บทที่ บทที่ 20 · Chapter XX

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“It will hardly be denied that even in this frail and corrupted world,

we sometimes meet persons who, in their very mien and aspect, as well

as in the whole habit of life, manifest such a signature and stamp of

virtue, as to make our judgment of them a matter of intuition rather

than the result of continued examination.”—ALEXANDER KNOX: quoted in

Southey’s Life of Wesley.

Mirah said that she had slept well that night; and when she came down

in Mab’s black dress, her dark hair curling in fresh fibrils as it

gradually dried from its plenteous bath, she looked like one who was

beginning to take comfort after the long sorrow and watching which had

paled her cheek and made blue semicircles under her eyes. It was Mab

who carried her breakfast and ushered her down—with some pride in the

effect produced by a pair of tiny felt slippers which she had rushed

out to buy because there were no shoes in the house small enough for

Mirah, whose borrowed dress ceased about her ankles and displayed the

cheap clothing that, moulding itself on her feet, seemed an adornment

as choice as the sheaths of buds. The farthing buckles were bijoux.

“Oh, if you please, mamma?” cried Mab, clasping her hands and stooping

toward Mirah’s feet, as she entered the parlor; “look at the slippers,

how beautiful they fit! I declare she is like the Queen Budoor—‘two

delicate feet, the work of the protecting and all-recompensing Creator,

support her; and I wonder how they can sustain what is above them.’”

Mirah looked down at her own feet in a childlike way and then smiled at

Mrs. Meyrick, who was saying inwardly, “One could hardly imagine this

creature having an evil thought. But wise people would tell me to be

cautious.” She returned Mirah’s smile and said, “I fear the feet have

had to sustain their burden a little too often lately. But to-day she

will rest and be my companion.”

“And she will tell you so many things and I shall not hear them,”

grumbled Mab, who felt herself in the first volume of a delightful

romance and obliged to miss some chapters because she had to go to

pupils.

Kate was already gone to make sketches along the river, and Amy was

away on business errands. It was what the mother wished, to be alone

with this stranger, whose story must be a sorrowful one, yet was

needful to be told.

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

sunlight was on the river and soft air came in through the open window;

the walls showed a glorious silent cloud of witnesses—the Virgin

soaring amid her cherubic escort; grand Melancholia with her solemn

universe; the Prophets and Sibyls; the School of Athens; the Last

Supper; mystic groups where far-off ages made one moment; grave Holbein

and Rembrandt heads; the Tragic Muse; last-century children at their

musings or their play; Italian poets—all were there through the medium

of a little black and white. The neat mother who had weathered her

troubles, and come out of them with a face still cheerful, was sorting

colored wools for her embroidery. Hafiz purred on the window-ledge, the

clock on the mantle-piece ticked without hurry, and the occasional

sound of wheels seemed to lie outside the more massive central quiet.

Mrs. Meyrick thought that this quiet might be the best invitation to

speech on the part of her companion, and chose not to disturb it by

remark. Mirah sat opposite in her former attitude, her hands clasped on

her lap, her ankles crossed, her eyes at first traveling slowly over

the objects around her, but finally resting with a sort of placid

reverence on Mrs. Meyrick. At length she began to speak softly.

“I remember my mother’s face better than anything; yet I was not seven

when I was taken away, and I am nineteen now.”

“I can understand that,” said Mrs. Meyrick. “There are some earliest

things that last the longest.”

“Oh, yes, it was the earliest. I think my life began with waking up and

loving my mother’s face: it was so near to me, and her arms were round

me, and she sang to me. One hymn she sang so often, so often: and then

she taught me to sing it with her: it was the first I ever sang. They

were always Hebrew hymns she sang; and because I never knew the meaning

of the words they seemed full of nothing but our love and happiness.

When I lay in my little bed and it was all white above me, she used to

bend over me, between me and the white, and sing in a sweet, low voice.

I can dream myself back into that time when I am awake, and it often

comes back to me in my sleep—my hand is very little, I put it up to

her face and she kisses it. Sometimes in my dreams I begin to tremble

and think that we are both dead; but then I wake up and my hand lies

like this, and for a moment I hardly know myself. But if I could see my

mother again I should know her.”

