congregation for whom the
service was more than a dull routine. There was just time for this
chilling thought before he had bowed to his civil neighbor and was
moving away with the rest—when he felt a hand on his arm, and turning
with the rather unpleasant sensation which this abrupt sort of claim is
apt to bring, he saw close to him the white-bearded face of that
neighbor, who said to him in German, “Excuse me, young gentleman—allow
me—what is your parentage—your mother’s family—her maiden name?”

Deronda had a strongly resistant feeling: he was inclined to shake off
hastily the touch on his arm; but he managed to slip it away and said
coldly, “I am an Englishman.”

The questioner looked at him dubiously still for an instant, then just
lifted his hat and turned away; whether under a sense of having made a
mistake or of having been repulsed, Deronda was uncertain. In his walk
back to the hotel he tried to still any uneasiness on the subject by
reflecting that he could not have acted differently. How could he say
that he did not know the name of his mother’s family to that total
stranger?—who indeed had taken an unwarrantable liberty in the
abruptness of his question, dictated probably by some fancy of likeness
such as often occurs without real significance. The incident, he said
to himself, was trivial; but whatever import it might have, his inward
shrinking on the occasion was too strong for him to be sorry that he
had cut it short. It was a reason, however, for his not mentioning the
synagogue to the Mallingers—in addition to his usual inclination to
reticence on anything that the baronet would have been likely to call
Quixotic enthusiasm. Hardly any man could be more good-natured than Sir
Hugo; indeed in his kindliness especially to women, he did actions
which others would have called romantic; but he never took a romantic
view of them, and in general smiled at the introduction of motives on a
grand scale, or of reasons that lay very far off. This was the point of
strongest difference between him and Deronda, who rarely ate at
breakfast without some silent discursive flight after grounds for
filling up his day according to the practice of his contemporaries.

This halt at Frankfort was taken on their way home, and its impressions
were kept the more actively vibrating in him by the duty of caring for
Mirah’s welfare. That question about his parentage, which if he had not
both inwardly and outwardly shaken it off as trivial, would have seemed
a threat rather than a promise of revelation, and reinforced his
anxiety as to the effect of finding Mirah’s relatives and his resolve
to proceed with caution. If he made any unpleasant discovery, was he
bound to a disclosure that might cast a new net of trouble around her?
He had written to Mrs. Meyrick to announce his visit at four o’clock,
and he found Mirah seated at work with only Mrs. Meyrick and Mab, the
open piano, and all the glorious company of engravings. The dainty
neatness of her hair and dress, the glow of tranquil happiness in a
face where a painter need have changed nothing if he had wanted to put
it in front of the host singing “peace on earth and good will to men,”
made a contrast to his first vision of her that was delightful to
Deronda’s eyes. Mirah herself was thinking of it, and immediately on
their greeting said,

“See how different I am from the miserable creature by the river! all
because you found me and brought me to the very best.”

“It was my good chance to find you,” said Deronda. “Any other man would
have been glad to do what I did.”

“That is not the right way to be thinking about it,” said Mirah,
shaking her head with decisive gravity, “I think of what really was. It
was you, and not another, who found me and were good to me.”

“I agree with Mirah,” said Mrs. Meyrick. “Saint Anybody is a bad saint
to pray to.”

“Besides, Anybody could not have brought me to you,” said Mirah,
smiling at Mrs. Meyrick. “And I would rather be with you than with any
one else in the world except my mother. I wonder if ever a poor little
bird, that was lost and could not fly, was taken and put into a warm
nest where was a mother and sisters who took to it so that everything
came naturally, as if it had been always there. I hardly thought before
that the world could ever be as happy and without fear as it is to me
now.” She looked meditative a moment, and then said, “sometimes I am a
_little_ afraid.”

“What is it you are afraid of?” said Deronda with anxiety.

“That when I am turning at the corner of a street I may meet my father.
It seems dreadful that I should be afraid of meeting him. That is my
only sorrow,” said Mirah, plaintively.

“It is surely not very probable,” said Deronda, wishing that it were
less so; then, not to let the opportunity escape—“Would it be a great
grief to you now if you were never to meet your mother?”

She did not answer immediately, but meditated again, with her eyes
fixed on the opposite wall. Then she turned them on Deronda and said
firmly, as if she had arrived at the exact truth, “I want her to know
that I have always loved her, and if she is alive I want to comfort
her. She may be dead. If she were I should long to know where she was
buried; and to know whether my brother lives, to say Kaddish in memory
of her. But I will try not to grieve. I have thought much for so
many years of her being dead. And I shall have her with me in my mind,
as I have always had. We can never be really parted. I think I have
never sinned against her. I have always tried not to do what would hurt
her. Only, she might be sorry that I was not a good Jewess.”

“In what way are you not a good Jewess?” said Deronda.

“I am ignorant, and we never observed the laws, but lived among
Christians just as they did. But I have heard my father laugh at the
strictness of the Jews about their food and all customs, and their not
liking Christians. I think my mother was strict; but she could never
want me not to like those who are better to me than any of my own
people I have ever known. I think I could obey in other things that she
wished but not in that. It is so much easier to me to share in love
than in hatred. I remember a play I read in German—since I have been
here it has come into my mind—where the heroine says something like
that.”

“_Antigone_,” said Deronda.

“Ah, you know it. But I do not believe that my mother would wish me not
to love my best friends. She would be grateful to them.” Here Mirah had
turned to Mrs. Meyrick, and with a sudden lighting up of her whole
countenance, she said, “Oh, if we ever do meet and know each other as
we are now, so that I could tell what would comfort her—I should be so
full of blessedness my soul would know no want but to love her!”

“God bless you, child!” said Mrs. Meyrick, the words escaping
involuntarily from her motherly heart. But to relieve the strain of
feeling she looked at Deronda and said, “It is curious that Mirah, who
remembers her mother so well it is as if she saw her, cannot recall her
brother the least bit—except the feeling of having been carried by him
when she was tired, and of his being near her when she was in her
mother’s lap. It must be that he was rarely at home. He was already
grown up. It is a pity her brother should be quite a stranger to her.”

“He is good; I feel sure Ezra is good,” said Mirah, eagerly. “He loved
my mother—he would take care of her. I remember more of him than that.
I remember my mother’s voice once calling, ‘Ezra!’ and then his
answering from a distance ‘Mother!’”—Mirah had changed her voice a
little in each of these words and had given them a loving
intonation—“and then he came close to us. I feel sure he is good. I
have always taken comfort from that.”

It was impossible to answer this either with agreement or doubt. Mrs.
Meyrick and Deronda exchanged a quick glance: about this brother she
felt as painfully dubious as he did. But Mirah went on, absorbed in her
memories,

“Is it not wonderful how I remember the voices better than anything
else? I think they must go deeper into us than other things. I have
often fancied heaven might be made of voices.”

“Like your singing—yes,” said Mab, who had hitherto kept a modest
silence, and now spoke bashfully, as was her wont in the presence of
Prince Camaralzaman—“Ma, do ask Mirah to sing. Mr. Deronda has not
heard her.”

“Would it be disagreeable to you to sing now?” said Deronda, with a
more deferential gentleness than he had ever been conscious of before.

“Oh, I shall like it,” said Mirah. “My voice has come back a little
with rest.”

Perhaps her ease of manner was due to something more than the
simplicity of her nature. The circumstances of her life made her think
of everything she did as work demanded from her, in which affectation
had nothing to do; and she had begun her work before self-consciousness
was born.

She immediately rose and went to the piano—a somewhat worn instrument
that seemed to get the better of its infirmities under the firm touch
of her small fingers as she preluded. Deronda placed himself where he
could see her while she sang; and she took everything as quietly as if
she had been a child going to breakfast.

Imagine her—it is always good to imagine a human creature in whom
bodily loveliness seems as properly one with the entire being as the
bodily loveliness of those wondrous transparent orbs of life that we
find in the sea—imagine her with her dark hair brushed from her
temples, but yet showing certain tiny rings there which had cunningly
found their own way back, the mass of it hanging behind just to the
nape of the little neck in curly fibres, such as renew themselves at
their own will after being bathed into straightness like that of
water-grasses. Then see the perfect cameo her profile makes, cut in a
duskish shell, where by some happy fortune there pierced a gem-like
darkness for the eye and eyebrow; the delicate nostrils defined enough
to be ready for sensitive movements, the finished ear, the firm curves
of the chin and neck, entering into the expression of a refinement
which was not feebleness.

She sang Beethoven’s “Per pietà non dirmi addio” with a subdued but
searching pathos which had that essential of perfect singing, the
making one oblivious of art or manner, and only possessing one with the
song. It was the sort of voice that gives the impression of being meant
like a bird’s wooing for an audience near and beloved. Deronda began by
looking at her, but felt himself presently covering his eyes with his
hand, wanting to seclude the melody in darkness; then he refrained from
what might seem oddity, and was ready to meet the look of mute appeal
which she turned toward him at the end.

“I think I never enjoyed a song more than that,” he said, gratefully.

“You like my singing? I am so glad,” she said, with a smile of delight.
“It has been a great pain to me, because it failed in what it was
wanted for. But now we think I can use it to get my bread. I have
really been taught well. And now I have two pupils, that Miss Meyrick
found for me. They pay me nearly two crowns for their two lessons.”

“I think I know some ladies who would find you many pupils after
Christmas,” said Deronda. “You would not mind singing before any one
who wished to hear you?”

“Oh no, I want to do something to get money. I could teach reading and
speaking, Mrs. Meyrick thinks. But if no one would learn of me, that is
difficult.” Mirah smiled with a touch of merriment he had not seen in
her before. “I dare say I should find her poor—I mean my mother. I
should want to get money for her. And I can not always live on charity;
though”—here she turned so as to take all three of her companions in
one glance—“it is the sweetest charity in all the world.”

“I should think you can get rich,” said Deronda, smiling. “Great ladies
will perhaps like you to teach their daughters. We shall see. But now
do sing again to us.”

She went on willingly, singing with ready memory various things by
Gordigiani and Schubert; then, when she had left the piano, Mab said,
entreatingly, “Oh, Mirah, if you would not mind singing the little
hymn.”

“It is too childish,” said Mirah. “It is like lisping.”

