s
To show you goodness vanished into pulp
Never worth "thank you"--they're the devil's friars,
Vowed to be poor as he in love and trust,
Yet must go begging of a world that keeps
Some human property.

Deronda, in parting from Gwendolen, had abstained from saying, "I shall
not see you again for a long while: I am going away," lest Grandcourt
should understand him to imply that the fact was of importance to her.

He was actually going away under circumstances so momentous to himself
that when he set out to fulfill his promise of calling on her, he was
already under the shadow of a solemn emotion which revived the deepest
experience of his life.

Sir Hugo had sent for him to his chambers with the note--"Come
immediately. Something has happened:" a preparation that caused him
some relief when, on entering the baronet's study, he was received with
grave affection instead of the distress which he had apprehended.

"It is nothing to grieve you, sir?" said Deronda, in a tone rather of
restored confidence than question, as he took the hand held out to him.
There was an unusual meaning in Sir Hugo's look, and a subdued emotion
in his voice, as he said--

"No, Dan, no. Sit down. I have something to say."

Deronda obeyed, not without presentiment. It was extremely rare for Sir
Hugo to show so much serious feeling.

"Not to grieve me, my boy, no. At least, if there is nothing in it that
will grieve you too much. But I hardly expected that this--just
this--would ever happen. There have been reasons why I have never
prepared you for it. There have been reasons why I have never told you
anything about your parentage. But I have striven in every way not to
make that an injury to you."

Sir Hugo paused, but Deronda could not speak. He could not say, "I have
never felt it an injury." Even if that had been true, he could not have
trusted his voice to say anything. Far more than any one but himself
could know of was hanging on this moment when the secrecy was to be
broken. Sir Hugo had never seen the grand face he delighted in so
pale--the lips pressed together with such a look of pain. He went on
with a more anxious tenderness, as if he had a new fear of wounding.

"I have acted in obedience to your mother's wishes. The secrecy was her
wish. But now she desires to remove it. She desires to see you. I will
put this letter into your hands, which you can look at by-and-by. It
will merely tell you what she wishes you to