“You must expect some change after twelve years,” said Mrs. Meyrick,

gently. “See my grey hair: ten years ago it was bright brown. The days

and months pace over us like restless little birds, and leave the marks

of their feet backward and forward; especially when they are like birds

with heavy hearts—then they tread heavily.”

“Ah, I am sure her heart has been heavy for want of me. But to feel her

joy if we could meet again, and I could make her know I love her and

give her deep comfort after all her mourning! If that could be, I

should mind nothing; I should be glad that I have lived through my

trouble. I did despair. The world seemed miserable and wicked; none

helped me so that I could bear their looks and words; I felt that my

mother was dead, and death was the only way to her. But then in the

last moment—yesterday, when I longed for the water to close over

me—and I thought that death was the best image of mercy—then goodness

came to me living, and I felt trust in the living. And—it is

strange—but I began to hope that she was living too. And now I with

you—here—this morning, peace and hope have come into me like a flood.

I want nothing; I can wait; because I hope and believe and am

grateful—oh, so grateful! You have not thought evil of me—you have

not despised me.”

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

the while.

“Many others would have felt as we do, my dear,” said Mrs. Meyrick,

feeling a mist come over her eyes as she looked at her work.

“But I did not meet them—they did not come to me.”

“How was it that you were taken from your mother?”

“Ah, I am a long while coming to that. It is dreadful to speak of, yet

I must tell you—I must tell you everything. My father—it was he that

took me away. I thought we were only going on a little journey; and I

was pleased. There was a box with all my little things in. But we went

on board a ship, and got farther and farther away from the land. Then I

was ill; and I thought it would never end—it was the first misery, and

it seemed endless. But at last we landed. I knew nothing then, and

believed what my father said. He comforted me, and told me I should go

back to my mother. But it was America we had reached, and it was long

years before we came back to Europe. At first I often asked my father

when we were going back; and I tried to learn writing fast, because I

wanted to write to my mother; but one day when he found me trying to

write a letter, he took me on his knee and told me that my mother and

brother were dead; that was why we did not go back. I remember my

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

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

the earth when he said they were there, with their eyes forever closed.

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

my bed for a long while. Then when she came so often to me, in my

sleep, I thought she must be living about me though I could not always

see her, and that comforted me. I was never afraid in the dark, because

of that; and very often in the day I used to shut my eyes and bury my

face and try to see her and to hear her singing. I came to do that at

last without shutting my eyes.”

Mirah paused with a sweet content in her face, as if she were having

her happy vision, while she looked out toward the river.

“Still your father was not unkind to you, I hope,” said Mrs. Meyrick,

after a minute, anxious to recall her.

“No; he petted me, and took pains to teach me. He was an actor; and I

found out, after, that the ‘Coburg’ I used to hear of his going to at

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

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

languages. His acting was not very good; I think, but he managed the

stage, and wrote and translated plays. An Italian lady, a singer, lived

with us a long time. They both taught me, and I had a master besides,

who made me learn by heart and recite. I worked quite hard, though I

was so little; and I was not nine when I first went on the stage. I

could easily learn things, and I was not afraid. But then and ever

since I hated our way of life. My father had money, and we had finery

about us in a disorderly way; always there were men and women coming

and going; there was loud laughing and disputing, strutting, snapping

of fingers, jeering, faces I did not like to look at—though many

petted and caressed me. But then I remembered my mother. Even at first

when I understood nothing, I shrank away from all those things outside

me into companionship with thoughts that were not like them; and I

gathered thoughts very fast, because I read many things—plays and

poetry, Shakespeare and Schiller, and learned evil and good. My father

began to believe that I might be a great singer: my voice was

considered wonderful for a child; and he had the best teaching for me.

