Chapter Forty-seven
Deronda, having provided new clothes for Mordecai, was pleased with the effect of the fine grey flannel shirts and a dressing-gown like a Franciscan’s brown robe, with Mordecai’s head above them. He knew that Mirah would see her brother’s distinction through any appearance of poverty; but there were the Meyricks to be propitiated, and Deronda found himself putting out of sight everything that might feed their repugnance.
This inclination would have been confirmed if he had heard the dialogue round Mrs. Meyrick’s fire in the evening, after Mirah had gone to her room. Hans had stayed late, and Mrs. Meyrick said–
“Now, Kate, put out your candle, and all come round the fire cosily. I have something wonderful to tell.”
“As if I didn’t know that, ma. I have seen it in your eye ever so long,” said Kate, while the girls came up to put their feet on the fender, and Hans sat astride his chair.
“Well, then, if you are so wise, perhaps you know that Mirah’s brother is found!” said Mrs. Meyrick.
“Oh, confound it!” said Hans.
“Hans, that is wicked,” said Mab. “Suppose we had lost you?”
“I cannot help being rather sorry,” said Kate. “And her mother?– where is she?”
“Her mother is dead.”
“I hope the brother is not a bad man,” said Amy.
“Nor a fellow all smiles and jewellery,” said Hans, in the worst humour.
“Were there ever such unfeeling children?” said Mrs. Meyrick. “You don’t think about Mirah’s joy in the matter.”
“Mirah hardly remembers her brother,” said Kate.
“People who are lost for twelve years should never come back again,” said Hans. “They are in the way.”
“Hans!” said Mrs. Meyrick, reproachfully.
“But it’s nice finding people – there is something to tell,” said Mab, clasping her knees. “Did Prince Camaralzaman find him?”
Then Mrs. Meyrick, in her neat way, told all she knew without interruption. “Mr. Deronda has the highest admiration for him,” she ended,– “and he says Mirah is just the sister to understand this brother.”
“Deronda is getting perfectly preposterous about those Jews,” said Hans, standing up in disgust. “He wants to do everything he can to encourage Mirah in her prejudices.”
“Oh, for shame, Hans!– to speak in that way of Mr. Deronda,” said Mab. And Mrs. Meyrick’s face showed an under-current of expression not allowed to surface.
“And now we shall never be all together,” Hans went on, walking about with his hands thrust into his pockets, “but we must have this prophet Elijah to tea with us, and Mirah will think of nothing but sitting on the ruins of Jerusalem. Everything will be spoiled. I shall take to drinking.”
“Oh, really, Hans,” said Kate, impatiently. “I do think men are the most contemptible animals in all creation. Every one of them must have everything to his mind, else he is unbearable.”
“What is the good of going to university and knowing everything, if you are so childish, Hans?” said Amy. “You ought to be kind to a man that Providence sends you.”
“I hope you will like the Lamentations of Jeremiah – that’s all,” said Hans, seizing his hat. “I can’t endure the company of those men with a fixed idea, staring blankly at you, and requiring all your remarks to be foot-notes to their text.” Then abruptly, “Good night, little mother,” bending to kiss her brow, and condescendingly, on his way to the door, “Good-night, girls.”
“Suppose Mirah knew how you are behaving,” said Kate. But her answer was a slam of the door. “I should like to see Mirah when Mr. Deronda tells her,” she went on to her mother. “She will look so beautiful.”
But Deronda, on second thoughts, had written a letter which Mrs. Meyrick received next morning, begging her to make the revelation instead of waiting for him. He shrank from telling a story in which he seemed to make himself important; but he told Mrs. Meyrick that he wished to remain with Mordecai while she brought Mirah on a visit to see him.
Deronda secretly felt anxious as to how much tender interest in his sister Mordecai might be able to feel, after years of solitary preoccupation with ideas. He had shown affection for the Cohens, and especially little Jacob; but he had known them for years; and Deronda noticed that Mordecai asked no new questions about Mirah, but was unusually silent and submissive. He donned the new clothes obediently, but said to Deronda, with a faint smile, “I must keep my old garments for a remembrance.” And when they were seated, awaiting Mirah, he uttered no word, keeping his eyelids closed, but yet with restless hands and face.
In fact, Mordecai was undergoing that nervous upheaval only known to those whose minds have long moved in one direction, when they are suddenly compelled into a new channel. They may dread an interview that imperiously revives the past, as they would dread a threatening illness. Joy may be there, but joy, too, is terrible.
When Deronda heard the doorbell, he went out to greet Mirah beforehand. He was startled to find that she had on the hat and cloak in which he had first seen her – the cloak that had been wetted for a winding-sheet. She had told Mrs. Meyrick, “My brother is poor, and I want to look as much like him as I can, else he may feel distant from me” – imagining that she should meet him in workman’s dress. Deronda felt secretly rather ashamed of his own fastidious arrangements. They shook hands silently, for Mirah looked pale and awed.
When Deronda opened the door, Mordecai had risen, and turned his eyes toward it with an eager gaze. Mirah took two or three steps, and then stood still. They looked at each other, motionless. They were meeting first in memories, compared with which touch was no union. Mirah was the first to break the silence.
“Ezra,” she said, in exactly the same tone as when she was telling of her mother’s call to him.
Mordecai suddenly advanced and laid his hands on her shoulders. He was a head taller, and looked down at her tenderly, saying, “That was our mother’s voice. You remember her calling me?”
“Yes, and how you answered her – ‘Mother!’– and I knew you loved her.” Mirah threw her arms round her brother’s neck, and kissed his face with childlike lavishness. Her hat fell backward on the ground, disclosing her curls.
“Ah, the dear head!” said Mordecai, in a low loving tone, laying his thin hand gently on the curls.
“You are very ill, Ezra,” said Mirah, with sad observation.
“Yes, dear child, I shall not be long with you in the body,” was the quiet answer.
“Oh, I will love you and we will talk to each other,” said Mirah, her words as sweet and spontaneous as bird-notes. “I will tell you everything, and you will teach me to be a good Jewess – what she would have liked me to be. I shall always be with you when I am not working. For I work now. I shall get money to keep us. Oh, I have had such good friends.”
Here Mirah turned with the prettiest attitude to look at Mrs. Meyrick and Deronda. The little mother’s happiness in witnessing this meeting had already won her to Mordecai, who had more dignity and refinement than she had expected.
“See this dear lady!” said Mirah. “I was a poor wanderer, and she believed in me, and has treated me as a daughter.” Taking Mrs. Meyrick’s hand and putting it in Mordecai’s, she pressed them both with her own before lifting them to her lips.
“The Eternal Goodness has been with you,” said Mordecai.
“I think we will go now, and return later,” said Deronda, laying a gentle pressure on Mrs. Meyrick’s arm. He felt no uneasiness now at the brother and sister being alone together.
George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged Page 50
