Daniel Deronda, George Eliot [portable ebook reader .TXT] 📗

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 anyone 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