He did not appear that evening, not even to listen to Lucia's music,
for his misery was heavy upon him. Mercifully, he was able to forget
it for a while in attending to the work that waited for him; an
article for _The Planet_ to be written; proofs to correct and
manuscripts to look through for _Metropolis_; all neglected till the
last possible moment, which moment had now come. For once he reaped
the benefit of his reckless habits of postponement.
But four hours saw him through it; and midnight recalled him to his
care. Instead of undressing he refilled his lamp, made up his fire,
and drew his chair to the hearth. There was a question, put off, too,
like his work, from hour to hour, and silenced by the scuffling,
meaningless movements of the day. It related to the promise he had
made to Lucia Harden at the end of their last interview. He had then
said to her that, since she desired it, she should know what it was
that she had done for him. Hitherto he had determined that she should
not know it yet; not know it till death had removed from her his
embarrassing, preposterous personality. The gift of knowledge that she
might have refused from the man, she could then accept from the poet.
The only condition that honour, that chivalry insisted on was the
removal of the man. But there were other ways of getting rid of a man
besides the clumsy device of death. Might he not be considered to have
effaced himself sufficiently by marriage? As far as Lucia was
concerned he could see very little difference between the two
processes; in fact, marriage was, if anything, the safer. For the
important thing was that she should know somehow; that he should hand
over his gift to her before it was too late. And suppose--suppose he
should fail to remove himself in time? Beholding the years as they
now stretched before him, it seemed to him that he would never die.
There was another consideration which concerned his honour, not as a
man but as a poet. He knew what it was in him to do. The nature of the
gift was such that if he brought it to her to-day she would know that
he had given her his best; if he kept it till to-morrow it would be
his best no longer. Besides, it was only a gift when you looked at it
one way. He was giving her (as he believed) an immortal thing; but its
very immortality gave it a certain material value. The thing might be
sold for much, and its price might go far towards covering that debt
he owed her, or it might be held by her as a sort of security. He
could see that his marriage would be a hindrance to speedy payment on
any other system.
He rose, unlocked a drawer, and took from it the manuscript of the
nine and twenty sonnets and the sealed envelope that contained his
testament concerning them. He had looked at them but once since he had
put them away three years ago, and that was on the night of his
engagement. Looking at them again he knew he was not mistaken in his
judgement, when calmly, surely, and persistently he had thought of the
thing as immortal. But according to another condition that his honour
had laid down, its immortality depended upon her. At this point honour
itself raised the question whether it was fair to throw on her the
burden of so great a decision? She might hesitate to deny him so large
a part of his immortality, and yet object to being so intimately, so
personally bound up with it. He could see her delicate conscience
straining under the choice.
But surely she knew him well enough to know that he had left her free?
She would know that he could accept nothing from her pity, not even a
portion of his immortality. She would trust his sincerity; for that at
any rate had never failed her. And since what he had written he had
written, she would see that unless he destroyed it with his own hands
the decision as to publication must rest with her. It concerned her so
intimately, so personally, that it could not be given to the world
without her consent. Whether what he had written should have been
written was another matter. If she thought not, if her refinement
accused him of a sin against good taste, that would only make his
problem simpler. Even if her accusation remained unspoken, he would
know it, he would see it, through whatever web her tenderness wrapped
round it. His genius would contend against her judgement, would not
yield a point to her opinion, but his honour would take it as settling
the question of publication. In no case should she be able to say or
think that he had used his genius as a cover for a cowardly passion,
or that by compelling her admiration he had taken advantage of her
pride.
But would she say it or think it? Not she. He knew her. And if his
knowledge had brought much misery, it brought consolation too. Where
Lucia was concerned he had never been sustained by any personal
conceit; he had never walked vainly in the illusion of her love. At
that supreme point his imagination had utterly broken down; he had
never won from it a moment's respite from his intolerable lucidity.
There was a certain dignity about his despair, in that of all the
wonderful web of his dreams he had made no fine cloak to cover it. It
shivered and suffered in a noble nakedness, absolutely unashamed. But
one thing he knew also, that if Lucia did not love him, she loved his
genius. Even when lucidity made suffering unendurable, he had still
the assurance that his genius would never suffer at her hands. For did
she not know that God gives the heart of a poet to be as fuel to his
genius, for ever consumed and inconsumable? That of all his passions
his love is the nearest akin to the divine fire? She of all women
would never deny him the eternal right to utterance.