But it was painful that he boasted of me, and set me to sing for show

at any minute, as if I had been a musical box. Once when I was nine

years old, I played the part of a little girl who had been forsaken and

did not know it, and sat singing to herself while she played with

flowers. I did it without any trouble; but the clapping and all the

sounds of the theatre were hateful to me; and I never liked the praise

I had, because it all seemed very hard and unloving: I missed the love

and trust I had been born into. I made a life in my own thoughts quite

different from everything about me: I chose what seemed to me beautiful

out of the plays and everything, and made my world out of it; and it

was like a sharp knife always grazing me that we had two sorts of life

which jarred so with each other—women looking good and gentle on the

stage, and saying good things as if they felt them, and directly after

I saw them with coarse, ugly manners. My father sometimes noticed my

shrinking ways; and Signora said one day, when I had been rehearsing,

‘She will never be an artist: she has no notion of being anybody but

herself. That does very well now, but by-and-by you will see—she will

have no more face and action than a singing-bird.’ My father was angry,

and they quarreled. I sat alone and cried, because what she had said

was like a long unhappy future unrolled before me. I did not want to be

an artist; but this was what my father expected of me. After a while

Signora left us, and a governess used to come and give me lessons in

different things, because my father began to be afraid of my singing

too much; but I still acted from time to time. Rebellious feelings grew

stronger in me, and I wished to get away from this life; but I could

not tell where to go, and I dreaded the world. Besides, I felt it would

be wrong to leave my father: I dreaded doing wrong, for I thought I

might get wicked and hateful to myself, in the same way that many

others seemed hateful to me. For so long, so long I had never felt my

outside world happy; and if I got wicked I should lose my world of

happy thoughts where my mother lived with me. That was my childish

notion all through those years. Oh how long they were!”

Mirah fell to musing again.

“Had you no teaching about what was your duty?” said Mrs. Meyrick. She

did not like to say “religion”—finding herself on inspection rather

dim as to what the Hebrew religion might have turned into at this date.

“No—only that I ought to do what my father wished. He did not follow

our religion at New York, and I think he wanted me not to know much

about it. But because my mother used to take me to the synagogue, and I

remembered sitting on her knee and looking through the railing and

hearing the chanting and singing, I longed to go. One day when I was

quite small I slipped out and tried to find the synagogue, but I lost

myself a long while till a peddler questioned me and took me home. My

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

had been so frightened at losing myself that it was long before I

thought of venturing out again. But after Signora left us we went to

rooms where our landlady was a Jewess and observed her religion. I

asked her to take me with her to the synagogue; and I read in her

prayer-books and Bible, and when I had money enough I asked her to buy

me books of my own, for these books seemed a closer companionship with

my mother: I knew that she must have looked at the very words and said

them. In that way I have come to know a little of our religion, and the

history of our people, besides piecing together what I read in plays

and other books about Jews and Jewesses; because I was sure my mother

obeyed her religion. I had left off asking my father about her. It is

very dreadful to say it, but I began to disbelieve him. I had found

that he did not always tell the truth, and made promises without

meaning to keep them; and that raised my suspicion that my mother and

brother were still alive though he had told me they were dead. For in

going over the past again as I got older and knew more, I felt sure

that my mother had been deceived, and had expected to see us back again

after a very little while; and my father taking me on his knee and

telling me that my mother and brother were both dead seemed to me now

but a bit of acting, to set my mind at rest. The cruelty of that

falsehood sank into me, and I hated all untruth because of it. I wrote

to my mother secretly: I knew the street, Colman Street, where we

lived, and that it was not Blackfriars Bridge and the Coburg, and that

our name was Cohen then, though my father called us Lapidoth, because,

he said, it was a name of his forefathers in Poland. I sent my letter

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

Our life in America did not last much longer. My father suddenly told

me we were to pack up and go to Hamburg, and I was rather glad. I hoped

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

well—some German plays almost all by heart. My father spoke it better

than he spoke English. I was thirteen then, and I seemed to myself

quite old—I knew so much, and yet so little. I think other children

cannot feel as I did. I had often wished that I had been drowned when I

was going away from my mother. But I set myself to obey and suffer:

what else could I do? One day when we were on our voyage, a new thought

came into my mind. I was not very ill that time, and I kept on deck a

good deal. My father acted and sang and joked to amuse people on board,

and I used often to hear remarks about him. One day, when I was looking

at the sea and nobody took notice of me, I overheard a gentleman say,

‘Oh, he is one of those clever Jews—a rascal, I shouldn’t wonder.

There’s no race like them for cunning in the men and beauty in the

women. I wonder what market he means that daughter for.’ When I heard

this it darted into my mind that the unhappiness in my life came from

my being a Jewess, and that always to the end the world would think

slightly of me and that I must bear it, for I should be judged by that

name; and it comforted me to believe that my suffering was part of the

affliction of my people, my part in the long song of mourning that has

been going on through ages and ages. For if many of our race were

wicked and made merry in their wickedness—what was that but part of

the affliction borne by the just among them, who were despised for the

sins of their brethren?—But you have not rejected me.”