“What is the hymn?” said Deronda.

“It is the Hebrew hymn she remembers her mother singing over her when
she lay in her cot,” said Mrs. Meyrick.

“I should like very much to hear it,” said Deronda, “if you think I am
worthy to hear what is so sacred.”

“I will sing it if you like,” said Mirah, “but I don’t sing real
words—only here and there a syllable like hers—the rest is lisping.
Do you know Hebrew? because if you do, my singing will seem childish
nonsense.”

Deronda shook his head. “It will be quite good Hebrew to me.”

Mirah crossed her little feet and hands in her easiest attitude, and
then lifted up her head at an angle which seemed to be directed to some
invisible face bent over her, while she sang a little hymn of quaint
melancholy intervals, with syllables that really seemed childish
lisping to her audience; the voice in which she gave it forth had
gathered even a sweeter, more cooing tenderness than was heard in her
other songs.

“If I were ever to know the real words, I should still go on in my old
way with them,” said Mirah, when she had repeated the hymn several
times.

“Why not?” said Deronda. “The lisped syllables are very full of
meaning.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Meyrick. “A mother hears something of a lisp
in her children’s talk to the very last. Their words are not just what
everybody else says, though they may be spelled the same. If I were to
live till my Hans got old, I should still see the boy in him. A
mother’s love, I often say, is like a tree that has got all the wood in
it, from the very first it made.”

“Is not that the way with friendship, too?” said Deronda, smiling. “We
must not let the mothers be too arrogant.”

The little woman shook her head over her darning.

“It is easier to find an old mother than an old friend. Friendships
begin with liking or gratitude—roots that can be pulled up. Mother’s
love begins deeper down.”

“Like what you were saying about the influence of voices,” said
Deronda, looking at Mirah. “I don’t think your hymn would have had more
expression for me if I had known the words. I went to the synagogue at
Frankfort before I came home, and the service impressed me just as much
as if I had followed the words—perhaps more.”

“Oh, was it great to you? Did it go to your heart?” said Mirah,
eagerly. “I thought none but our people would feel that. I thought it
was all shut away like a river in a deep valley, where only heaven
saw—I mean—” she hesitated, feeling that she could not disentangle
her thought from its imagery.

“I understand,” said Deronda. “But there is not really such a
separation—deeper down, as Mrs. Meyrick says. Our religion is chiefly
a Hebrew religion; and since Jews are men, their religious feelings
must have much in common with those of other men—just as their poetry,
though in one sense peculiar, has a great deal in common with the
poetry of other nations. Still it is to be expected that a Jew would
feel the forms of his people’s religion more than one of another
race—and yet”—here Deronda hesitated in his turn—“that is perhaps
not always so.”

“Ah no,” said Mirah, sadly. “I have seen that. I have seen them mock.
Is it not like mocking your parents?—like rejoicing in your parents’
shame?”

“Some minds naturally rebel against whatever they were brought up in,
and like the opposite; they see the faults in what is nearest to them,”
said Deronda apologetically.

“But you are not like that,” said Mirah, looking at him with
unconscious fixedness.

“No, I think not,” said Deronda; “but you know I was not brought up as
a Jew.”

“Ah, I am always forgetting,” said Mirah, with a look of disappointed
recollection, and slightly blushing.

Deronda also felt rather embarrassed, and there was an awkward pause,
which he put an end to by saying playfully,

“Whichever way we take it, we have to tolerate each other; for if we
all went in opposition to our teaching, we must end in difference, just
the same.”

“To be sure. We should go on forever in zig-zags,” said Mrs. Meyrick.
“I think it is very weak-minded to make your creed up by the rule of
the contrary. Still one may honor one’s parents, without following
their notions exactly, any more than the exact cut of their clothing.
My father was a Scotch Calvinist and my mother was a French Calvinist;
I am neither quite Scotch, nor quite French, nor two Calvinists rolled
into one, yet I honor my parents’ memory.”

“But I could not make myself not a Jewess,” said Mirah, insistently,
“even if I changed my belief.”

“No, my dear. But if Jews and Jewesses went on changing their religion,
and making no difference between themselves and Christians, there would
come a time when there would be no Jews to be seen,” said Mrs. Meyrick,
taking that consummation very cheerfully.

“Oh, please not to say that,” said Mirah, the tears gathering. “It is
the first unkind thing you ever said. I will not begin that. I will
never separate myself from my mother’s people. I was forced to fly from
my father; but if he came back in age and weakness and want, and needed
me, should I say, ‘This is not my father’? If he had shame, I must
share it. It was he who was given to me for my father, and not another.
And so it is with my people. I will always be a Jewess. I will love
Christians when they are good, like you. But I will always cling to my
people. I will always worship with them.”

As Mirah had gone on speaking she had become possessed with a sorrowful
passion—fervent, not violent. Holding her little hands tightly clasped
and looking at Mrs. Meyrick with beseeching, she seemed to Deronda a
personification of that spirit which impelled men after a long
inheritance of professed Catholicism to leave wealth and high place and
risk their lives in flight, that they might join their own people and
say, “I am a Jew.”

“Mirah, Mirah, my dear child, you mistake me!” said Mrs. Meyrick,
alarmed. “God forbid I should want you to do anything against your
conscience. I was only saying what might be if the world went on. But I
had better have left the world alone, and not wanted to be over-wise.
Forgive me, come! we will not try to take you from anybody you feel has
more right to you.”

“I would do anything else for you. I owe you my life,” said Mirah, not
yet quite calm.

“Hush, hush, now,” said Mrs. Meyrick. “I have been punished enough for
wagging my tongue foolishly—making an almanac for the Millennium, as
my husband used to say.”

“But everything in the world must come to an end some time. We must
bear to think of that,” said Mab, unable to hold her peace on this
point. She had already suffered from a bondage of tongue which
threatened to become severe if Mirah were to be too much indulged in
this inconvenient susceptibility to innocent remarks.

Deronda smiled at the irregular, blonde face, brought into strange
contrast by the side of Mirah’s—smiled, Mab thought, rather
sarcastically as he said, “That prospect of everything coming to an
end will not guide us far in practice. Mirah’s feelings, she tells us,
are concerned with what is.”

Mab was confused and wished she had not spoken, since Mr. Deronda
seemed to think that she had found fault with Mirah; but to have spoken
once is a tyrannous reason for speaking again, and she said,

“I only meant that we must have courage to hear things, else there is
hardly anything we can talk about.” Mab felt herself unanswerable here,
inclining to the opinion of Socrates: “What motive has a man to live,
if not for the pleasure of discourse?”

Deronda took his leave soon after, and when Mrs. Meyrick went outside
with him to exchange a few words about Mirah, he said, “Hans is to
share my chambers when he comes at Christmas.”

“You have written to Rome about that?” said Mrs. Meyrick, her face
lighting up. “How very good and thoughtful of you! You mentioned Mirah,
then?”

“Yes, I referred to her. I concluded he knew everything from you.”

“I must confess my folly. I have not yet written a word about her. I
have always been meaning to do it, and yet have ended my letter without
saying a word. And I told the girls to leave it to me. However!—Thank
you a thousand times.”

Deronda divined something of what was in the mother’s mind, and his
divination reinforced a certain anxiety already present in him. His
inward colloquy was not soothing. He said to himself that no man could
see this exquisite creature without feeling it possible to fall in love
with her; but all the fervor of his nature was engaged on the side of
precaution. There are personages who feel themselves tragic because
they march into a palpable morass, dragging another with them, and then
cry out against all the gods. Deronda’s mind was strongly set against
imitating them.

“I have my hands on the reins now,” he thought, “and I will not drop
them. I shall go there as little as possible.”

He saw the reasons acting themselves out before him. How could he be
Mirah’s guardian and claim to unite with Mrs. Meyrick, to whose charge
he had committed her, if he showed himself as a lover—whom she did not
love—whom she would not marry? And if he encouraged any germ of
lover’s feeling in himself it would lead up to that issue. Mirah’s was
not a nature that would bear dividing against itself; and even if love
won her consent to marry a man who was not of her race and religion,
she would never be happy in acting against that strong native bias
which would still reign in her conscience as remorse.

Deronda saw these consequences as we see any danger of marring our own
work well begun. It was a delight to have rescued this child acquainted
with sorrow, and to think of having placed her little feet in protected
paths. The creature we help to save, though only a half-reared linnet,
bruised and lost by the wayside—how we watch and fence it, and dote on
its signs of recovery! Our pride becomes loving, our self is a not-self
for whose sake we become virtuous, when we set to some hidden work of
reclaiming a life from misery and look for our triumph in the secret
joy—“This one is the better for me.”

“I would as soon hold out my finger to be bitten off as set about
spoiling her peace,” said Deronda. “It was one of the rarest bits of
fortune that I should have had friends like the Meyricks to place her
with—generous, delicate friends without any loftiness in their ways,
so that her dependence on them is not only safety but happiness. There
could be no refuge to replace that, if it were broken up. But what is
the use of my taking the vows and settling everything as it should be,
if that marplot Hans comes and upsets it all?”

Few things were more likely. Hans was made for mishaps: his very limbs
seemed more breakable than other people’s—his eyes more of a resort
for uninvited flies and other irritating guests. But it was impossible
to forbid Hans’s coming to London. He was intending to get a studio
there and make it his chief home; and to propose that he should defer
coming on some ostensible ground, concealing the real motive of winning
time for Mirah’s position to become more confirmed and independent, was
impracticable. Having no other resource Deronda tried to believe that
both he and Mrs. Meyrick were foolishly troubling themselves about one
of those endless things called probabilities, which never occur; but he
did not quite succeed in his trying; on the contrary, he found himself
going inwardly through a scene where on the first discovery of Hans’s
inclination he gave him a very energetic warning—suddenly checked,
however, by the suspicion of personal feeling that his warmth might be
creating in Hans. He could come to no result, but that the position was
peculiar, and that he could make no further provision against dangers
until they came nearer. To save an unhappy Jewess from drowning
herself, would not have seemed a startling variation among police
reports; but to discover in her so rare a creature as Mirah, was an
exceptional event which might well bring exceptional consequences.
Deronda would not let himself for a moment dwell on any supposition
that the consequences might enter deeply into his own life. The image
of Mirah had never yet had that penetrating radiation which would have
been given to it by the idea of her loving him. When this sort of
effluence is absent from the fancy (whether from the fact or not) a man
may go far in devotedness without perturbation.

