It was as if his heart had renewed its
primal virginity in preparation for some divine experience.
The night of Sunday beheld the withdrawal of Mr. Rickman into the
immensity of his preposterous dream. From this blessed state he
emerged on Monday morning, enlightened as to the whole comedy and
tragedy of his passion. To approach Lucia Harden required nothing less
than a change of spirit; and Mr. Rickman doubted whether he could
manage that. He could only change his shirts. And at this point there
arose the hideous fear lest love itself might work to hinder and
betray him.
As it turned out, love proved his ally, not his enemy. So far from
exciting him, it produced a depression that rendered him disinclined
for continuous utterance. In this it did him good service. It
prevented him from obtruding his presence unduly on Miss Harden. In
his seat at the opposite table he had achieved something of her
profound detachment, her consummate calm. And Lucia said to herself,
"Good. He can keep quiet for a whole day at a time, which is what I
doubted."
Six days had passed in this manner, and he had not yet attempted to
penetrate the mystery and seclusion of the Aldine Plato, the
Neapolitan Horace and the _Aurea Legenda_ of Wynkyn de Worde. He
turned away his eyes from that corner of the bookcase where he had
good reason to suppose them to be. He would have to look at them some
time, meanwhile he shrank from approaching them as from some gross
impiety.
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