Mirah had changed her tone in this last sentence, having suddenly

reflected that at this moment she had reason not for complaint but for

gratitude.

“And we will try to save you from being judged unjustly by others, my

poor child,” said Mrs. Meyrick, who had now given up all attempt at

going on with her work, and sat listening with folded hands and a face

hardly less eager than Mab’s would have been. “Go on, go on: tell me

all.”

“After that we lived in different towns—Hamburg and Vienna, the

longest. I began to study singing again: and my father always got money

about the theatres. I think he brought a good deal of money from

America, I never knew why we left. For some time he was in great

spirits about my singing, and he made me rehearse parts and act

continually. He looked forward to my coming out in the opera. But

by-and-by it seemed that my voice would never be strong enough—it did

not fulfill its promise. My master at Vienna said, ‘Don’t strain it

further: it will never do for the public:—it is gold, but a thread of

gold dust.’ My father was bitterly disappointed: we were not so well

off at that time. I think I have not quite told you what I felt about

my father. I knew he was fond of me and meant to indulge me, and that

made me afraid of hurting him; but he always mistook what would please

me and give me happiness. It was his nature to take everything lightly;

and I soon left off asking him any questions about things that I cared

for much, because he always turned them off with a joke. He would even

ridicule our own people; and once when he had been imitating their

movements and their tones in praying, only to make others laugh, I

could not restrain myself—for I always had an anger in my heart about

my mother—and when we were alone, I said, ‘Father, you ought not to

mimic our own people before Christians who mock them: would it not be

bad if I mimicked you, that they might mock you?’ But he only shrugged

his shoulders and laughed and pinched my chin, and said, ‘You couldn’t

do it, my dear.’ It was this way of turning off everything, that made a

great wall between me and my father, and whatever I felt most I took

the most care to hide from him. For there were some things—when they

were laughed at I could not bear it: the world seemed like a hell to

me. Is this world and all the life upon it only like a farce or a

vaudeville, where you find no great meanings? Why then are there

tragedies and grand operas, where men do difficult things and choose to

suffer? I think it is silly to speak of all things as a joke. And I saw

that his wishing me to sing the greatest music, and parts in grand

operas, was only wishing for what would fetch the greatest price. That

hemmed in my gratitude for his affectionateness, and the tenderest

feeling I had toward him was pity. Yes, I did sometimes pity him. He

had aged and changed. Now he was no longer so lively. I thought he

seemed worse—less good to others than to me. Every now and then in the

latter years his gaiety went away suddenly, and he would sit at home

silent and gloomy; or he would come in and fling himself down and sob,

just as I have done myself when I have been in trouble. If I put my

hand on his knee and say, ‘What is the matter, father?’ he would make

no answer, but would draw my arm round his neck and put his arm round

me and go on crying. There never came any confidence between us; but

oh, I was sorry for him. At those moments I knew he must feel his life

bitter, and I pressed my cheek against his head and prayed. Those

moments were what most bound me to him; and I used to think how much my

mother once loved him, else she would not have married him.

“But soon there came the dreadful time. We had been at Pesth and we

came back to Vienna. In spite of what my master Leo had said, my father

got me an engagement, not at the opera, but to take singing parts at a

suburb theatre in Vienna. He had nothing to do with the theatre then; I

did not understand what he did, but I think he was continually at a

gambling house, though he was careful always about taking me to the

theatre. I was very miserable. The plays I acted in were detestable to

me. Men came about us and wanted to talk to me: women and men seemed to

look at me with a sneering smile; it was no better than a fiery

furnace. Perhaps I make it worse than it was—you don’t know that life:

but the glare and the faces, and my having to go on and act and sing

what I hated, and then see people who came to stare at me behind the

scenes—it was all so much worse than when I was a little girl. I went

through with it; I did it; I had set my mind to obey my father and

work, for I saw nothing better that I could do. But I felt that my

voice was getting weaker, and I knew that my acting was not good except

when it was not really acting, but the part was one that I could be

myself in, and some feeling within me carried me along. That was seldom.

