To Jewdwine in his present state of mind this information was upsetting.  It not only compelled him to modify his opinion of Rickman after having formed it, but it threw him back on the agony and responsibility of decision.  On the last morning of the term allowed him for reflection he received that hurried note from Rickman, who had flung all his emotions into one agonized line, “For God’s sake wire me what you mean to do.”  The young poet, so careful of his prose style, had not perceived that what he had written was blank verse of the purest; which to Jewdwine in itself sufficiently revealed the disorder of his mind.

That cri de coeur rang in Jewdwine’s brain for the next twenty-four hours.  Then at the last moment he came forward with an offer of one thousand three hundred.  The next day he heard from Lucia (what indeed he feared) that he had stepped in too late.  The library was sold, to Isaac Rickman.

His dominant emotion was now anger; he was furious with Rickman for not having given him more time.  He forgot his own delay, his fears and vacillations; he felt that he would have done this thing if he had only had more time.  He had no doubt that Rickman had meant honestly by him; but he had blundered; he could and he should have given him more time.  But gradually, as the certainty of his own generosity grew on him, his indignation cooled.  Reinstated in his self-esteem he could afford to do justice to Rickman.  What was more, now that the danger was over he saw his risk more clearly than ever.  He had a vision of his brilliant future clouded by a debt of one thousand three hundred pounds impetuously raised on the unknown, of the Harden library hung like a mill-stone round his neck.  He had no doubt that Rickman, in the very ardour of his honesty, had greatly exaggerated its value.  And as he surveyed the probable consequences of his own superb impulse, he was almost grateful to Rickman for not having given him time to make a fool of himself.  Thanks to Rickman, he had now all the credit of that reckless offer without the risk.

A week later he had a long letter from Lucia.  She thanked him with much warmth and affection for his generosity; it was evident that it had touched her deeply.  She assured him (as she had assured him before) that she needed no help.  The library had sold for twelve hundred pounds, and two hundred had been handed over to her.  Mr. Pilkington was afraid that no further sum would be forthcoming from the sale of the pictures and furniture, which had been valued over rather than under their present market price, and represented the bulk of the security.  Still, she hoped to sell Court House; it could not bring in less than five thousand.  That and a small part of her capital would pay off all remaining debts.  It was a wearisome business; but Horace would be glad to hear that she would come out of it not owing a farthing to anybody, and would still have enough to live on.