eaped
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