Yet Horace had been right when he told himself that Lucia
would never imply anything, infer anything, claim anything, take
anything for granted on the sanction of that understanding. She would
not have hurried by a look or word the slow movements of the love
which somehow he had led her to believe in. Love between man and woman
to her mind was a sort of genius; and genius, as she said long ago to
poor Rickman, must always have about it a divine uncertainty. Yes,
love too was the wind of the divine spirit blowing where it listeth,
the kindling of the divine fire. She had waited for it patiently,
reverently, not altogether humbly, but with a superb possession of her
soul. Better to wait for years than rush to meet it, and so be tossed
by the wind and shrivelled by the fire. Then, when the crash came five
years ago, though she could hardly conceive it as altering her
cousin's attitude, she knew that it must alter hers. The understanding
had been partly a family affair; and her side of the family was now
involved in debt and poverty and dishonour. When the debts were paid
off, and the poverty reduced and the honour redeemed, it would be time
to re-consider the understanding. But, as it was just possible that
Horace, if not exactly fascinated by her debts and all the rest of it,
might feel that these very things bound him, challenged him in some
sort to protection, Lucia withdrew herself from the reach of the
chivalrous delivering arm.
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