As to the search for Mirah’s mother and brother, Deronda took what she
had said to-day as a warrant for deferring any immediate measures. His
conscience was not quite easy in this desire for delay, any more than
it was quite easy in his not attempting to learn the truth about his
own mother: in both cases he felt that there might be an unfulfilled
duty to a parent, but in both cases there was an overpowering
repugnance to the possible truth, which threw a turning weight into the
scale of argument.

“At least, I will look about,” was his final determination. “I may find
some special Jewish machinery. I will wait till after Christmas.”

What should we all do without the calendar, when we want to put off a
disagreeable duty? The admirable arrangements of the solar system, by
which our time is measured, always supply us with a term before which
it is hardly worth while to set about anything we are disinclined to.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

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

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

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

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

He was rather tired of the streets and had paused to hail a hansom cab
which he saw coming, when his attention was caught by some fine old
clasps in chased silver displayed in the window at his right hand. His
first thought was that Lady Mallinger, who had a strictly Protestant
taste for such Catholic spoils, might like to have these missal-clasps
turned into a bracelet: then his eyes traveled over the other contents
of the window, and he saw that the shop was that kind of pawnbroker’s
where the lead is given to jewelry, lace and all equivocal objects
introduced as _bric-à-brac_. A placard in one corner
announced—_Watches and Jewelry exchanged and repaired_. But his survey
had been noticed from within, and a figure appeared at the door,
looking round at him and saying in a tone of cordial encouragement,
“Good day, sir.” The instant was enough for Deronda to see the face,
unmistakably Jewish, belonged to a young man about thirty, and wincing
from the shopkeeper’s persuasiveness that would probably follow, he had
no sooner returned the “good day,” than he passed to the other side of
the street and beckoned to the cabman to draw up there. From that
station he saw the name over the shop window—_Ezra Cohen_.

There might be a hundred Ezra Cohens lettered above shop windows, but
Deronda had not seen them. Probably the young man interested in a
possible customer was Ezra himself; and he was about the age to be
expected in Mirah’s brother, who was grown up while she was still a
little child. But Deronda’s first endeavor as he drove homeward was to
convince himself that there was not the slightest warrantable
presumption of this Ezra being Mirah’s brother; and next, that even if,
in spite of good reasoning, he turned out to be that brother, while on
inquiry the mother was found to be dead, it was not
his—Deronda’s—duty to make known the discovery to Mirah. In
inconvenient disturbance of this conclusion there came his
lately-acquired knowledge that Mirah would have a religious desire to
know of her mother’s death, and also to learn whether her brother were
living. How far was he justified in determining another life by his own
notions? Was it not his secret complaint against the way in which
others had ordered his own life, that he had not open daylight on all
its relations, so that he had not, like other men, the full guidance of
primary duties?

The immediate relief from this inward debate was the reflection that he
had not yet made any real discovery, and that by looking into the facts
more closely he should be certified that there was no demand on him for
any decision whatever. He intended to return to that shop as soon as he
could conveniently, and buy the clasps for Lady Mallinger. But he was
hindered for several days by Sir Hugo, who, about to make an
after-dinner speech on a burning topic, wanted Deronda to forage for
him on the legal part of the question, besides wasting time every day
on argument which always ended in a drawn battle. As on many other
questions, they held different sides, but Sir Hugo did not mind this,
and when Deronda put his point well, said, with a mixture of
satisfaction and regret,

“Confound it, Dan! why don’t you make an opportunity of saying these
things in public? You’re wrong, you know. You won’t succeed. You’ve got
the massive sentiment—the heavy artillery of the country against you.
But it’s all the better ground for a young man to display himself on.
When I was your age, I should have taken it. And it would be quite as
well for you to be in opposition to me here and there. It would throw
you more into relief. If you would seize an occasion of this sort to
make an impression, you might be in Parliament in no time. And you know
that would gratify me.”

“I am sorry not to do what would gratify you, sir,” said Deronda. “But
I cannot persuade myself to look at politics as a profession.”

“Why not? if a man is not born into public life by his position in the
country, there’s no way for him but to embrace it by his own efforts.
The business of the country must be done—her Majesty’s Government
carried on, as the old Duke said. And it never could be, my boy, if
everybody looked at politics as if they were prophecy, and demanded an
inspired vocation. If you are to get into Parliament, it won’t do to
sit still and wait for a call either from heaven or constituents.”

“I don’t want to make a living out of opinions,” said Deronda;
“especially out of borrowed opinions. Not that I mean to blame other
men. I dare say many better fellows than I don’t mind getting on to a
platform to praise themselves, and giving their word of honor for a
party.”

“I’ll tell you what, Dan,” said Sir Hugo, “a man who sets his face
against every sort of humbug is simply a three-cornered, impracticable
fellow. There’s a bad style of humbug, but there is also a good
style—one that oils the wheels and makes progress possible. If you are
to rule men, you must rule them through their own ideas; and I agree
with the Archbishop at Naples who had a St. Januarius procession
against the plague. It’s no use having an Order in Council against
popular shallowness. There is no action possible without a little
acting.”

“One may be obliged to give way to an occasional necessity,” said
Deronda. “But it is one thing to say, ‘In this particular case I am
forced to put on this foolscap and grin,’ and another to buy a pocket
foolscap and practice myself in grinning. I can’t see any real public
expediency that does not keep an ideal before it which makes a limit of
deviation from the direct path. But if I were to set up for a public
man I might mistake my success for public expediency.”

It was after this dialogue, which was rather jarring to him, that
Deronda set out on his meditated second visit to Ezra Cohen’s. He
entered the street at the end opposite to the Holborn entrance, and an
inward reluctance slackened his pace while his thoughts were
transferring what he had just been saying about public expediency to
the entirely private difficulty which brought him back again into this
unattractive thoroughfare. It might soon become an immediate practical
question with him how far he could call it a wise expediency to conceal
the fact of close kindred. Such questions turning up constantly in life
are often decided in a rough-and-ready way; and to many it will appear
an over-refinement in Deronda that he should make any great point of a
matter confined to his own knowledge. But we have seen the reasons why
he had come to regard concealment as a bane of life, and the necessity
of concealment as a mark by which lines of action were to be avoided.
The prospect of being urged against the confirmed habit of his mind was
naturally grating. He even paused here and there before the most
plausible shop-windows for a gentleman to look into, half inclined to
decide that he would not increase his knowledge about that modern Ezra,
who was certainly not a leader among his people—a hesitation which
proved how, in a man much given to reasoning, a bare possibility may
weigh more than the best-clad likelihood; for Deronda’s reasoning had
decided that all likelihood was against this man’s being Mirah’s
brother.

One of the shop-windows he paused before was that of a second-hand
book-shop, where, on a narrow table outside, the literature of the ages
was represented in judicious mixture, from the immortal verse of Homer
to the mortal prose of the railway novel. That the mixture was
judicious was apparent from Deronda’s finding in it something that he
wanted—namely, that wonderful bit of autobiography, the life of the
Polish Jew, Salomon Maimon; which, as he could easily slip it into his
pocket, he took from its place, and entered the shop to pay for,
expecting to see behind the counter a grimy personage showing that
_nonchalance_ about sales which seems to belong universally to the
second-hand book-business. In most other trades you find generous men
who are anxious to sell you their wares for your own welfare; but even
a Jew will not urge Simson’s Euclid on you with an affectionate
assurance that you will have pleasure in reading it, and that he wishes
he had twenty more of the article, so much is it in request. One is led
to fear that a second-hand bookseller may belong to that unhappy class
of men who have no belief in the good of what they get their living by,
yet keep conscience enough to be morose rather than unctuous in their
vocation.

But instead of the ordinary tradesman, he saw, on the dark background
of books in the long narrow shop, a figure that was somewhat startling
in its unusualness. A man in threadbare clothing, whose age was
difficult to guess—from the dead yellowish flatness of the flesh,
something like an old ivory carving—was seated on a stool against some
bookshelves that projected beyond the short counter, doing nothing more
remarkable than reading yesterday’s _Times_; but when he let the paper
rest on his lap and looked at the incoming customer, the thought
glanced through Deronda that precisely such a physiognomy as that might
possibly have been seen in a prophet of the Exile, or in some New
Hebrew poet of the mediæval time. It was a fine typical Jewish face,
wrought into intensity of expression apparently by a strenuous eager
experience in which all the satisfaction had been indirect and far off,
and perhaps by some bodily suffering also, which involved that absence
of ease in the present. The features were clear-cut, not large; the
brow not high but broad, and fully defined by the crisp black hair. It
might never have been a particularly handsome face, but it must always
have been forcible; and now with its dark, far-off gaze, and yellow
pallor in relief on the gloom of the backward shop, one might have
imagined one’s self coming upon it in some past prison of the
Inquisition, which a mob had suddenly burst upon; while the look fixed
on an incidental customer seemed eager and questioning enough to have
been turned on one who might have been a messenger either of delivery
or of death. The figure was probably familiar and unexciting enough to
the inhabitants of this street; but to Deronda’s mind it brought so
strange a blending of the unwonted with the common, that there was a
perceptible interval of mutual observation before he asked his
question; “What is the price of this book?”

After taking the book and examining the fly-leaves without rising, the
supposed bookseller said, “There is no mark, and Mr. Ram is not in now.
I am keeping the shop while he is gone to dinner. What are you disposed
to give for it?” He held the book close on his lap with his hand on it
and looked examiningly at Deronda, over whom there came the
disagreeable idea, that possibly this striking personage wanted to see
how much could be got out of a customer’s ignorance of prices. But
without further reflection he said, “Don’t you know how much it is
worth?”

“Not its market-price. May I ask have you read it?”

“No. I have read an account of it, which makes me want to buy it.”

“You are a man of learning—you are interested in Jewish history?” This
was said in a deepened tone of eager inquiry.

“I am certainly interested in Jewish history,” said Deronda, quietly,
curiosity overcoming his dislike to the sort of inspection as well as
questioning he was under.

