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.”

CHAPTER LX