The Divine Fire Part 85

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 ma.n.u.script 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 ma.n.u.script 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The hand was withdrawn, evidently with some distressing consciousness of its precipitancy.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 pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sion 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 ma.n.u.script?" 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 a.s.suming that--She paused, horrified as she realized what it was that she had almost a.s.sumed. 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."