But immediately the strange Jew rose from his sitting posture, and
Deronda felt a thin hand pressing his arm tightly, while a hoarse,
excited voice, not much above a loud whisper, said,

“You are perhaps of our race?”

Deronda colored deeply, not liking the grasp, and then answered with a
slight shake of the head, “No.” The grasp was relaxed, the hand
withdrawn, the eagerness of the face collapsed into uninterested
melancholy, as if some possessing spirit which had leaped into the eyes
and gestures had sunk back again to the inmost recesses of the frame;
and moving further off as he held out the little book, the stranger
said in a tone of distant civility, “I believe Mr. Ram will be
satisfied with half-a-crown, sir.”

The effect of this change on Deronda—he afterward smiled when he
recalled it—was oddly embarrassing and humiliating, as if some high
dignitary had found him deficient and given him his _congé_. There was
nothing further to be said, however: he paid his half-crown and carried
off his _Salomon Maimon’s Lebensgeschichte_ with a mere “good-morning.”

He felt some vexation at the sudden arrest of the interview, and the
apparent prohibition that he should know more of this man, who was
certainly something out of the common way—as different probably as a
Jew could well be from Ezra Cohen, through whose door Deronda was
presently entering, and whose flourishing face glistening on the way to
fatness was hanging over the counter in negotiation with some one on
the other side of the partition, concerning two plated stoppers and
three teaspoons, which lay spread before him. Seeing Deronda enter, he
called out “Mother! Mother!” and then with a familiar nod and smile,
said, “Coming, sir—coming directly.”

Deronda could not help looking toward the door from the back with some
anxiety, which was not soothed when he saw a vigorous woman beyond
fifty enter and approach to serve him. Not that there was anything very
repulsive about her: the worst that could be said was that she had that
look of having made her toilet with little water, and by twilight,
which is common to unyouthful people of her class, and of having
presumably slept in her large earrings, if not in her rings and
necklace. In fact, what caused a sinking of heart in Deronda was her
not being so coarse and ugly as to exclude the idea of her being
Mirah’s mother. Any one who has looked at a face to try and discern
signs of known kinship in it will understand his process of
conjecture—how he tried to think away the fat which had gradually
disguised the outlines of youth, and to discern what one may call the
elementary expressions of the face. He was sorry to see no absolute
negative to his fears. Just as it was conceivable that this Ezra,
brought up to trade, might resemble the scapegrace father in everything
but his knowledge and talent, so it was not impossible that this mother
might have had a lovely refined daughter whose type of feature and
expression was like Mirah’s. The eyebrows had a vexatious similarity of
line; and who shall decide how far a face may be masked when the
uncherishing years have thrust it far onward in the ever-new procession
of youth and age? The good-humor of the glance remained and shone out
in a motherly way at Deronda, as she said, in a mild guttural tone,

“How can I serve you, sir?”

“I should like to look at the silver clasps in the window,” said
Deronda; “the larger ones, please, in the corner there.”

They were not quite easy to get at from the mother’s station, and the
son seeing this called out, “I’ll reach ’em, mother; I’ll reach ’em,”
running forward with alacrity, and then handing the clasps to Deronda
with the smiling remark,

“Mother’s too proud: she wants to do everything herself. That’s why I
called her to wait on you, sir. When there’s a particular gentleman
customer, sir, I daren’t do any other than call her. But I can’t let
her do herself mischief with stretching.”

Here Mr. Cohen made way again for his parent, who gave a little
guttural, amiable laugh while she looked at Deronda, as much as to say,
“This boy will be at his jokes, but you see he’s the best son in the
world,” and evidently the son enjoyed pleasing her, though he also
wished to convey an apology to his distinguished customer for not
giving him the advantage of his own exclusive attention.

Deronda began to examine the clasps as if he had many points to observe
before he could come to a decision.

“They are only three guineas, sir,” said the mother, encouragingly.

“First-rate workmanship, sir—worth twice the money; only I get ’em a
bargain from Cologne,” said the son, parenthetically, from a distance.

Meanwhile two new customers entered, and the repeated call, “Addy!”
brought from the back of the shop a group that Deronda turned frankly
to stare at, feeling sure that the stare would be held complimentary.
The group consisted of a black-eyed young woman who carried a
black-eyed little one, its head already covered with black curls, and
deposited it on the counter, from which station it looked round with
even more than the usual intelligence of babies: also a robust boy of
six and a younger girl, both with black eyes and black-ringed
hair—looking more Semitic than their parents, as the puppy lions show
the spots of far-off progenitors. The young woman answering to
“Addy”—a sort of paroquet in a bright blue dress, with coral necklace
and earrings, her hair set up in a huge bush—looked as complacently
lively and unrefined as her husband; and by a certain difference from
the mother deepened in Deronda the unwelcome impression that the latter
was not so utterly common a Jewess as to exclude her being the mother
of Mirah. While that thought was glancing through his mind, the boy had
run forward into the shop with an energetic stamp, and setting himself
about four feet from Deronda, with his hands in the pockets of his
miniature knickerbockers, looked at him with a precocious air of
survey. Perhaps it was chiefly with a diplomatic design to linger and
ingratiate himself that Deronda patted the boy’s head, saying,

“What is your name, sirrah?”

“Jacob Alexander Cohen,” said the small man, with much ease and
distinctness.

“You are not named after your father, then?”

“No, after my grandfather; he sells knives and razors and scissors—my
grandfather does,” said Jacob, wishing to impress the stranger with
that high connection. “He gave me this knife.” Here a pocket-knife was
drawn forth, and the small fingers, both naturally and artificially
dark, opened two blades and a cork-screw with much quickness.

“Is not that a dangerous plaything?” said Deronda, turning to the
grandmother.

“_He_’ll never hurt himself, bless you!” said she, contemplating her
grandson with placid rapture.

“Have _you_ got a knife?” says Jacob, coming closer. His small voice
was hoarse in its glibness, as if it belonged to an aged commercial
soul, fatigued with bargaining through many generations.

“Yes. Do you want to see it?” said Deronda, taking a small penknife
from his waistcoat-pocket.

Jacob seized it immediately and retreated a little, holding the two
knives in his palms and bending over them in meditative comparison. By
this time the other clients were gone, and the whole family had
gathered to the spot, centering their attention on the marvelous Jacob:
the father, mother, and grandmother behind the counter, with baby held
staggering thereon, and the little girl in front leaning at her
brother’s elbow to assist him in looking at the knives.

“Mine’s the best,” said Jacob, at last, returning Deronda’s knife as if
he had been entertaining the idea of exchange and had rejected it.

Father and mother laughed aloud with delight. “You won’t find Jacob
choosing the worst,” said Mr. Cohen, winking, with much confidence in
the customer’s admiration. Deronda, looking at the grandmother, who had
only an inward silent laugh, said,

“Are these the only grandchildren you have?”

“All. This is my only son,” she answered in a communicative tone,
Deronda’s glance and manner as usual conveying the impression of
sympathetic interest—which on this occasion answered his purpose well.
It seemed to come naturally enough that he should say,

“And you have no daughter?”

There was an instantaneous change in the mother’s face. Her lips closed
more firmly, she looked down, swept her hands outward on the counter,
and finally turned her back on Deronda to examine some Indian
handkerchiefs that hung in pawn behind her. Her son gave a significant
glance, set up his shoulders an instant and just put his fingers to his
lips,—then said quickly, “I think you’re a first-rate gentleman in the
city, sir, if I may be allowed to guess.”

“No,” said Deronda, with a preoccupied air, “I have nothing to do with
the city.”

“That’s a bad job. I thought you might be the young principal of a
first-rate firm,” said Mr. Cohen, wishing to make amends for the check
on his customer’s natural desire to know more of him and his. “But you
understand silver-work, I see.”

“A little,” said Deronda, taking up the clasps a moment and laying them
down again. That unwelcome bit of circumstantial evidence had made his
mind busy with a plan which was certainly more like acting than
anything he had been aware of in his own conduct before. But the bare
possibility that more knowledge might nullify the evidence now
overpowered the inclination to rest in uncertainty.

“To tell you the truth,” he went on, “my errand is not so much to buy
as to borrow. I dare say you go into rather heavy transactions
occasionally.”

“Well, sir, I’ve accommodated gentlemen of distinction—I’m proud to
say it. I wouldn’t exchange my business with any in the world. There’s
none more honorable, nor more charitable, nor more necessary for all
classes, from the good lady who wants a little of the ready for the
baker, to a gentleman like yourself, sir, who may want it for
amusement. I like my business, I like my street, and I like my shop. I
wouldn’t have it a door further down. And I wouldn’t be without a
pawn-shop, sir, to be the Lord Mayor. It puts you in connection with
the world at large. I say it’s like the government revenue—it embraces
the brass as well as the gold of the country. And a man who doesn’t get
money, sir, can’t accommodate. Now, what can I do for _you_, sir?”

If an amiable self-satisfaction is the mark of earthly bliss, Solomon
in all his glory was a pitiable mortal compared with Mr. Cohen—clearly
one of those persons, who, being in excellent spirits about themselves,
are willing to cheer strangers by letting them know it. While he was
delivering himself with lively rapidity, he took the baby from his wife
and holding it on his arm presented his features to be explored by its
small fists. Deronda, not in a cheerful mood, was rashly pronouncing
this Ezra Cohen to be the most unpoetic Jew he had ever met with in
books or life: his phraseology was as little as possible like that of
the Old Testament: and no shadow of a suffering race distinguished his
vulgarity of soul from that of a prosperous, pink-and-white huckster of
the purest English lineage. It is naturally a Christian feeling that a
Jew ought not to be conceited. However, this was no reason for not
persevering in his project, and he answered at once in adventurous
ignorance of technicalities,

“I have a fine diamond ring to offer as security—not with me at this
moment, unfortunately, for I am not in the habit of wearing it. But I
will come again this evening and bring it with me. Fifty pounds at once
would be a convenience to me.”

“Well, you know, this evening is the Sabbath, young gentleman,” said
Cohen, “and I go to the _Shool_. The shop will be closed. But
accommodation is a work of charity; if you can’t get here before, and
are any ways pressed—why, I’ll look at your diamond. You’re perhaps
from the West End—a longish drive?”

