_Guy_
Guy could not make the effort to fight the doom upon their love declared
by Pauline in her letter. He felt that if he did not acquiesce he would
go mad: a deadness struck at him that he fancied was a wonderful sense
of relief, and hurriedly packing a few things he went in pursuit of his
friend Comeragh in case it might not even now be too late to go to
Persia. However, though he did not manage to be in time for Sir George
Gascony, his friend secured him a job on some committee that was being
organized in Macedonia by enthusiastic Liberals. His previous experience
there was recommendation enough, and after he had seen his father,
acquired his outfit and settled up everything at Plashers Mead by means
of Maurice Avery, early in September he set out Eastward.
In Rome Guy picked up Michael Fane who was on the point of starting for
the Benedictine monastery at Cava. Having a few days to spare before he
went on to Brindisi, he agreed to spend the time with Michael tramping
in the sun along the Parthenopean shore.
"I can't understand what consolation you expect to find by shutting
yourself up with a lot of frowsty monks," said Guy fretfully.
"Nor can I understand when just at the moment you have been dealt the
blow that should at last determine if you are to be an artist," retorted
Michael, "I can't understand why you choose that exact moment to go and
be futile in Macedonia."
"Do you think I would be an artist now, even if I could?" asked Guy
fiercely. "How I hate such a point of view. No, no, I have made myself
miserable and I have made someone else miserable because I thought I
wanted to be an artist. But never, never, shall that old jejune ambition
be gratified now."
"You'll never try to write anything more?"
"Nothing," said Guy.
"Then what has all this been for?"
"Perhaps to come back in a year, and ... listen:
_O ragged robins, you will bloom each year,_
_But we shall never pluck you after rain:_
_For aye, O ragged hearts, you beat alone,_
_And never more shall you be joined again._
Do you think I want to come back in a year and still be able to versify
my grief like that? I look forward to something better than minor
poetry."
"You mean you still hope...." his friend began.
"I daren't even hope yet ... but all my life I'll do penance for having
said that an artist must be free."
They had reached the inn at Amalfi, where letters might be waiting for
them.
Guy read aloud one which had arrived from Maurice Avery.