Neither could she well find fault with the manner of it. He went
through the sonnets again, trying to read them with her woman's eyes.
There was nothing, nothing, not an image, not a word that could
offend. Here was no "flaming orgy of individuality." He had chosen
purposely the consecrated form that pledged him to perfection, bound
him to a magnificent restraint.
There still remained the scruple as to the propriety of choosing this
precise moment for his gift. It was over-ridden by the invincible
desire to give, the torturing curiosity to know how she would take it.
One more last scruple, easily disposed of. In all this there was no
disloyalty to the woman he was going to make his wife. For the Sonnets
belonged to the past in which she had no part, and to the future which
concerned her even less.
The next day, then, at about five o'clock, the time at which Lucia had
told him she would be free, he came to her, bringing his gift with
him.
Lucia's face gladdened when she saw the manuscript in his hand; for
though they had discussed very freely what he had done once, he had
been rather sadly silent, she thought, as to what he was doing now. He
had seemed to her anxious to avoid any question on the subject. She
had wondered whether his genius had been much affected by his other
work; and had been half afraid to ask lest she should learn that it
was dead, destroyed by journalism. She had heard so much of the perils
of that career, that she had begun to regret her part in helping him
to it. So that her glance as it lighted on the gift was, he thought,
propitious.
He drew up his chair near her (he had not to wait for any invitation
to do that now), and she noticed the trembling of his hands as he
spread the manuscript on his knees. He had always been nervous in
approaching the subject of his poems, and she said to herself, "Has he
not got over that?"
Apparently he had not got over it; for he sat there for several
perceptible moments sunk in the low chair beside her, saying nothing,
only curling and uncurling the sheets with the same nervous movement
of his hand. She came to his help smiling.
"What is it? New poems?"
"No, I don't think I can call them new. I wrote them four or five
years ago."
He saw that some of the gladness died out of her face, and he wondered
why.
"Were you going to read them to me?"
"Good Heavens, no." He laughed the short laugh she had heard once or
twice before that always sounded like a sob.
"I don't want to read them to you. I want to give them to you--"
"To read?" She held out her hand.
"Yes, to read, of course, but not now."
The hand was withdrawn, evidently with some distressing consciousness
of its precipitancy.
"You said the other night that you would have been glad to know that
you had done something for me; and somehow I believe you meant it."
"I did, indeed."
"If you read these things you will know. There's no other way in which
I could tell you; for you will see that they are part of what you did
for me."
"I don't understand."
"You will, though, when you've read them. That," he said meditatively,
"is why I don't want you to read them now." But then it struck him
that he had blundered, introducing a passionate personal revelation
under the dangerous veil of mystery. He had not meant to say, "What
you have done for me was to make me love you," but, "I have done a
great thing, and what you did for me was to make me do it." For all
that she should know, or he acknowledge, the passion was the means,
not the end.
"I don't want to be cryptic, and perhaps I ought to explain a little.
I meant that you'll see that they're the best things I've written, and
that I should not have written them if it had not been for you. I
don't know whether you'll forgive me for writing them, but I think you
will. Because you'll understand that I had to."
"Have you published any of them?"
It seemed to him that the question was dictated by a sudden fear.
"Rather not. I want to talk to you about that later on, when you've
read them."
"When will you want them back?"
"I don't want them back at all. I brought them for you to keep."
"To keep?"
"Yes, if you care for them."
"But this is the original manuscript?" She was most painfully aware of
the value of the thing.
He smiled. "Yes, I couldn't give you a copy, because there isn't
one."
"What a reckless person you are. I must make a copy, then, and keep
that."
"That would spoil my pleasure and my gift, too. It's only valuable
because it's unique."
"Whatever it is it's sure to be that."
"I don't mean in that way altogether--" he hesitated, for he had
touched a part of his subject which had to be handled gently; and he
was aware that in handling it at all he was courting rejection of the
gift.
"And you are going to leave it with me now?"
"Yes."
She did not look up, but kept her eyes fixed on the sheets that lay in
her lap, her hands lightly covering them. Was it possible that her
finger-tips had caught the secret of the page beneath them and that
their delicate nerves had already carried it to her brain? Was she
considering what she was to do?
"You will see that one page is left blank; I couldn't fill it up till
I knew whether you would accept the dedication."