“Yes; and your Sabbath begins early at this season. I could be here by
five—will that do?” Deronda had not been without hope that by asking
to come on a Friday evening he might get a better opportunity of
observing points in the family character, and might even be able to put
some decisive question.

Cohen assented; but here the marvelous Jacob, whose _physique_
supported a precocity that would have shattered a Gentile of his years,
showed that he had been listening with much comprehension by saying,
“You are coming again. Have you got any more knives at home?”

“I think I have one,” said Deronda, smiling down at him.

“Has it two blades and a hook—and a white handle like that?” said
Jacob, pointing to the waistcoat-pocket.

“I dare say it has.”

“Do you like a cork-screw?” said Jacob, exhibiting that article in his
own knife again, and looking up with serious inquiry.

“Yes,” said Deronda, experimentally.

“Bring your knife, then, and we’ll shwop,” said Jacob, returning the
knife to his pocket, and stamping about with the sense that he had
concluded a good transaction.

The grandmother had now recovered her usual manners, and the whole
family watched Deronda radiantly when he caressingly lifted the little
girl, to whom he had not hitherto given attention, and seating her on
the counter, asked for her name also. She looked at him in silence, and
put her fingers to her gold earrings, which he did not seem to have
noticed.

“Adelaide Rebekah is her name,” said her mother, proudly. “Speak to the
gentleman, lovey.”

“Shlav’m Shabbes fyock on,” said Adelaide Rebekah.

“Her Sabbath frock, she means,” said the father, in explanation.
“She’ll have her Sabbath frock on this evening.”

“And will you let me see you in it, Adelaide?” said Deronda, with that
gentle intonation which came very easily to him.

“Say yes, lovey—yes, if you please, sir,” said her mother, enchanted
with this handsome young gentleman, who appreciated remarkable children.

“And will you give me a kiss this evening?” said Deronda with a hand on
each of her little brown shoulders.

Adelaide Rebekah (her miniature crinoline and monumental features
corresponded with the combination of her names) immediately put up her
lips to pay the kiss in advance; whereupon her father rising in still
more glowing satisfaction with the general meritoriousness of his
circumstances, and with the stranger who was an admiring witness, said
cordially,

“You see there’s somebody will be disappointed if you don’t come this
evening, sir. You won’t mind sitting down in our family place and
waiting a bit for me, if I’m not in when you come, sir? I’ll stretch a
point to accommodate a gent of your sort. Bring the diamond, and I’ll
see what I can do for you.”

Deronda thus left the most favorable impression behind him, as a
preparation for more easy intercourse. But for his own part those
amenities had been carried on under the heaviest spirits. If these were
really Mirah’s relatives, he could not imagine that even her fervid
filial piety could give the reunion with them any sweetness beyond such
as could be found in the strict fulfillment of a painful duty. What did
this vaunting brother need? And with the most favorable supposition
about the hypothetic mother, Deronda shrank from the image of a first
meeting between her and Mirah, and still more from the idea of Mirah’s
domestication with this family. He took refuge in disbelief. To find an
Ezra Cohen when the name was running in your head was no more
extraordinary than to find a Josiah Smith under like circumstances; and
as to the coincidence about the daughter, it would probably turn out to
be a difference. If, however, further knowledge confirmed the more
undesirable conclusion, what would be wise expediency?—to try and
determine the best consequences by concealment, or to brave other
consequences for the sake of that openness which is the sweet fresh air
of our moral life.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

        “Er ist geheissen
  Israel. Ihn hat verwandelt
  Hexenspruch in einen Hund.
  Aber jeden Freitag Abend,
  In der Dämm’rungstunde, plötzlich
  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 cork-screw 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.

BOOK V.—MORDECAI.

CHAPTER XXXV.

    Were uneasiness of conscience measured by extent of crime, human
    history had been different, and one should look to see the contrivers
    of greedy wars and the mighty marauders of the money-market in one
    troop of self-lacerating penitents with the meaner robber and
    cut-purse and the murderer that doth his butchery in small with his own
    hand. No doubt wickedness hath its rewards to distribute; but who so
    wins in this devil’s game must needs be baser, more cruel, more brutal
    than the order of this planet will allow for the multitude born of
    woman, the most of these carrying a form of conscience—a fear which
    is the shadow of justice, a pity which is the shadow of love—that
    hindereth from the prize of serene wickedness, itself difficult of
    maintenance in our composite flesh.

On the twenty-ninth of December Deronda knew that the Grandcourts had
arrived at the Abbey, but he had had no glimpse of them before he went
to dress for dinner. There had been a splendid fall of snow, allowing
the party of children the rare pleasures of snow-balling and
snow-building, and in the Christmas holidays the Mallinger girls were
content with no amusement unless it were joined in and managed by
“cousin,” as they had always called Deronda. After that outdoor
exertion he had been playing billiards, and thus the hours had passed
without his dwelling at all on the prospect of meeting Gwendolen at
dinner. Nevertheless that prospect was interesting to him; and when, a
little tired and heated with working at amusement, he went to his room
before the half-hour bell had rung, he began to think of it with some
speculation on the sort of influence her marriage with Grandcourt would
have on her, and on the probability that there would be some
discernible shades of change in her manner since he saw her at Diplow,
just as there had been since his first vision of her at Leubronn.

“I fancy there are some natures one could see growing or degenerating
every day, if one watched them,” was his thought. “I suppose some of us
go on faster than others: and I am sure she is a creature who keeps
strong traces of anything that has once impressed her. That little
affair of the necklace, and the idea that somebody thought her gambling
wrong, had evidently bitten into her. But such impressibility leads
both ways: it may drive one to desperation as soon as to anything
better. And whatever fascinations Grandcourt may have for capricious
tastes—good heavens! who can believe that he would call out the tender
affections in daily companionship? One might be tempted to horsewhip
him for the sake of getting some show of passion into his face and
speech. I’m afraid she married him out of ambition—to escape poverty.
But why did she run out of his way at first? The poverty came after,
though. Poor thing! she may have been urged into it. How can one feel
anything else than pity for a young creature like that—full of unused
life—ignorantly rash—hanging all her blind expectations on that
remnant of a human being.”

Doubtless the phrases which Deronda’s meditation applied to the
bridegroom were the less complimentary for the excuses and pity in
which it clad the bride. His notion of Grandcourt as a “remnant” was
founded on no particular knowledge, but simply on the impression which
ordinary polite intercourse had given him that Grandcourt had worn out
all his natural healthy interest in things.

In general, one may be sure that whenever a marriage of any mark takes
place, male acquaintances are likely to pity the bride, female
acquaintances the bridegroom: each, it is thought, might have done
better; and especially where the bride is charming, young gentlemen on
the scene are apt to conclude that she can have no real attachment to a
fellow so uninteresting to themselves as her husband, but has married
him on other grounds. Who, under such circumstances, pities the
husband? Even his female friends are apt to think his position
retributive: he should have chosen some one else. But perhaps Deronda
may be excused that he did not prepare any pity for Grandcourt, who had
never struck acquaintances as likely to come out of his experiences
with more suffering than he inflicted; whereas, for Gwendolen, young,
headlong, eager for pleasure, fed with the flattery which makes a
lovely girl believe in her divine right to rule—how quickly might life
turn from expectancy to a bitter sense of the irremediable! After what
he had seen of her he must have had rather dull feelings not to have
looked forward with some interest to her entrance into the room. Still,
since the honeymoon was already three weeks in the distance, and
Gwendolen had been enthroned, not only at Ryelands, but at Diplow, she
was likely to have composed her countenance with suitable manifestation
or concealment, not being one who would indulge the curious by a
helpless exposure of her feelings.

A various party had been invited to meet the new couple; the old
aristocracy was represented by Lord and Lady Pentreath; the old gentry
by young Mr. and Mrs. Fitzadam of the Worcestershire branch of the
Fitzadams; politics and the public good, as specialized in the cider
interest, by Mr. Fenn, member for West Orchards, accompanied by his two
daughters; Lady Mallinger’s family, by her brother, Mr. Raymond, and
his wife; the useful bachelor element by Mr. Sinker, the eminent
counsel, and by Mr. Vandernoodt, whose acquaintance Sir Hugo had found
pleasant enough at Leubronn to be adopted in England.

All had assembled in the drawing-room before the new couple appeared.
Meanwhile, the time was being passed chiefly in noticing the
children—various little Raymonds, nephews and nieces of Lady
Mallinger’s with her own three girls, who were always allowed to appear
at this hour. The scene was really delightful—enlarged by full-length
portraits with deep back-grounds, inserted in the cedar
paneling—surmounted by a ceiling that glowed with the rich colors of
the coats of arms ranged between the sockets—illuminated almost as
much by the red fire of oak-boughs as by the pale wax-lights—stilled
by the deep-piled carpet and by the high English breeding that subdues
all voices; while the mixture of ages, from the white-haired Lord and
Lady Pentreath to the four-year-old Edgar Raymond, gave a varied charm
to the living groups. Lady Mallinger, with fair matronly roundness and
mildly prominent blue eyes, moved about in her black velvet, carrying a
tiny white dog on her arm as a sort of finish to her costume; the
children were scattered among the ladies, while most of the gentlemen
were standing rather aloof, conversing with that very moderate vivacity
observable during the long minutes before dinner. Deronda was a little
out of the circle in a dialogue fixed upon him by Mr. Vandernoodt, a
man of the best Dutch blood imported at the revolution: for the rest,
one of those commodious persons in society who are nothing particular
themselves, but are understood to be acquainted with the best in every
department; close-clipped, pale-eyed, _nonchalant_, as good a foil as
could well be found to the intense coloring and vivid gravity of
Deronda.

He was talking of the bride and bridegroom, whose appearance was being
waited for. Mr. Vandernoodt was an industrious gleaner of personal
details, and could probably tell everything about a great philosopher
or physicist except his theories or discoveries; he was now implying
that he had learned many facts about Grandcourt since meeting him at
Leubronn.

“Men who have seen a good deal of life don’t always end by choosing
their wives so well. He has had rather an anecdotic history—gone
rather deep into pleasures, I fancy, lazy as he is. But, of course, you
know all about him.”

“No, really,” said Deronda, in an indifferent tone. “I know little more
of him than that he is Sir Hugo’s nephew.”

But now the door opened and deferred any satisfaction of Mr.
Vandernoodt’s communicativeness.

