stretched out at full
length, as if strained in beseeching, Deronda's soul was absorbed in
the anguish of compassion. He could not mind now that he had been
repulsed before. His pity made a flood of forgiveness within him. His
single impulse was to kneel by her and take her hand gently, between
his palms, while he said in that exquisite voice of soothing which
expresses oneness with the sufferer--

"Mother, take comfort!"

She did not seem inclined to repulse him now, but looked down at him
and let him take both her hands to fold between his. Gradually tears
gathered, but she pressed her handkerchief against her eyes and then
leaned her cheek against his brow, as if she wished that they should
not look at each other.

"Is it not possible that I could be near you often and comfort you?"
said Deronda. He was under that stress of pity that propels us on
sacrifices.

"No, not possible," she answered, lifting up her head again and
withdrawing her hand as if she wished him to move away. "I have a
husband and five children. None of them know of your existence."

Deronda felt painfully silenced. He rose and stood at a little distance.

"You wonder why I married," she went on presently, under the influence
of a newly-recurring thought. "I meant never to marry again. I meant to
be free and to live for my art. I had parted with you. I had no bonds.
For nine years I was a queen. I enjoyed the life I had longed for. But
something befell me. It was like a fit of forgetfulness. I began to
sing out of tune. They told me of it. Another woman was thrusting
herself in my place. I could not endure the prospect of failure and
decline. It was horrible to me." She started up again, with a shudder,
and lifted screening hands like one who dreads missiles. "It drove me
to marry. I made believe that I preferred being the wife of a Russian
noble to being the greatest lyric actress of Europe; I made believe--I
acted that part. It was because I felt my greatness sinking away from
me, as I feel my life sinking now. I would not wait till men said, 'She
had better go.'"

She sank into her seat again, and looked at the evening sky as she went
on: "I repented. It was a resolve taken in desperation. That singing
out of tune was only like a fit of illness; it went away. I repented;
but it was too late. I could not go back. All things hindered, me--all
things."

A new haggardness had come in her face, but her son refrained from
again urging her