Chapter Eighteen
Mrs. Meyrick’s house was not noisy: the front parlour looked on the river, and the back on gardens, so that though she was reading aloud to her daughters, the window could be left open to freshen the air of the small double room where a lamp and two candles were burning. The candles were on a table for Kate, who was drawing illustrations for a publisher; Amy and Mab were embroidering satin cushions for “the great world.”
Outside, the house looked very narrow and shabby, but many such grim-walled slices of our foggy London are the homes of a culture where poverty has put anything like vulgar display out of the question.
The Meyricks’ was a home of that kind: its interior was filled with objects which, for the mother, held memories of her marriage, and for the young ones seemed as necessary and uncriticised a part of their world as the stars. Mrs. Meyrick had stinted on other things so that she might keep some engravings specially cherished by her husband; and the narrow spaces of wall held a world history which the children had early learned by heart. The chairs and tables were also old friends. But in these two little parlours with cheap furniture, there was space for a wide-glancing life, opened to the highest things in music, painting and poetry.
The Meyricks had their little oddities, streaks of eccentricity from the mother’s blood as well as the father’s, their minds being like mediaeval houses with unexpected recesses and openings. But mother and daughters were all united by a triple bond – family love; admiration for the finest work; and industry. Hans’s desire to spend his money in making their lives more luxurious had been resisted by all of them, saving him from regrets over his yearning for art that would by-and-by oblige him to give up his fellowship. It was enough for them to have only a grand treat of opera-going (to the gallery) when Hans came home on a visit.
They were all small, and so in due proportion to their miniature rooms. Mrs. Meyrick was reading aloud from a French book; she was a lively little woman, half French, half Scotch, with a pretty articulateness of speech. Though she was not yet fifty, her rippling hair, covered by a quakerish net cap, was grey; her black dress suited a neat figure hardly five feet high.
The daughters matched the mother. Everything about them was compact, from the firm coils of their hair, to their grey skirts in Puritan nonconformity with the fashion, which at that time would have demanded that four feminine circumferences should fill all the free space in the front parlour. The only large thing of its kind in the room was Hafiz, the Persian cat, comfortably poised on a chair, and opening his eyes now and then to see that the lower animals were not in any mischief.
The book Mrs. Meyrick had before her was Erckmann-Chatrian’s Historie d’un Conscrit. She had just finished reading aloud, and Mab exclaimed–
“I think that is the finest story in the world.”
“Of course, Mab!” said Amy, “it is the last you have heard. Everything that pleases you is the best in its turn.”
“It is hardly to be called a story,” said Kate. “It is a bit of history brought near us with a strong telescope, so that we can see the soldiers’ faces.”
“I don’t care what you call it,” said Mab. “It makes me want to do something good, something grand. I want to take the world in my arms and kiss it. I must kiss you instead, little mother!” She threw her arms round her mother’s neck.
“Whenever you are in that mood, Mab, down goes your work,” said Amy.
“Oh!” groaned Mab, stooping to pick it up. “I wish I had three wounded conscripts to take care of.”
“You would spill their beef-tea while you were talking,” said Amy.
“Poor Mab! don’t be hard on her,” said the mother. “Give me the embroidery now, child.”
“Oh!” cried Mab again, rising and stretching her arms. “I wish something wonderful would happen. I feel like the deluge. The waters of the great deep are broken up, and the windows of heaven are opened. I must sit down and play the scales.”
Mab was opening the piano when a cab stopped before the house, and there came a rap of the knocker.
“Dear me!” said Mrs. Meyrick, “it is after ten!” She hastened out, leaving the parlour door open.
“Mr. Deronda!” the girls heard her exclaim. Mab clasped her hands, saying in a whisper, “There now! Something is going to happen.” But they could not hear Deronda’s low reply, and Mrs. Meyrick immediately closed the parlour door.
“I know I am trusting to your goodness in an extraordinary way,” Deronda was saying, after giving his brief narrative; “but you can imagine how helpless I feel with this young creature on my hands. I could not take her among strangers, and in her nervous state I should dread taking her into a house full of servants. I have trusted to your mercy.”
“You have honoured me by trusting me. I see your difficulty. Pray bring her in.”
While Deronda went back to the cab, Mrs. Meyrick turned into the parlour and said: “Here is somebody to take care of instead of your wounded conscripts, Mab: a poor girl who was going to drown herself in despair. Mr. Deronda found her just in time to save her. He did not know what else it would be safe to do with her, so he has trusted us and brought her here. It seems she is a Jewess, but quite refined, he says – knowing Italian and music.”
The three girls were wondering and expectant: Mab looked rather awe-stricken at this answer to her wish.
Meanwhile Deronda, returning to the cab where the pale face was gazing out, said, “I have brought you to some of the kindest people in the world: there are daughters like you. It is a happy home. Will you let me take you to them?”
She stepped out obediently, putting her hand in his and forgetting her hat; and when Deronda led her into the light of the parlour, she made a picture that would have stirred much duller sensibilities than the Meyricks’. He put her hand into the mother’s, inwardly rejoicing that the Meyricks were so small: the dark-curled head was the highest among them. The poor wanderer could not be afraid of these gentle faces: and now she was looking at each of them in turn while the mother said, “You must be weary, poor child.”
“We will take care of you – we will comfort you,” cried Mab, caressing the small hand with both her own. This welcoming warmth was penetrating the bewildered one: she said to Mrs. Meyrick, with more collectedness in her sweet tones than he had heard before–
“I am a stranger. I am a Jewess. You might have thought I was wicked.”
“No, we are sure you are good,” burst out Mab.
“We think no evil of you, poor child. You shall be safe with us,” said Mrs. Meyrick. “Come now and sit down. You must have some food, and then you must rest.”
The stranger looked up again at Deronda, who said–
“You will have no more fears with these friends?”
“Oh, I should not fear. I think these are the ministering angels.”
Mrs. Meyrick wanted to lead her to a seat, but hanging back gently, the poor weary thing spoke as if needing to give a further account of herself.
“My name is Mirah Lapidoth. I am come a long way, all the way from Prague by myself. I ran away from dreadful things. I came to find my mother and brother in London. I had been taken from my mother when I was little, but I thought I could find her again. But the houses were all gone – I could not find her. It has been a long while, and I had not much money. That is why I am in distress.”
“Our mother will be good to you,” cried Mab. “See what a nice little mother she is!”
“Do sit down now,” said Kate, moving a chair forward, while Amy ran to get some tea.
Mirah resisted no longer, but seated herself with perfect grace; whereupon Hafiz came forward with tail erect and rubbed himself against her ankles. Deronda felt it was time to go.
“Will you allow me to come and inquire – perhaps at five tomorrow?” he asked Mrs. Meyrick.
“Yes; we shall have had time to make acquaintance then.”
“Good-bye,” said Deronda, looking down at Mirah, and putting out his han
d. She rose as she took it, and the moment brought back to them both strongly the other moment when she had first taken that outstretched hand. She said with reverential fervour,
“The God of our fathers bless you and deliver you from all evil as you have delivered me. I did not believe there was any man so good. None before have thought me worthy of the best. You found me poor and miserable, yet you have given me the best.”
Deronda could not speak, but with silent adieux to the Meyricks, hurried away.
Book III: MAIDENS CHOOSING