The scene was one to set off any figure of distinction that entered on
it, and certainly when Mr. and Mrs. Grandcourt entered, no beholder
could deny that their figures had distinction. The bridegroom had
neither more nor less easy perfection of costume, neither more nor less
well-cut impassibility of face, than before his marriage. It was to be
supposed of him that he would put up with nothing less than the best in
outward equipment, wife included; and the bride was what he might have
been expected to choose. “By George, I think she’s handsomer, if
anything!” said Mr. Vandernoodt. And Deronda was of the same opinion,
but he said nothing. The white silk and diamonds—it may seem strange,
but she did wear diamonds on her neck, in her ears, in her hair—might
have something to do with the new imposingness of her beauty, which
flashed on him as more unquestionable if not more thoroughly
satisfactory than when he had first seen her at the gaming-table. Some
faces which are peculiar in their beauty are like original works of
art: for the first time they are almost always met with question. But
in seeing Gwendolen at Diplow, Deronda had discerned in her more than
he had expected of that tender appealing charm which we call womanly.
Was there any new change since then? He distrusted his impressions; but
as he saw her receiving greetings with what seemed a proud cold
quietude and a superficial smile, there seemed to be at work within her
the same demonic force that had possessed her when she took him in her
resolute glance and turned away a loser from the gaming-table. There
was no time for more of a conclusion—no time even for him to give his
greeting before the summons to dinner.

He sat not far from opposite to her at table, and could sometimes hear
what she said in answer to Sir Hugo, who was at his liveliest in
conversation with her; but though he looked toward her with the
intention of bowing, she gave him no opportunity of doing so for some
time. At last Sir Hugo, who might have imagined that they had already
spoken to each other, said, “Deronda, you will like to hear what Mrs.
Grandcourt tells me about your favorite Klesmer.”

Gwendolen’s eyelids had been lowered, and Deronda, already looking at
her, thought he discovered a quivering reluctance as she was obliged to
raise them and return his unembarrassed bow and smile, her own smile
being one of the lip merely. It was but an instant, and Sir Hugo
continued without pause,

“The Arrowpoints have condoned the marriage, and he is spending the
Christmas with his bride at Quetcham.”

“I suppose he will be glad of it for the sake of his wife, else I dare
say he would not have minded keeping at a distance,” said Deronda.

“It’s a sort of troubadour story,” said Lady Pentreath, an easy,
deep-voiced old lady; “I’m glad to find a little romance left among us.
I think our young people now are getting too worldly wise.”

“It shows the Arrowpoints’ good sense, however, to have adopted the
affair, after the fuss in the paper,” said Sir Hugo. “And disowning
your own child because of a _mésalliance_ is something like disowning
your one eye: everybody knows it’s yours, and you have no other to make
an appearance with.”

“As to _mésalliance_, there’s no blood on any side,” said Lady
Pentreath. “Old Admiral Arrowpoint was one of Nelson’s men, you know—a
doctor’s son. And we all know how the mother’s money came.”

“If they were any _mésalliance_ in the case, I should say it was on
Klesmer’s side,” said Deronda.

“Ah, you think it is a case of the immortal marrying the mortal. What
is your opinion?” said Sir Hugo, looking at Gwendolen.

“I have no doubt that Herr Klesmer thinks himself immortal. But I dare
say his wife will burn as much incense before him as he requires,” said
Gwendolen. She had recovered any composure that she might have lost.

“Don’t you approve of a wife burning incense before her husband?” said
Sir Hugo, with an air of jocoseness.

“Oh, yes,” said Gwendolen, “if it were only to make others believe in
him.” She paused a moment and then said with more gayety, “When Herr
Klesmer admires his own genius, it will take off some of the absurdity
if his wife says Amen.”

“Klesmer is no favorite of yours, I see,” said Sir Hugo.

“I think very highly of him, I assure you,” said Gwendolen. “His genius
is quite above my judgment, and I know him to be exceedingly generous.”

She spoke with the sudden seriousness which is often meant to correct
an unfair or indiscreet sally, having a bitterness against Klesmer in
her secret soul which she knew herself unable to justify. Deronda was
wondering what he should have thought of her if he had never heard of
her before: probably that she put on a little hardness and defiance by
way of concealing some painful consciousness—if, indeed, he could
imagine her manners otherwise than in the light of his suspicion. But
why did she not recognize him with more friendliness?

Sir Hugo, by way of changing the subject, said to her, “Is not this a
beautiful room? It was part of the refectory of the Abbey. There was a
division made by those pillars and the three arches, and afterward they
were built up. Else it was half as large again originally. There used
to be rows of Benedictines sitting where we are sitting. Suppose we
were suddenly to see the lights burning low and the ghosts of the old
monks rising behind all our chairs!”

“Please don’t!” said Gwendolen, with a playful shudder. “It is very
nice to come after ancestors and monks, but they should know their
places and keep underground. I should be rather frightened to go about
this house all alone. I suppose the old generations must be angry with
us because we have altered things so much.”

“Oh, the ghosts must be of all political parties,” said Sir Hugo. “And
those fellows who wanted to change things while they lived and couldn’t
do it must be on our side. But if you would not like to go over the
house alone, you will like to go in company, I hope. You and Grandcourt
ought to see it all. And we will ask Deronda to go round with us. He is
more learned about it than I am.” The baronet was in the most
complaisant of humors.

Gwendolen stole a glance at Deronda, who must have heard what Sir Hugo
said, for he had his face turned toward them helping himself to an
_entrée_; but he looked as impassive as a picture. At the notion of
Deronda’s showing her and Grandcourt the place which was to be theirs,
and which she with painful emphasis remembered might have been his
(perhaps, if others had acted differently), certain thoughts had rushed
in—thoughts repeated within her, but now returning on an occasion
embarrassingly new; and was conscious of something furtive and awkward
in her glance which Sir Hugo must have noticed. With her usual
readiness of resource against betrayal, she said, playfully, “You don’t
know how much I am afraid of Mr. Deronda.”

“How’s that? Because you think him too learned?” said Sir Hugo, whom
the peculiarity of her glance had not escaped.

“No. It is ever since I first saw him at Leubronn. Because when he came
to look on at the roulette-table, I began to lose. He cast an evil eye
on my play. He didn’t approve it. He has told me so. And now whatever I
do before him, I am afraid he will cast an evil eye upon it.”

“Gad! I’m rather afraid of him myself when he doesn’t approve,” said
Sir Hugo, glancing at Deronda; and then turning his face toward
Gwendolen, he said less audibly, “I don’t think ladies generally object
to have his eyes upon them.” The baronet’s small chronic complaint of
facetiousness was at this moment almost as annoying to Gwendolen as it
often was to Deronda.

“I object to any eyes that are critical,” she said, in a cool, high
voice, with a turn of her neck. “Are there many of these old rooms left
in the Abbey?”

“Not many. There is a fine cloistered court with a long gallery above
it. But the finest bit of all is turned into stables. It is part of the
old church. When I improved the place I made the most of every other
bit; but it was out of my reach to change the stables, so the horses
have the benefit of the fine old choir. You must go and see it.”

“I shall like to see the horses as well as the building,” said
Gwendolen.

“Oh, I have no stud to speak of. Grandcourt will look with contempt at
my horses,” said Sir Hugo. “I’ve given up hunting, and go on in a
jog-trot way, as becomes an old gentlemen with daughters. The fact is,
I went in for doing too much at this place. We all lived at Diplow for
two years while the alterations were going on: Do you like Diplow?”

“Not particularly,” said Gwendolen, with indifference. One would have
thought that the young lady had all her life had more family seats than
she cared to go to.

“Ah! it will not do after Ryelands,” said Sir Hugo, well pleased.
“Grandcourt, I know, took it for the sake of the hunting. But he found
something so much better there,” added the baronet, lowering his voice,
“that he might well prefer it to any other place in the world.”

“It has one attraction for me,” said Gwendolen, passing over this
compliment with a chill smile, “that it is within reach of Offendene.”

“I understand that,” said Sir Hugo, and then let the subject drop.

What amiable baronet can escape the effect of a strong desire for a
particular possession? Sir Hugo would have been glad that Grandcourt,
with or without reason, should prefer any other place to Diplow; but
inasmuch as in the pure process of wishing we can always make the
conditions of our gratification benevolent, he did wish that
Grandcourt’s convenient disgust for Diplow should not be associated
with his marriage with this very charming bride. Gwendolen was much to
the baronet’s taste, but, as he observed afterward to Lady Mallinger,
he should never have taken her for a young girl who had married beyond
her expectations.

Deronda had not heard much of this conversation, having given his
attention elsewhere, but the glimpses he had of Gwendolen’s manner
deepened the impression that it had something newly artificial.

Later, in the drawing-room, Deronda, at somebody’s request, sat down to
the piano and sang. Afterward, Mrs. Raymond took his place; and on
rising he observed that Gwendolen had left her seat, and had come to
this end of the room, as if to listen more fully, but was now standing
with her back to every one, apparently contemplating a fine cowled head
carved in ivory which hung over a small table. He longed to go to her
and speak. Why should he not obey such an impulse, as he would have
done toward any other lady in the room? Yet he hesitated some moments,
observing the graceful lines of her back, but not moving.

If you have any reason for not indulging a wish to speak to a fair
woman, it is a bad plan to look long at her back: the wish to see what
it screens becomes the stronger. There may be a very sweet smile on the
other side. Deronda ended by going to the end of the small table, at
right angles to Gwendolen’s position, but before he could speak she had
turned on him no smile, but such an appealing look of sadness, so
utterly different from the chill effort of her recognition at table,
that his speech was checked. For what was an appreciative space of time
to both, though the observation of others could not have measured it,
they looked at each other—she seeming to take the deep rest of
confession, he with an answering depth of sympathy that neutralized all
other feelings.

“Will you not join in the music?” he said, by way of meeting the
necessity for speech.

That her look of confession had been involuntary was shown by that just
perceptible shake and change of countenance with which she roused
herself to reply calmly, “I join in it by listening. I am fond of
music.”

“Are you not a musician?”

“I have given a great deal of time to music. But I have not talent
enough to make it worth while. I shall never sing again.”