“Then, in the midst of all this, the news came to me one morning that

my father had been taken to prison, and he had sent for me. He did not

tell me the reason why he was there, but he ordered me to go to an

address he gave me, to see a Count who would be able to get him

released. The address was to some public rooms where I was to ask for

the Count, and beg him to come to my father. I found him, and

recognized him as a gentleman whom I had seen the other night for the

first time behind the scenes. That agitated me, for I remembered his

way of looking at me and kissing my hand—I thought it was in mockery.

But I delivered my errand, and he promised to go immediately to my

father, who came home again that very evening, bringing the Count with

him. I now began to feel a horrible dread of this man, for he worried

me with his attentions, his eyes were always on me: I felt sure that

whatever else there might be in his mind toward me, below it all there

was scorn for the Jewess and the actress. And when he came to me the

next day in the theatre and would put my shawl around me, a terror took

hold of me; I saw that my father wanted me to look pleased. The Count

was neither very young nor very old; his hair and eyes were pale; he

was tall and walked heavily, and his face was heavy and grave except

when he looked at me. He smiled at me, and his smile went through me

with horror: I could not tell why he was so much worse to me than other

men. Some feelings are like our hearing: they come as sounds do, before

we know their reason. My father talked to me about him when we were

alone, and praised him—said what a good friend he had been. I said

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

the Count came again, my father left the room. He asked me if I liked

being on the stage. I said No, I only acted in obedience to my father.

He always spoke French, and called me _petite ange_ and such things,

which I felt insulting. I knew he meant to make love to me, and I had

it firmly in my mind that a nobleman and one who was not a Jew could

have no love for me that was not half contempt. But then he told me

that I need not act any longer; he wished me to visit him at his

beautiful place, where I might be queen of everything. It was difficult

to me to speak, I felt so shaken with anger: I could only say, ‘I would

rather stay on the stage forever,’ and I left him there. Hurrying out

of the room I saw my father sauntering in the passage. My heart was

crushed. I went past him and locked myself up. It had sunk into me that

my father was in a conspiracy with that man against me. But the next

day he persuaded me to come out: he said that I had mistaken

everything, and he would explain: if I did not come out and act and

fulfill my engagement, we should be ruined and he must starve. So I

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

father changed our lodgings, and kept at home except when he went to

the theatre with me. He began one day to speak discouragingly of my

acting, and say, I could never go on singing in public—I should lose

my voice—I ought to think of my future, and not put my nonsensical

feelings between me and my fortune. He said, ‘What will you do? You

will be brought down to sing and beg at people’s doors. You have had a

splendid offer and ought to accept it.’ I could not speak: a horror

took possession of me when I thought of my mother and of him. I felt

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

next day he told me that he had put an end to my engagement at the

theatre, and that we were to go to Prague. I was getting suspicious of

everything, and my will was hardening to act against him. It took us

two days to pack and get ready; and I had it in my mind that I might be

obliged to run away from my father, and then I would come to London and

try if it were possible to find my mother. I had a little money, and I

sold some things to get more. I packed a few clothes in a little bag

that I could carry with me, and I kept my mind on the watch. My

father’s silence—his letting drop that subject of the Count’s

offer—made me feel sure that there was a plan against me. I felt as if

it had been a plan to take me to a madhouse. I once saw a picture of a

madhouse, that I could never forget; it seemed to me very much like

some of the life I had seen—the people strutting, quarreling,

leering—the faces with cunning and malice in them. It was my will to

keep myself from wickedness; and I prayed for help. I had seen what

despised women were: and my heart turned against my father, for I saw

always behind him that man who made me shudder. You will think I had

not enough reason for my suspicions, and perhaps I had not, outside my

own feeling; but it seemed to me that my mind had been lit up, and all

that might be stood out clear and sharp. If I slept, it was only to see

the same sort of things, and I could hardly sleep at all. Through our

journey I was everywhere on the watch. I don’t know why, but it came

before me like a real event, that my father would suddenly leave me and

I should find myself with the Count where I could not get away from

him. I thought God was warning me: my mother’s voice was in my soul. It

was dark when we reached Prague, and though the strange bunches of

lamps were lit it was difficult to distinguish faces as we drove along

the street. My father chose to sit outside—he was always smoking

now—and I watched everything in spite of the darkness. I do believe I

could see better then than I ever did before: the strange clearness

within seemed to have got outside me. It was not my habit to notice

faces and figures much in the street; but this night I saw every one;

and when we passed before a great hotel I caught sight only of a back

that was passing in—the light of the great bunch of lamps a good way

off fell on it. I knew it—before the face was turned, as it fell into

shadow, I knew who it was. Help came to me. I feel sure help came. I

did not sleep that night. I put on my plainest things—the cloak and

hat I have worn ever since; and I sat watching for the light and the

sound of the doors being unbarred. Some one rose early—at four

o’clock, to go to the railway. That gave me courage. I slipped out,

with my little bag under my cloak, and none noticed me. I had been a

long while attending to the railway guide that I might learn the way to

England; and before the sun had risen I was in the train for Dresden.

