The end of May found Rickman still at Mrs. Downey's, established on
the second floor in a glory that exceeded the glory of Mr. Blenkinsop.
He had now not only a bedroom, but a study, furnished with a
simplicity that had the effect of luxury, and lined from floor to
ceiling with his books. Mrs. Downey had agreed that Mr. Rickman
should, whenever the mysterious fancy took him, have his meals served
to him in his own apartment after the high manner of Mr. Blenkinsop;
and it was under protest that she accepted any compensation for the
break thus made in the triumphal order of the Dinner.
Here then at last, he was absolutely alone and free. Feeling perhaps
how nearly it had lost him, or impressed by the sudden change in his
position, the boarding-house revered this privacy of Rickman's as a
sacred thing. Not even Mr. Soper would have dared to violate his
virgin leisure. The charm of it was unbroken, it was even heightened
by the inaudible presence of Miss Roots in her den on the same floor.
Miss Roots indeed was the tie that bound him to Mrs. Downey's;
otherwise the dream of his affluence would have been chambers in
Westminster or the Temple. For his income, in its leap from zero to a
fluctuating two hundred a year, appeared to him as boundless
affluence. To be sure, Jewdwine had expressly stated that it would not
be permanent, but this he had understood to be merely a delicate way
of referring to his former imperfect record of sobriety. And he had
become rich not only in money but in time. Rickman's had demanded an
eight or even a ten hours' day; the office of _The Museion_ claimed
him but five hours of four days in the week. From five o'clock on
Thursday evening till eleven on Monday morning, whatever work remained
for him to do could be done in his own time and his own temper.
Much of the leisure time at his disposal he spent in endeavouring to
follow the Harden library in its dispersion. He attended the great
auctions in the hope of intercepting some treasure in its passage from
Rickman's to the home of the collector. Once, in his father's absence,
he bought a dozen volumes straight over the counter from his successor
there. It was also about this time that Spinks and Soper appeared in
the new character of book fanciers, buying according to Rickman's
instructions and selling to him on commission, a transaction which
filled these gentlemen with superb importance. Thus Rickman became
possessed of about twenty or thirty volumes which he ranged behind a
curtain, on a shelf apart. The collection, formed gradually, included
nothing of any intrinsic value; such as it was he treasured it with a
view to restoring it ultimately to Lucia Harden. He was considering
whether with the means at his disposal he could procure a certain
Aldine Dante of his memory, when the Harden library disappeared from
the market as suddenly and mysteriously as it had come. No volume
belonging to it could be bought for love or money; and none were
displayed in the windows of Rickman's. Keith learnt nothing by his
inquiries beyond the extent of his estrangement from his father. When
he called at the shop his successor regretted that he was unable to
give him any information. When he visited the suburban villa Isaac
refused to see him. When he wrote Isaac never answered the letters.
His stepmother in an unpleasant interview gave him to understand that
the separation was final and complete.
He would have been more hurt by this rupture but for that other and
abiding pain. The thought of Lucia Harden checked his enjoyment in the
prospect of a now unimpeded career. Rickman was like some young
athlete who walks on to the field stripped and strong for the race,
but invisibly handicapped, having had the heart knocked out of him by
some shameful incident outside the course. Apart from his own disgrace
he was miserably anxious about Lucia herself, about her health, her
happiness, her prospects; his misery being by no means lightened by
his perception that these things were not exactly his concern.
He tried to picture her living as poor ladies live; he had seen them
sometimes at Mrs. Downey's. He could not see her there, or rather,
seeing her he could see nothing else; he perceived that surroundings
and material accessories contributed nothing to his idea of her.
Still, he knew nothing; and he had to accept his ignorance as part,
and the worst part, of the separation that was his punishment. Many
mixed feelings, shame and passion, delicacy and pride restrained him
from asking Jewdwine any question. Even if Jewdwine had not told him
as much, he would have known that his acquaintance with Jewdwine's
affairs would not involve acquaintance with Jewdwine's family. He had
absolutely nothing to hope for from that connection.
And yet he hoped. The probabilities were that if Lucia did not make
her home with her cousins, she would at any rate stay with them the
greater part of the year. He was always walking up to Hampstead Heath
on the chance of some day seeing her there. Sometimes he would pass by
the front of Jewdwine's beautiful old brown house, and glance quickly
through the delicate iron gate and up at the windows. But she was
never there. Sometimes he would sit for hours on one of the seats
under the elm tree at the back. There was a high walk there
overlooking the West Heath and shaded by the elms and by Jewdwine's
garden wall. The wall had a door in it that might some day open and
let out the thing he longed for. Only it never did. There was nothing
to hope for from Jewdwine's house.
At last his longing became intolerable, and one day, in the office, he
made up his mind to approach Jewdwine himself. He had been telling him
about the apparent check in the career of the Harden library, when he
saw his opportunity and took it.
"By the way, can you tell me where your cousin is now?"
"Miss Harden," said Jewdwine coldly, "is in Germany with Miss
Palliser." He added, as if he evidently felt that some explanation was
necessary (not on Rickman's account, but on his own), "She was to have
come to us, but we were obliged to give her up to Miss Palliser, who
is living alone."
"Alone?"
"Yes. Mrs. Palliser is dead."
Rickman turned abruptly away to the window and stared into the street
below. Jewdwine from his seat by the table looked after him
thoughtfully. He would have given a good deal to know what was implied
in the sudden turning of Rickman's back. What on earth did it matter
to Rickman if old Mrs. Palliser was dead or alive? What could he be
thinking of?
He was thinking of Kitty who had shown him kindness, of Kitty and the
pleasant jests with which she used to cover his embarrassment; of
Kitty who had understood him at the last. It was impossible not to
feel some grief for the grief of Lucia's friend; but he had no
business to show it. Therefore he had turned away.
And then he thought of Lucia; and in his heart he cursed that other
business which was his and yet not his; he cursed the making of the
catalogue; he cursed the great Harden Library which had brought them
together and divided them. But for that, his genius, a thing apart,
might have claimed her friendship for itself. As it was, his genius,
being after all bound up with his person which suffered and was
ashamed, had (as far as Lucia was concerned) to accept its humiliation
and dismissal.
And all the time his genius, already vigorous enough in all
conscience, throve on his suffering as it had thriven on his joy. In
that summer of ninety-two, Rickman's _Saturnalia_ were followed by _On
Harcombe Hill_ and _The Four Winds_, and that greatest poem of his
lyric period, _The Song of Confession_. Upon the young poet about town
there had descended, as it were out of heaven, a power hitherto
undreamed of and undivined. No rapture of the body was ever so winged
and flamed, or lost itself in such heights and depths of music, as
that cry of the passion of his soul.