“But if you are fond of music, it will always be worth while in
private, for your own delight. I make it a virtue to be content with my
middlingness,” said Deronda, smiling; “it is always pardonable, so that
one does not ask others to take it for superiority.”

“I cannot imitate you,” said Gwendolen, recovering her tone of
artificial vivacity. “To be middling with me is another phrase for
being dull. And the worst fault I have to find with the world is that
it is dull. Do you know, I am going to justify gambling in spite of
you. It is a refuge from dullness.”

“I don’t admit the justification,” said Deronda. “I think what we call
the dullness of things is a disease in ourselves. Else how can any one
find an intense interest in life? And many do.”

“Ah, I see! The fault I find in the world is my own fault,” said
Gwendolen, smiling at him. Then after a moment, looking up at the ivory
again, she said, “Do _you_ never find fault with the world or with
others?”

“Oh, yes. When I am in a grumbling mood.”

“And hate people? Confess you hate them when they stand in your
way—when their gain is your loss? That is your own phrase, you know.”

“We are often standing in each other’s way when we can’t help it. I
think it is stupid to hate people on that ground.”

“But if they injure you and could have helped it?” said Gwendolen with
a hard intensity unaccountable in incidental talk like this.

Deronda wondered at her choice of subjects. A painful impression
arrested his answer a moment, but at last he said, with a graver,
deeper intonation, “Why, then, after all, I prefer my place to theirs.”

“There I believe you are right,” said Gwendolen, with a sudden little
laugh, and turned to join the group at the piano.

Deronda looked around for Grandcourt, wondering whether he followed his
bride’s movements with any attention; but it was rather undiscerning to
him to suppose that he could find out the fact. Grandcourt had a
delusive mood of observing whatever had an interest for him, which
could be surpassed by no sleepy-eyed animal on the watch for prey. At
that moment he was plunged in the depth of an easy chair, being talked
to by Mr. Vandernoodt, who apparently thought the acquaintance of such
a bridegroom worth cultivating; and an incautious person might have
supposed it safe to telegraph secrets in front of him, the common
prejudice being that your quick observer is one whose eyes have quick
movements. Not at all. If you want a respectable witness who will see
nothing inconvenient, choose a vivacious gentleman, very much on the
alert, with two eyes wide open, a glass in one of them, and an entire
impartiality as to the purpose of looking. If Grandcourt cared to keep
any one under his power he saw them out of the corners of his long
narrow eyes, and if they went behind him he had a constructive process
by which he knew what they were doing there. He knew perfectly well
where his wife was, and how she was behaving. Was he going to be a
jealous husband? Deronda imagined that to be likely; but his
imagination was as much astray about Grandcourt as it would have been
about an unexplored continent where all the species were peculiar. He
did not conceive that he himself was a likely subject of jealousy, or
that he should give any pretext for it; but the suspicion that a wife
is not happy naturally leads one to speculate on the husband’s private
deportment; and Deronda found himself after one o’clock in the morning
in the rather ludicrous position of sitting up severely holding a
Hebrew grammar in his hands (for somehow, in deference to Mordecai, he
had begun to study Hebrew), with the consciousness that he had been in
that attitude nearly an hour, and had thought of nothing but Gwendolen
and her husband. To be an unusual young man means for the most part to
get a difficult mastery over the usual, which is often like the sprite
of ill-luck you pack up your goods to escape from, and see grinning at
you from the top of your luggage van. The peculiarities of Deronda’s
nature had been acutely touched by the brief incident and words which
made the history of his intercourse with Gwendolen; and this evening’s
slight addition had given them an importunate recurrence. It was not
vanity—it was ready sympathy that had made him alive to a certain
appealingness in her behavior toward him; and the difficulty with which
she had seemed to raise her eyes to bow to him, in the first instance,
was to be interpreted now by that unmistakable look of involuntary
confidence which she had afterward turned on him under the
consciousness of his approach.

“What is the use of it all?” thought Deronda, as he threw down his
grammar, and began to undress. “I can’t do anything to help her—nobody
can, if she has found out her mistake already. And it seems to me that
she has a dreary lack of the ideas that might help her. Strange and
piteous to think what a center of wretchedness a delicate piece of
human flesh like that might be, wrapped round with fine
raiment, her ears pierced for gems, her head held loftily, her mouth
all smiling pretense, the poor soul within her sitting in sick distaste
of all things! But what do I know of her? There may be a demon in her
to match the worst husband, for what I can tell. She was clearly an
ill-educated, worldly girl: perhaps she is a coquette.”

This last reflection, not much believed in, was a self-administered
dose of caution, prompted partly by Sir Hugo’s much-contemned joking on
the subject of flirtation. Deronda resolved not to volunteer any
_tête-à-tête_ with Gwendolen during the days of her stay at the Abbey;
and he was capable of keeping a resolve in spite of much inclination to
the contrary.

But a man cannot resolve about a woman’s actions, least of all about
those of a woman like Gwendolen, in whose nature there was a
combination of proud reserve with rashness, of perilously poised terror
with defiance, which might alternately flatter and disappoint control.
Few words could less represent her than “coquette.” She had native love
of homage, and belief in her own power; but no cold artifice for the
sake of enslaving. And the poor thing’s belief in her power, with her
other dreams before marriage, had often to be thrust aside now like the
toys of a sick child, which it looks at with dull eyes, and has no
heart to play with, however it may try.

The next day at lunch Sir Hugo said to her, “The thaw has gone on like
magic, and it’s so pleasant out of doors just now—shall we go and see
the stables and the other odd bits about the place?”

“Yes, pray,” said Gwendolen. “You will like to see the stables,
Henleigh?” she added, looking at her husband.

“Uncommonly,” said Grandcourt, with an indifference which seemed to
give irony to the word, as he returned her look. It was the first time
Deronda had seen them speak to each other since their arrival, and he
thought their exchange of looks as cold or official as if it had been a
ceremony to keep up a charter. Still, the English fondness for reserve
will account for much negation; and Grandcourt’s manners with an extra
veil of reserve over them might be expected to present the extreme type
of the national taste.

“Who else is inclined to make the tour of the house and premises?” said
Sir Hugo. “The ladies must muffle themselves; there is only just about
time to do it well before sunset. You will go, Dan, won’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” said Deronda, carelessly, knowing that Sir Hugo would think
any excuse disobliging.

“All meet in the library, then, when they are ready—say in half an
hour,” said the baronet. Gwendolen made herself ready with wonderful
quickness, and in ten minutes came down into the library in her sables,
plume, and little thick boots. As soon as she entered the room she was
aware that some one else was there: it was precisely what she had hoped
for. Deronda was standing with his back toward her at the far end of
the room, and was looking over a newspaper. How could little thick
boots make any noise on an Axminster carpet? And to cough would have
seemed an intended signaling which her pride could not condescend to;
also, she felt bashful about walking up to him and letting him know
that she was there, though it was her hunger to speak to him which had
set her imagination on constructing this chance of finding him, and had
made her hurry down, as birds hover near the water which they dare not
drink. Always uneasily dubious about his opinion of her, she felt a
peculiar anxiety to-day, lest he might think of her with contempt, as
one triumphantly conscious of being Grandcourt’s wife, the future lady
of this domain. It was her habitual effort now to magnify the
satisfactions of her pride, on which she nourished her strength; but
somehow Deronda’s being there disturbed them all. There was not the
faintest touch of coquetry in the attitude of her mind toward him: he
was unique to her among men, because he had impressed her as being not
her admirer but her superior: in some mysterious way he was becoming a
part of her conscience, as one woman whose nature is an object of
reverential belief may become a new conscience to a man.

And now he would not look round and find out that she was there! The
paper crackled in his hand, his head rose and sank, exploring those
stupid columns, and he was evidently stroking his beard; as if this
world were a very easy affair to her. Of course all the rest of the
company would soon be down, and the opportunity of her saying something
to efface her flippancy of the evening before, would be quite gone. She
felt sick with irritation—so fast do young creatures like her absorb
misery through invisible suckers of their own fancies—and her face had
gathered that peculiar expression which comes with a mortification to
which tears are forbidden.

At last he threw down the paper and turned round.

“Oh, you are there already,” he said, coming forward a step or two: “I
must go and put on my coat.”

He turned aside and walked out of the room. This was behaving quite
badly. Mere politeness would have made him stay to exchange some words
before leaving her alone. It was true that Grandcourt came in with Sir
Hugo immediately after, so that the words must have been too few to be
worth anything. As it was, they saw him walking from the library door.

“A—you look rather ill,” said Grandcourt, going straight up to her,
standing in front of her, and looking into her eyes. “Do you feel equal
to the walk?”

“Yes, I shall like it,” said Gwendolen, without the slightest movement
except this of the lips.

“We could put off going over the house, you know, and only go out of
doors,” said Sir Hugo, kindly, while Grandcourt turned aside.

“Oh, dear no!” said Gwendolen, speaking with determination; “let us put
off nothing. I want a long walk.”

The rest of the walking party—two ladies and two gentlemen besides
Deronda—had now assembled; and Gwendolen rallying, went with due
cheerfulness by the side of Sir Hugo, paying apparently an equal
attention to the commentaries Deronda was called upon to give on the
various architectural fragments, to Sir Hugo’s reasons for not
attempting to remedy the mixture of the undisguised modern with the
antique—which in his opinion only made the place the more truly
historical. On their way to the buttery and kitchen they took the
outside of the house and paused before a beautiful pointed doorway,
which was the only old remnant in the east front.

“Well, now, to my mind,” said Sir Hugo, “that is more interesting
standing as it is in the middle of what is frankly four centuries
later, than if the whole front had been dressed up in a pretense of the
thirteenth century. Additions ought to smack of the time when they are
made and carry the stamp of their period. I wouldn’t destroy any old
bits, but that notion of reproducing the old is a mistake, I think. At
least, if a man likes to do it he must pay for his whistle. Besides,
where are you to stop along that road—making loopholes where you don’t
want to peep, and so on? You may as well ask me to wear out the stones
with kneeling; eh, Grandcourt?”

“A confounded nuisance,” drawled Grandcourt. “I hate fellows wanting to
howl litanies—acting the greatest bores that have ever existed.”

“Well, yes, that’s what their romanticism must come to,” said Sir Hugo,
in a tone of confidential assent—“that is if they carry it out
logically.”