Then I cried for joy. I did not know whether my money would last out,

but I trusted. I could sell the things in my bag, and the little rings

in my ears, and I could live on bread only. My only terror was lest my

father should follow me. But I never paused. I came on, and on, and on,

only eating bread now and then. When I got to Brussels I saw that I

should not have enough money, and I sold all that I could sell; but

here a strange thing happened. Putting my hand into the pocket of my

cloak, I found a half-napoleon. Wondering and wondering how it came

there, I remembered that on the way from Cologne there was a young

workman sitting against me. I was frightened at every one, and did not

like to be spoken to. At first he tried to talk, but when he saw that I

did not like it, he left off. It was a long journey; I ate nothing but

a bit of bread, and he once offered me some of the food he brought in,

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

pocket. Without it I could hardly have got to Dover, and I did walk a

good deal of the way from Dover to London. I knew I should look like a

miserable beggar-girl. I wanted not to look very miserable, because if

I found my mother it would grieve her to see me so. But oh, how vain my

hope was that she would be there to see me come! As soon as I set foot

in London, I began to ask for Lambeth and Blackfriars Bridge, but they

were a long way off, and I went wrong. At last I got to Blackfriars

Bridge and asked for Colman Street. People shook their heads. None knew

it. I saw it in my mind—our doorsteps, and the white tiles hung in the

windows, and the large brick building opposite with wide doors. But

there was nothing like it. At last when I asked a tradesman where the

Coburg Theatre and Colman Street were, he said, ‘Oh, my little woman,

that’s all done away with. The old streets have been pulled down;