"I?" She looked up. She was no doubt surprised; but he thought he
could read something in her look that was deeper and sweeter than
surprise.
"If you could, it would give me great pleasure. It's the only
acknowledgement I can make for all your kindness."
"Please, please don't talk of my kindness."
"I won't. If it were any other book, it might be merely a question of
acknowledgement, but this book belongs to you."
"Are you quite sure--" She was about to question his right to offer
it, which was as good as questioning his honour, as good as assuming
that--She paused, horrified as she realized what it was that she had
almost assumed. Kitty had often told her that she erred through excess
of subtlety. It wouldn't have mattered with anybody less subtle than
Keith Rickman; but he would see it all. He did.
"Quite sure that I oughtn't to offer it to anybody else? I am quite
sure. It was written four years ago, before--before I knew anybody
else. It has nothing to do with anybody else, it couldn't have been
dedicated to anybody else. If you don't accept it--"
"But I do." Her eagerness was the natural recoil from her hesitation.
She was so anxious to atone for that shocking blunder she had made.
"I say, how you do take things on trust."
"Some things."
"But you mustn't. You can't accept the dedication of a book you
haven't read. Do you know, now I come to think of it, you've always
taken me on trust? Do you remember when first I came to you--it's more
than five years ago--you took me on trust then?" (Their talk had a way
of running to this refrain of 'Do you remember?') "Do you remember how
you said,' I must risk it'?"
"Yes, I remember how I insisted on keeping you, and how very unwilling
you were to be kept."
"Do you mind telling me what made you want to keep me? You didn't know
me in the least, you know."
"I wanted to keep you _because_ you didn't want to stay. I knew then
that I could trust you. But I confess that most people might not have
seen it in that way."
"Well, I can't let you take these sonnets on trust. For this time,
your principle doesn't apply, you see. You can't say you're accepting
this dedication because I don't want to give it to you." Though he
laughed he rose and backed towards the door, suddenly anxious to be
gone.
"Isn't it enough that I want to accept it?"
He shook his head, still backing, and at the door he paused to speak.
"You've accepted nothing--as yet."
"Of course," she said to herself, "it would have been wiser to have
read them first. But I can trust him."
But as she was about to read them a knock, a familiar knock at the
door interrupted her. "Kitty!"
She laid the manuscript hastily aside, well out of Kitty's roving
sight. She had noticed how his hands had trembled as he brought it;
she did not notice that her own shook a little in thus putting it away
from her.
Kitty Palliser, up in town for a week, had come less on her own
account than as an impetuous ambassador from the now frantic Edith.
She too was prepared to move heaven and earth, if only she could
snatch her Lucy from Tavistock Place. But her anxiety was not wholly
on Lucia's account, as presently appeared.
"How can you stand it for a minute?" said she.
"I'm standing it very well indeed."
"But what on earth do you find to do all day long, when," said Kitty
severely, "you're _not_ talking to young Rickman?"
"All day long I go out, or lie down and read, or talk to Sophie."
"And in the evenings?"
"In the evenings sometimes I make an old man happy by playing."
"And I expect you're making a young man unhappy by playing, too--a
very dangerous game."
"Kitty, that young man is perfectly happy. He's going to be married."
"All the worse. Then you'll make a young woman unhappy as well. This
little game would be dangerous enough with a man of your own set. It
isn't fair to play it with him, Lucy, when you know the rules and he
doesn't."
"I assure you, Kitty, he knows them as well as you or I do; better."
"I doubt it." Kitty's eyes roamed round the room (they had not lost
their alert and hungry look) and they took in the situation at a
glance. That move in the game would never have been made if he had
known the rules. How could she let him make it?
"Really, Lucy, for a nice woman you do the queerest things."
"And, really, Kitty, for a clever woman, you say the stupidest. You're
getting like Edith."
"I am not like Edith. I only say stupid things. She thinks them.
What's more, in thinking them she only thinks of herself and her
precious family. I'm thinking of you, dear, and"--Kitty's voice grew
soft--"and of him. You ought to think of him a little too."
"I _do_ think of him. I've been thinking of him all the time."
"I know you have. But don't let him suffer because of the insanely
beautiful way you have of thinking."
There was a pause, in which it was evident to Kitty that Lucia was
thinking deeply, and beautifully too.
