This was his study.
With shaking hands he lit the lamp on his study table; the wick
sputtered, and the light in his head jigged horribly with the jigging
of the flame. It was as if he was being stabbed with little knives of
light.
He plunged his head into a basin of cold water, threw open his window
and leaned out into the pure regenerating night. Spinks sat down on a
chair and watched him, his fresh, handsome face clouded with anxiety.
He adored Rickman sober; but for Rickman drunk he had a curious
yearning affection. If anything, he preferred him in that state. It
seemed to bring him nearer to him. Spinks had never been drunk in his
life, but that was his feeling.
Rickman laid his arms upon the window sill and his head upon his arms.
"'The blessed damozel leaned out,'" he said (the idea in his mind
being that _he_ was a blessed damozel).
"'From the gold bar of heaven.'"
("Never knew they had 'em up there," murmured Spinks.)
"'Her eyes were deeper than the depth of waters stilled at
even'--Oh--my--God!"
A great sigh shook him, and went shuddering into the night like the
passing of a lost soul. He got up and staggered to the table, and
grasped it by the edge, nearly upsetting the lamp. The flare in his
brain had died down as the lamp burnt steadily. Under its shade a
round of light fell on his Euripides, open at the page he had been
reading the night before.
[Greek: ELENE]
He saw it very black, with the edges a little wavering, a little
blurred, as if it had been burnt by fire into the whiteness of the
page.
Pages:
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83