everything is new.’ I turned away and felt as if death had laid a hand

on me. He said: ‘Stop, stop! young woman; what is it you’re wanting

with Colman Street, eh?’ meaning well, perhaps. But his tone was what I

could not bear; and how could I tell him what I wanted? I felt blinded

and bewildered with a sudden shock. I suddenly felt that I was very

weak and weary, and yet where could I go? for I looked so poor and

dusty, and had nothing with me—I looked like a street-beggar. And I

was afraid of all places where I could enter. I lost my trust. I

thought I was forsaken. It seemed that I had been in a fever of

hope—delirious—all the way from Prague: I thought that I was helped,

and I did nothing but strain my mind forward and think of finding my

mother; and now—there I stood in a strange world. All who saw me would

think ill of me, and I must herd with beggars. I stood on the bridge

and looked along the river. People were going on to a steamboat. Many

of them seemed poor, and I felt as if it would be a refuge to get away

from the streets; perhaps the boat would take me where I could soon get

into a solitude. I had still some pence left, and I bought a loaf when

I went on the boat. I wanted to have a little time and strength to

think of life and death. How could I live? And now again it seemed that

if ever I were to find my mother again, death was the way to her. I

ate, that I might have strength to think. The boat set me down at a

place along the river—I don’t know where—and it was late in the

evening. I found some large trees apart from the road, and I sat down

under them that I might rest through the night. Sleep must have soon

come to me, and when I awoke it was morning. The birds were singing,

and the dew was white about me, I felt chill and oh, so lonely! I got

up and walked and followed the river a long way and then turned back

again. There was no reason why I should go anywhere. The world about me

seemed like a vision that was hurrying by while I stood still with my

pain. My thoughts were stronger than I was; they rushed in and forced

me to see all my life from the beginning; ever since I was carried away

from my mother I had felt myself a lost child taken up and used by

strangers, who did not care what my life was to me, but only what I

could do for them. It seemed all a weary wandering and

heart-loneliness—as if I had been forced to go to merrymakings without

the expectation of joy. And now it was worse. I was lost again, and I

dreaded lest any stranger should notice me and speak to me. I had a

terror of the world. None knew me; all would mistake me. I had seen so

many in my life who made themselves glad with scorning, and laughed at

another’s shame. What could I do? This life seemed to be closing in

upon me with a wall of fire—everywhere there was scorching that made

me shrink. The high sunlight made me shrink. And I began to think that

my despair was the voice of God telling me to die. But it would take me

long to die of hunger. Then I thought of my people, how they had been

driven from land to land and been afflicted, and multitudes had died of

misery in their wandering—was I the first? And in the wars and

troubles when Christians were cruelest, our fathers had sometimes slain

their children and afterward themselves: it was to save them from being

false apostates. That seemed to make it right for me to put an end to

my life; for calamity had closed me in too, and I saw no pathway but to

evil. But my mind got into war with itself, for there were contrary

things in it. I knew that some had held it wrong to hasten their own

death, though they were in the midst of flames; and while I had some

strength left it was a longing to bear if I ought to bear—else where

was the good of all my life? It had not been happy since the first

years: when the light came every morning I used to think, ‘I will bear

it.’ But always before I had some hope; now it was gone. With these

thoughts I wandered and wandered, inwardly crying to the Most High,

from whom I should not flee in death more than in life—though I had no

strong faith that He cared for me. The strength seemed departing from

my soul; deep below all my cries was the feeling that I was alone and

forsaken. The more I thought the wearier I got, till it seemed I was

not thinking at all, but only the sky and the river and the Eternal God

were in my soul. And what was it whether I died or lived? If I lay down

to die in the river, was it more than lying down to sleep?—for there

too I committed my soul—I gave myself up. I could not bear memories

any more; I could only feel what was present in me—it was all one

longing to cease from my weary life, which seemed only a pain outside

the great peace that I might enter into. That was how it was. When the

evening came and the sun was gone, it seemed as if that was all I had

to wait for. And a new strength came into me to will what I would do.

You know what I did. I was going to die. You know what happened—did he

not tell you? Faith came to me again; I was not forsaken. He told you

how he found me?”

Mrs. Meyrick gave no audible answer, but pressed her lips against

Mirah’s forehead.

* * * * *

“She’s just a pearl; the mud has only washed her,” was the fervid

little woman’s closing commentary when, _tête-à-tête_ with Deronda in

the back parlor that evening, she had conveyed Mirah’s story to him

with much vividness.

“What is your feeling about a search for this mother?” said Deronda.

“Have you no fears? I have, I confess.”

“Oh, I believe the mother’s good,” said Mrs. Meyrick, with rapid

decisiveness; “or _was_ good. She may be dead—that’s my fear. A good

woman, you may depend: you may know it by the scoundrel the father is.

Where did the child get her goodness from? Wheaten flour has to be

accounted for.”

Deronda was rather disappointed at this answer; he had wanted a

confirmation of his own judgment, and he began to put in demurrers. The

argument about the mother would not apply to the brother; and Mrs.

Meyrick admitted that the brother might be an ugly likeness of the

father. Then, as to advertising, if the name was Cohen, you might as

well advertise for two undescribed terriers; and here Mrs. Meyrick

helped him, for the idea of an advertisement, already mentioned to

Mirah, had roused the poor child’s terror; she was convinced that her

father would see it—he saw everything in the papers. Certainly there

were safer means than advertising; men might be set to work whose

business it was to find missing persons; but Deronda wished Mrs.

Meyrick to feel with him that it would be wiser to wait, before seeking

a dubious—perhaps a deplorable result; especially as he was engaged to

go abroad the next week for a couple of months. If a search were made,

he would like to be at hand, so that Mrs. Meyrick might not be unaided

in meeting any consequences—supposing that she would generously

continue to watch over Mirah.

“We should be very jealous of any one who took the task from us,” said

Mrs. Meyrick. “She will stay under my roof; there is Hans’s old room

for her.”

“Will she be content to wait?” said Deronda, anxiously.

“No trouble there. It is not her nature to run into planning and

devising: only to submit. See how she submitted to that father! It was

a wonder to herself how she found the will and contrivance to run away

from him. About finding her mother, her only notion now is to trust;

since you were sent to save her and we are good to her, she trusts that

her mother will be found in the same unsought way. And when she is

talking I catch her feeling like a child.”