"Have I made him suffer? I'm afraid I did once. He was valuable, and
I damaged him."
"Yes; and ever since you've been trying to put him together again; in
your own way, not his. That's fatal."
Lucia shook her head and followed her own train of thought. "Kitty, to
be perfectly honest, I think--I'm not sure, but I think--from
something he said to-day that you were right about him once. I mean
about his beginning to care too much. I'm afraid it was so, at
Harmouth, towards the end. But it isn't so any more. He tried to tell
me just now. He did it beautifully; as if he knew that that would make
me happier. At least I think that's what he meant. He didn't say much,
but I'm sure he was thinking about his marriage."
"Heaven help his wife then--if he got as far as that. I suppose you
take a beautiful view of her, too? Drop it, for goodness' sake, drop
it."
"Not I. It would mean dropping him. It's all right, Kitty. You don't
know the ways of poets."
"Perhaps not. But I know the ways of men."
Though Kitty had not accomplished her mission she so far prevailed
that she carried her Lucy off to dinner.
It was somewhere towards midnight, when all the house was quiet, that
Lucia first looked into Keith Rickman's sonnets. She had been led to
expect something in the nature of a personal revelation, and the first
sonnet struck the key-note, gave her the clue.
I asked the minist'ring priests who never tire
In love's high service, who behold their bliss
Through golden gloom of Love's dread mysteries,
What heaven there be for earth's foregone desire?
And they kept silence. But the gentle choir
Who sing Love's praises answered me, "There is
No voice to speak of these deep sanctities,
For Love hath sealed his servants' lips with fire."
Yet in his faithfulness put thou thy faith,
Though he hath bound thee in the house of pain,
And given thy body to the scourging years,
And brought thee for thy thirst the drink of tears,
That sorrowing thou shouldst serve him unto death;
For when Love reigneth, all his saints shall reign.
She kindled and flamed, her whole being one inspired and burning
sympathy. She knew what it was all about. She was on the track of a
Poet's Progress in quest of the beloved Perfection, Beauty and Truth
in one. Of those nine and twenty sonnets she looked for a score that
should make immortal the moments of triumph and of vision, the moments
of rapture and fulfilment of the heart's desire. Her glance fell now
on two lines that clearly pointed to the goal of those who travel on
the divine way--
--Elysian calm and passion with no stain
Of mortal tears, no touch of mortal pain--
She hoped he had reached it. And more than that she hoped. She was
ignorant of what his life had been before he knew her; but the _Song
of Confession_ had made her realize that besides this way where the
poet went invincibly there was another where the man desired to go,
where, as they were so ready to tell her, he had not always gone. But
that was before she knew him. She hoped (taking her beautiful view)
that in this gift of his he had meant to give to her who understood
him some hint or sign that he had come near it also, the way of
Righteousness. She looked to find many sonnets dealing with these
secret matters of the soul. Therefore she approached them fearlessly,
since she knew what they were all about. And since, in that curious
humility of the man that went so oddly with the poet's pride, he had
so exaggerated his obligation, taking, as he said, the will for the
deed and making of her desire to serve him a service actually done;
since his imagination had played round her for a moment as it played
round all things, transforming, magnifying, glorifying, she might
perhaps find one sonnet of dedication to her who had understood him.
But when she had read them all, she saw, and could not help seeing,
that the whole nine and twenty were one continuous dedication--and to
her. If she had found what she looked for, she found also that a
revelation had been made to her of things even more sacred, more
personal; a revelation that was in its way unique. He had hidden
nothing, kept back nothing, not one moment of that three-weeks'
passion (for so she dated it). It was all laid before her as it had
been; all its immortal splendour, and all its mortal suffering and its
shame. Not a line (if she could have stayed to think of that), not a
word that could offend her taste or hurt her pride. The thing was
perfect. She understood why it had been shown to her. She understood
that he wanted to tell her that he had loved her. She understood that
he never would have told her if it had not been all over. It was
because it was all over that he had brought her this, to show her how
great a thing she had done for him, she who thought she had done
nothing. As she locked the sonnets away in a safe place for the night,
in her heart there was a great pride and a still greater thankfulness
and joy. Joy because it was all over, pride because it had once been,
and thankfulness because it had been given her to know.
And in his room behind the wall that separated them the poet walked up
and down, tortured by suspense; and said to himself over and over
again, "I wonder how she'll take it."