"If you can't," said he, "of course there's no more to be said." He
said it very simply, as if he were not in the least offended, and she
looked at him again.
No. There was no wounded dignity about him, there was the tragic
irremediable misery of a man condemned unheard. And could that be her
doing--Lucia's? She who used to be so kind and just? Never in all her
life had she condemned anybody unheard.
But she had to choose between this man who a month ago was an utter
stranger to her, and Horace who was of her own blood, her own class,
her own life. Did she really want Mr. Rickman to be tainted that
Horace might be clean? And she knew he trusted her; he had made his
appeal to the spirit that had once divined him. He might well say,
"could she not imagine what he thought of it?"
"Yes," she said gently, "I think I can. If you had not told me what
the library was worth, of course I should have thought your father
very generous in giving as much for it as he has done."
"I did tell you I was anxious he--we--should not buy it; because I
knew we couldn't give you a proper price."
"Yes, you told me. And I wanted you to buy it, because I thought you
would do your best for me."
"I know. I know. If it wasn't for that--but that's the horrible part
of it."
"Why? You did your best, did you not?"
"Yes. I really thought it would be all right if I went up and saw him.
I felt certain he would see it as I did--"
"Well?"
He answered with painful hesitation.
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