Mrs. Meyrick hoped that the sum Deronda put into her hands as a

provision for Mirah’s wants was more than would be needed; after a

little while Mirah would perhaps like to occupy herself as the other

girls did, and make herself independent. Deronda pleaded that she must

need a long rest. “Oh, yes; we will hurry nothing,” said Mrs. Meyrick.

“Rely upon it, she shall be taken tender care of. If you like to give

me your address abroad, I will write to let you know how we get on. It

is not fair that we should have all the pleasure of her salvation to

ourselves. And besides, I want to make believe that I am doing

something for you as well as for Mirah.”

“That is no make-believe. What should I have done without you last

night? Everything would have gone wrong. I shall tell Hans that the

best of having him for a friend is, knowing his mother.”

After that they joined the girls in the other room, where Mirah was

seated placidly, while the others were telling her what they knew about

Mr. Deronda—his goodness to Hans, and all the virtues that Hans had

reported of him.

“Kate burns a pastille before his portrait every day,” said Mab. “And I

carry his signature in a little black-silk bag round my neck to keep

off the cramp. And Amy says the multiplication-table in his name. We

must all do something extra in honor of him, now he has brought you to

us.”

“I suppose he is too great a person to want anything,” said Mirah,

smiling at Mab, and appealing to the graver Amy. “He is perhaps very

high in the world?”

“He is very much above us in rank,” said Amy. “He is related to grand

people. I dare say he leans on some of the satin cushions we prick our

fingers over.”

“I am glad he is of high rank,” said Mirah, with her usual quietness.

“Now, why are you glad of that?” said Amy, rather suspicious of this

sentiment, and on the watch for Jewish peculiarities which had not

appeared.

“Because I have always disliked men of high rank before.”

“Oh, Mr. Deronda is not so very high,” said Kate, “He need not hinder

us from thinking ill of the whole peerage and baronetage if we like.”

When he entered, Mirah rose with the same look of grateful reverence

that she had lifted to him the evening before: impossible to see a

creature freer at once from embarrassment and boldness. Her theatrical

training had left no recognizable trace; probably her manners had not

much changed since she played the forsaken child at nine years of age;

and she had grown up in her simplicity and truthfulness like a little

flower-seed that absorbs the chance confusion of its surrounding into

its own definite mould of beauty. Deronda felt that he was making

acquaintance with something quite new to him in the form of womanhood.

For Mirah was not childlike from ignorance: her experience of evil and

trouble was deeper and stranger than his own. He felt inclined to watch

her and listen to her as if she had come from a far off shore inhabited

by a race different from our own.

But for that very reason he made his visit brief with his usual

activity of imagination as to how his conduct might affect others, he

shrank from what might seem like curiosity or the assumption of a right

to know as much as he pleased of one to whom he had done a service. For

example, he would have liked to hear her sing, but he would have felt

the expression of such a wish to be rudeness in him—since she could

not refuse, and he would all the while have a sense that she was being

treated like one whose accomplishments were to be ready on demand. And

whatever reverence could be shown to woman, he was bent on showing to

this girl. Why? He gave himself several good reasons; but whatever one

does with a strong unhesitating outflow of will has a store of motive

that it would be hard to put into words. Some deeds seem little more

than interjections which give vent to the long passion of a life.

So Deronda soon took his farewell for the two months during which he

expected to be absent from London, and in a few days he was on his way

with Sir Hugo and Lady Mallinger to Leubronn.

He had fulfilled his intention of telling them about Mirah. The baronet

was decidedly of opinion that the search for the mother and brother had

better be let alone. Lady Mallinger was much interested in the poor

girl, observing that there was a society for the conversion of the

Jews, and that it was to be hoped Mirah would embrace Christianity; but

perceiving that Sir Hugo looked at her with amusement, she concluded

that she had said something foolish. Lady Mallinger felt apologetically

about herself as a woman who had produced nothing but daughters in a

case where sons were required, and hence regarded the apparent

contradictions of the world as probably due to the weakness of her own

understanding. But when she was much puzzled, it was her habit to say

to herself, “I will ask Daniel.” Deronda was altogether a convenience

in the family; and Sir Hugo too, after intending to do the best for

him, had begun to feel that the pleasantest result would be to have

this substitute for a son always ready at his elbow.

This was the history of Deronda, so far as he knew it, up to the time

of that visit to Leubronn in which he saw Gwendolen Harleth at the

gaming-table.