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Updated: May 25, 2025
Jewdwine, whose health required pure air, had settled very comfortably in that high suburb. And, as his marriage seemed likely to remain long a matter for dubious reflection, he had arranged that his sister Edith should keep house for him.
But you can't burn even genius at both ends; and his paying work began to suffer. Jewdwine complained that it was not up to his usual level. Maddox had returned several articles. So at last he stuffed his tragedy into a drawer to wait there for a diviner hour. "That would have been a big expensive job," he said to himself.
But in the case of Rickman he either forbore to exercise his privilege, or exercised it in such a manner as preserved the individuality of the poet's style. Like some imperial conqueror Jewdwine had absorbed the literary spirit of the man he conquered, and Metropolis bore the stamp of Rickman for all time.
Whatever he had thought of himself at four o'clock in the morning, by four o'clock in the afternoon Jewdwine took an extremely lenient, not to say favourable view. Unfortunately he had not the courage of that opinion either. Therefore he was profoundly touched by this final instance of Rickman's devotion, and all that it argued of reckless and inspired belief.
His only security is to perpetrate some crime so atrocious that we can't publish his name for fear of letting ourselves in for an action for libel. Your attitude to Mr. Jewdwine is naturally personal. Ours is not. I should have thought you'd have been the first to see that." "I don't see what you've got against him, to begin with. I wish you'd tell me plainly what it is."
"It does; if it isn't good enough " "You don't understand me. That's what would make it all right." "Make what all right?" "My accepting if you really only want a stop-gap." "I see," said Jewdwine to himself, "the youth has tasted liberty, and he objects to being caught and caged." "The question is," said Rickman, sinking into thought again, "whether you really want me."
He wished she had read his drama instead of his sonnet. His spring-time was there; the swift unreturning spring-time of his youth. If she had read his drama she would have believed in his pursuit of the intangible perfection. As it was, she never would believe. "I wonder," she said, feeling her ground carefully, "if my cousin Horace Jewdwine would be any good to you?" "Mr. Jewdwine?"
She and Maddox were one in their inextinguishable enthusiasm for their Rickman, for Rickman had the gift, the rarest of all gifts, of uniting the hearts that loved him. If Jewdwine had showed anything like a proper appreciation of the poet, Maddox would have spared him now.
If he had kissed her his sense of propriety would have obliged him to propose to her and marry her. He almost wished he had yielded to that temptation, done that desperate deed. It would have at least settled the question once for all. For Jewdwine had found himself a third time at the turning of the ways. He knew where he was; but not where he was going.
It was different in the unexciting days of the old Museion; it would be different now if he could afford to run a paper of his own dedicated to the service of the Absolute. But Jewdwine was no longer the servant of the Absolute.
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