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.
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