on of spiritual conflict: he was in one of those moments when
the very anguish of passionate pity makes us ready to choose that we
will know pleasure no more, and live only for the stricken and
afflicted. He had risen from his seat while he watched that terrible
outburst--which seemed the more awful to him because, even in this
supreme agitation, she kept the suppressed voice of one who confesses
in secret. At last he felt impelled to turn his back toward her and
walk to a distance.

But presently there was stillness. Her mind had opened to the sense
that he had gone away from her. When Deronda turned round to approach
her again, he saw her face bent toward him, her eyes dilated, her lips
parted. She was an image of timid forlorn beseeching--too timid to
entreat in words while he kept himself aloof from her. Was she forsaken
by him--now--already? But his eyes met hers sorrowfully--met hers for
the first time fully since she had said, "You know I am a guilty
woman," and that full glance in its intense mournfulness seemed to say,
"I know it, but I shall all the less forsake you." He sat down by her
side again in the same attitude--without turning his face toward her
and without again taking her hand.

Once more Gwendolen was pierced, as she had been by his face of sorrow
at the Abbey, with a compunction less egoistic than that which urged
her to confess, and she said, in a tone of loving regret--

"I make you very unhappy."

Deronda gave an indistinct "Oh," just shrinking together and changing
his attitude a little. Then he had gathered resolution enough to say
clearly, "There is no question of being happy or unhappy. What I most
desire at this moment is what will most help you. Tell me all you feel
it a relief to tell."

Devoted as these words were, they widened his spiritual distance from
her, and she felt it more difficult to speak: she had a vague need of
getting nearer to that compassion which seemed to be regarding her from
a halo of superiority, and the need turned into an impulse to humble
herself more. She was ready to throw herself on her knees before him;
but no--her wonderfully mixed consciousness held checks on that
impulse, and she was kept silent and motionless by the pressure of
opposing needs. Her stillness made Deronda at last say--

"Perhaps you are too weary. Shall I go away, and come again whenever
you wish it?"

"No, no," said Gwendolen--the dread of his leaving her bringing back
her power o