ring lights and fine staircases, and perhaps
chilling suspicious manners from lady's maid and housekeeper, that
might scare the mind already in a state of dangerous susceptibility.
But to take her to any other shelter than a home already known to him
was not to be contemplated: he was full of fears about the issue of the
adventure which had brought on him a responsibility all the heavier for
the strong and agitating impression this childlike creature had made on
him. But another resource came to mind: he could venture to take her to
Mrs. Meyrick's--to the small house at Chelsea--where he had been often
enough since his return from abroad to feel sure that he could appeal
there to generous hearts, which had a romantic readiness to believe in
innocent need and to help it. Hans Meyrick was safe away in Italy, and
Deronda felt the comfort of presenting himself with his charge at a
house where he would be met by a motherly figure of quakerish neatness,
and three girls who hardly knew of any evil closer to them than what
lay in history-books, and dramas, and would at once associate a lovely
Jewess with Rebecca in "Ivanhoe," besides thinking that everything they
did at Deronda's request would be done for their idol, Hans. The vision
of the Chelsea home once raised, Deronda no longer hesitated.

The rumbling thither in the cab after the stillness of the water seemed
long. Happily his charge had been quiet since her fit of weeping, and
submitted like a tired child. When they were in the cab, she laid down
her hat and tried to rest her head, but the jolting movement would not
let it rest. Still she dozed, and her sweet head hung helpless, first
on one side, then on the other.

"They are too good to have any fear about taking her in," thought
Deronda. Her person, her voice, her exquisite utterance, were one
strong appeal to belief and tenderness. Yet what had been the history
which had brought her to this desolation? He was going on a strange
errand--to ask shelter for this waif. Then there occurred to him the
beautiful story Plutarch somewhere tells of the Delphic women: how when
the Maenads, outworn with their torch-lit wanderings, lay down to sleep
in the market-place, the matrons came and stood silently round them to
keep guard over their slumbers; then, when they waked, ministered to
them tenderly and saw them safely to their own borders. He could trust
the women he was going to for having hearts as good.

Deronda felt hims