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 some one 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:
"422 GROSVENOR ROAD,
"WESTMINSTER.
"MY DEAR GUY,--I settled up everything for you at Plashers Mead.
Rather a jolly place. I nearly took it on myself. I'm getting
quite used to settling up other people's affairs since you and
Michael have made me your executor. Good luck to you in Macedonia.
"Last night I went to the Orient Ballet and met a perfectly
delightful girl. If there is such a thing as love at first sight,
I am in love. Jenny Pearl she is called. Forgive this apparently
casual enthusiasm, but you two cynics will be able to tear me to
pieces to your satisfaction. I offer my heart for your bitter
mirth to embalm.
"Yours ever,
"M. A.
"Your dog is at Godalming with my people. My sisters talk of
nothing else.
"Maurice rises like a phoenix from our ashes," said Guy, grimly.
"He was always irrepressible," Michael agreed.
"And still you haven't answered my question about your monkery," Guy
persisted.
"You want action. I want contemplation. But don't think that I'm going
to take final vows to-morrow."
"And do you really believe in the Christian religion?" Guy asked,
incredulously.
"Yes, I really do."
"What an extraordinary thing!"
Next day they parted, Michael going to the Benedictine house at Cava,
Guy pressing on towards Salerno. With every breath of the rosemary, with
every sough of the Aleppo pines, with every murmur of the blue
Tyrrhenian winking far below, more and more sharply did he realize that
what he had thought at the time was wonderful relief had been more truly
despair. Yet in a happier September might he not hope to come back this
way, setting his face towards England?
One more turn of the head in the gathering gloom
To watch her figure in the lighted door:
One more wish that I never should turn again,
But watch her standing there for evermore.