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.
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