“I think that way of arguing against a course because it may be ridden
down to an absurdity would soon bring life to a standstill,” said
Deronda. “It is not the logic of human action, but of a roasting-jack,
that must go on to the last turn when it has been once wound up. We can
do nothing safely without some judgment as to where we are to stop.”

“I find the rule of the pocket the best guide,” said Sir Hugo,
laughingly. “And as for most of your new-old building, you had need to
hire men to scratch and chip it all over artistically to give it an
elderly-looking surface; which at the present rate of labor would not
answer.”

“Do you want to keep up the old fashions, then, Mr. Deronda?” said
Gwendolen, taking advantage of the freedom of grouping to fall back a
little, while Sir Hugo and Grandcourt went on.

“Some of them. I don’t see why we should not use our choice there as we
do elsewhere—or why either age or novelty by itself is an argument for
or against. To delight in doing things because our fathers did them is
good if it shuts out nothing better; it enlarges the range of
affection—and affection is the broadest basis of good in life.”

“Do you think so?” said Gwendolen with a little surprise. “I should
have thought you cared most about ideas, knowledge, wisdom, and all
that.”

“But to care about _them_ is a sort of affection,” said Deronda,
smiling at her sudden _naïveté_. “Call it attachment; interest, willing
to bear a great deal for the sake of being with them and saving them
from injury. Of course, it makes a difference if the objects of
interest are human beings; but generally in all deep affections the
objects are a mixture—half persons and half ideas—sentiments and
affections flow in together.”

“I wonder whether I understand that,” said Gwendolen, putting up her
chin in her old saucy manner. “I believe I am not very affectionate;
perhaps you mean to tell me, that is the reason why I don’t see much
good in life.”

“No, I did _not_ mean to tell you that; but I admit that I should think
it true if I believed what you say of yourself,” said Deronda, gravely.

Here Sir Hugo and Grandcourt turned round and paused.

“I never can get Mr. Deronda to pay me a compliment,” said Gwendolen.
“I have quite a curiosity to see whether a little flattery can be
extracted from him.”

“Ah!” said Sir Hugo, glancing at Deronda, “the fact is, it is useless
to flatter a bride. We give it up in despair. She has been so fed on
sweet speeches that every thing we say seems tasteless.”

“Quite true,” said Gwendolen, bending her head and smiling. “Mr.
Grandcourt won me by neatly-turned compliments. If there had been one
word out of place it would have been fatal.”

“Do you hear that?” said Sir Hugo, looking at the husband.

“Yes,” said Grandcourt, without change of countenance. “It’s a deucedly
hard thing to keep up, though.”

All this seemed to Sir Hugo a natural playfulness between such a
husband and wife; but Deronda wondered at the misleading alternations
in Gwendolen’s manner, which at one moment seemed to excite sympathy by
childlike indiscretion, at another to repel it by proud concealment. He
tried to keep out of her way by devoting himself to Miss Juliet Fenn, a
young lady whose profile had been so unfavorably decided by
circumstances over which she had no control, that Gwendolen some months
ago had felt it impossible to be jealous of her. Nevertheless, when
they were seeing the kitchen—a part of the original building in
perfect preservation—the depth of shadow in the niches of the
stone-walls and groined vault, the play of light from the huge glowing
fire on polished tin, brass, and copper, the fine resonance that came
with every sound of voice or metal, were all spoiled for Gwendolen, and
Sir Hugo’s speech about them was made rather importunate, because
Deronda was discoursing to the other ladies and kept at a distance from
her. It did not signify that the other gentlemen took the opportunity
of being near her: of what use in the world was their admiration while
she had an uneasy sense that there was some standard in Deronda’s mind
which measured her into littleness? Mr. Vandernoodt, who had the mania
of always describing one thing while you were looking at another, was
quite intolerable with his insistence on Lord Blough’s kitchen, which
he had seen in the north.

“Pray don’t ask us to see two kitchens at once. It makes the heat
double. I must really go out of it,” she cried at last, marching
resolutely into the open air, and leaving the others in the rear.
Grandcourt was already out, and as she joined him, he said,

“I wondered how long you meant to stay in that damned place”—one of
the freedoms he had assumed as a husband being the use of his strongest
epithets. Gwendolen, turning to see the rest of the party approach,
said,

“It was certainly rather too warm in one’s wraps.”

They walked on the gravel across a green court, where the snow still
lay in islets on the grass, and in masses on the boughs of the great
cedar and the crenelated coping of the stone walls, and then into a
larger court, where there was another cedar, to find the beautiful
choir long ago turned into stables, in the first instance perhaps after
an impromptu fashion by troopers, who had a pious satisfaction in
insulting the priests of Baal and the images of Ashtoreth, the queen of
heaven. The exterior—its west end, save for the stable door, walled in
with brick and covered with ivy—was much defaced, maimed of finial and
gargoyle, the friable limestone broken and fretted, and lending its
soft gray to a powdery dark lichen; the long windows, too, were filled
in with brick as far as the springing of the arches, the broad
clerestory windows with wire or ventilating blinds. With the low wintry
afternoon sun upon it, sending shadows from the cedar boughs, and
lighting up the touches of snow remaining on every ledge, it had still
a scarcely disturbed aspect of antique solemnity, which gave the scene
in the interior rather a startling effect; though, ecclesiastical or
reverential indignation apart, the eyes could hardly help dwelling with
pleasure on its piquant picturesqueness. Each finely-arched chapel was
turned into a stall, where in the dusty glazing of the windows there
still gleamed patches of crimson, orange, blue, and palest violet; for
the rest, the choir had been gutted, the floor leveled, paved, and
drained according to the most approved fashion, and a line of loose
boxes erected in the middle: a soft light fell from the upper windows
on sleek brown or gray flanks and haunches; on mild equine faces
looking out with active nostrils over the varnished brown boarding; on
the hay hanging from racks where the saints once looked down from the
altar-pieces, and on the pale golden straw scattered or in heaps; on a
little white-and-liver-colored spaniel making his bed on the back of an
elderly hackney, and on four ancient angels, still showing signs of
devotion like mutilated martyrs—while over all, the grand pointed
roof, untouched by reforming wash, showed its lines and colors
mysteriously through veiling shadow and cobweb, and a hoof now and then
striking against the boards seemed to fill the vault with thunder,
while outside there was the answering bay of the blood-hounds.

“Oh, this is glorious!” Gwendolen burst forth, in forgetfulness of
everything but the immediate impression: there had been a little
intoxication for her in the grand spaces of courts and building, and
the fact of her being an important person among them. “This _is_
glorious! Only I wish there were a horse in every one of the boxes. I
would ten times rather have these stables than those at Diplow.”

But she had no sooner said this than some consciousness arrested her,
and involuntarily she turned her eyes toward Deronda, who oddly enough
had taken off his felt hat and stood holding it before him as if they
had entered a room or an actual church. He, like others, happened to be
looking at her, and their eyes met—to her intense vexation, for it
seemed to her that by looking at him she had betrayed the reference of
her thoughts, and she felt herself blushing: she exaggerated the
impression that even Sir Hugo as well as Deronda would have of her bad
taste in referring to the possession of anything at the Abbey: as for
Deronda, she had probably made him despise her. Her annoyance at what
she imagined to be the obviousness of her confusion robbed her of her
usual facility in carrying it off by playful speech, and turning up her
face to look at the roof, she wheeled away in that attitude. If any had
noticed her blush as significant, they had certainly not interpreted it
by the secret windings and recesses of her feeling. A blush is no
language: only a dubious flag-signal which may mean either of two
contradictories. Deronda alone had a faint guess at some part of her
feeling; but while he was observing her he was himself under
observation.

“Do you take off your hat to horses?” said Grandcourt, with a slight
sneer.

“Why not?” said Deronda, covering himself. He had really taken off the
hat automatically, and if he had been an ugly man might doubtless have
done so with impunity; ugliness having naturally the air of involuntary
exposure, and beauty, of display.

Gwendolen’s confusion was soon merged in the survey of the horses,
which Grandcourt politely abstained from appraising, languidly
assenting to Sir Hugo’s alternate depreciation and eulogy of the same
animal, as one that he should not have bought when he was younger, and
piqued himself on his horses, but yet one that had better qualities
than many more expensive brutes.

“The fact is, stables dive deeper and deeper into the pocket nowadays,
and I am very glad to have got rid of that _démangeaison_,” said Sir
Hugo, as they were coming out.

“What is a man to do, though?” said Grandcourt. “He must ride. I don’t
see what else there is to do. And I don’t call it riding to sit astride
a set of brutes with every deformity under the sun.”

This delicate diplomatic way of characterizing Sir Hugo’s stud did not
require direct notice; and the baronet, feeling that the conversation
had worn rather thin, said to the party generally, “Now we are going to
see the cloister—the finest bit of all—in perfect preservation; the
monks might have been walking there yesterday.”

But Gwendolen had lingered behind to look at the kenneled blood-hounds,
perhaps because she felt a little dispirited; and Grandcourt waited for
her.

“You had better take my arm,” he said, in his low tone of command; and
she took it.

“It’s a great bore being dragged about in this way, and no cigar,” said
Grandcourt.

“I thought you would like it.”

“Like it!—one eternal chatter. And encouraging those ugly
girls—inviting one to meet such monsters. How that _fat_ Deronda can
bear looking at her——”

“Why do you call him a _fat_? Do you object to him so much?”

“Object? no. What do I care about his being a _fat_? It’s of no
consequence to me. I’ll invite him to Diplow again if you like.”

“I don’t think he would come. He is too clever and learned to care
about _us_,” said Gwendolen, thinking it useful for her husband to be
told (privately) that it was possible for him to be looked down upon.

“I never saw that make much difference in a man. Either he is a
gentleman, or he is not,” said Grandcourt.

That a new husband and wife should snatch a moment’s _tête-à-tête_ was
what could be understood and indulged; and the rest of the party left
them in the rear till, re-entering the garden, they all paused in that
cloistered court where, among the falling rose-petals thirteen years
before, we saw a boy becoming acquainted with his first sorrow. This
cloister was built of a harder stone than the church, and had been in
greater safety from the wearing weather. It was a rare example of a