But the next day there came a mild and merciful thaw, a tenderness of
Heaven that was felt even under the tiles in Howland Street. And the
morning of that day brought a thing that in all his dreams he had not
yet dreamed of, a letter from Lucia.
He read it kneeling on the floor of his garret, supporting himself by
the edge of the table. It was only a few lines in praise of the Elegy
(which had appeared in _The Planet_ the week before) and a postscript
that told him she would be staying at Court House with Miss Palliser
till the summer.
He knelt there a long time with his head bowed upon his arms. His
brains failed him when he tried to write an answer, and he put the
letter into his breast-pocket, where it lay like a loving hand against
his heart. And yet there was not a word of love in it.
The old indomitable hope rose in his heart again and he forced himself
to eat and drink, that he might have strength for the things he had to
do. That night he did not sleep, but lay wrapt in his beatific
passion. His longing was so intense that it created a vision of the
thing it longed for. It seemed to him that he heard Lucia's soft
footfall about his bed, that she came and sat beside his pillow, that
she bowed her head upon his breast, and that her long hair drifted
over him. For the beating of his own heart gave him the sense of a
presence beside him all night long, as he lay with his right arm flung
across his own starved body, guarding her letter, the letter that had
not a word of love in it.
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