the beginning--as soon as I could--I told you I was
afraid of myself." There was a piteous pleading in the low murmur in
which Deronda turned his ear only. Her face afflicted him too much. "I
felt a hatred in me that was always working like an evil
spirit--contriving things. Everything I could do to free myself came
into my mind; and it got worse--all things got worse. That is why I
asked you to come to me in town. I thought then I would tell you the
worst about myself. I tried. But I could not tell everything. And _he_
came in."

She paused, while a shudder passed through her; but soon went on.

"I will tell you everything now. Do you think a woman who cried, and
prayed, and struggled to be saved from herself, could be a murderess?"

"Great God!" said Deronda, in a deep, shaken voice, "don't torture me
needlessly. You have not murdered him. You threw yourself into the
water with the impulse to save him. Tell me the rest afterward. This
death was an accident that you could not have hindered."

"Don't be impatient with me." The tremor, the childlike beseeching in
these words compelled Deronda to turn his head and look at her face.
The poor quivering lips went on. "You said--you used to say--you felt
more for those who had done something wicked and were miserable; you
said they might get better--they might be scourged into something
better. If you had not spoken in that way, Everything would have been
worse. I _did_ remember all you said to me. It came to me always. It
came to me at the very last--that was the reason why I--But now, if you
cannot bear with me when I tell you everything--if you turn away from
me and forsake me, what shall I do? Am I worse than I was when you
found me and wanted to make me better? All the wrong I have done was in
me then--and more--and more--if you had not come and been patient with
me. And now--will you forsake me?"

Her hands, which had been so tightly clenched some minutes before, were
now helplessly relaxed and trembling on the arm of her chair. Her
quivering lips remained parted as she ceased speaking. Deronda could
not answer; he was obliged to look away. He took one of her hands, and
clasped it as if they were going to walk together like two children: it
was the only way in which he could answer, "I will not forsake you."
And all the while he felt as if he were putting his name to a blank
paper which might be filled up terribly. Their attitude, his adverted
face with its expres