How dare I speak of John’s life, day by day? How he goes to his office, and reads his review, and writes his speech, and looks to his other labors, and walks home alone and late? Such humdrum coloring, and so same throughout; it would be a deadly thing to read about; and as for living—is it their horror of such a life as his that set Kill Van Kull and Townley to life’s pleasures and Flossie Gower and Caryl Wemyss to seek life’s vanities? Surely; and the reader too has justified them; for is he—or she, more likely—not tired already of all this moralizing?
But she must suffer me one moment more.
For to John himself, his life had never been either sad or dull; nor was he sad now, despite his heart was wrung. The word sadness would not well suit the Sidneys and the Falklands, nor even such of us who know that life is a thing that we must either throw away or sacrifice, not cherish and enjoy; for “he who loves life overmuch shall die the dog’s death, utterly.” Is it sad, when some fair corner-stone is mortised to the temple? A Sidney’s life is always used.
Yet had John one deeper sorrow, admitted hardly to himself. And this I hardly dare to say, lest it be scouted. For this thing was nothing other than an absence of belief in God. Not disbelief, but nonbelief; and it was a cause not of sadness, but of sorrow; quite a different thing, believe me; for the latter thing is manly.
This mattered not one iota to his action. Whatever lack of sight his mind might make him see; of one thing he was sure; that somewhere, everywhere, in the universe there was conflict. And is not that enough? Does the subaltern who finds himself he knows not where, nor with what general, in command of his little squad of troops some foggy day or night; the narrow saddened field, so full of dead and dying, is all he sees; no emperor, nor king, nor fort, nor even flag, but only some enemy he sees, and this, alas! more clearly; does he cry for leadership, or play at hazards with the man beside him, or lay him down to death? What does he,—with his sense of battle in the world about, and the distant cannon sounds, and smoke that hides? He stays where he is, and fights.
Servus servorum Dei—perhaps, is all the title such a man may claim; yet Popes of Rome, acknowledged as vice-gerents of Heaven, have worn it proudly. Servant of the servants of God. The battle sky is canopied with smoke; yet on the brows of some near leaders is the shine of heaven; and these he follows. There are not yet so many that the one need be ashamed; but shall take his orders humbly from his poet or priest. And some fair souls still seem to see directly, as do women often. Servants of God are these; as such, twice blest. And Gracie Holyoke was one of them.
Haviland adored her. This was his sorrow; yet a sorrow he would not have been without. He fancied she was pledged to Arthur: he almost knew that Arthur had her heart. That was why he saw so much of Arthur, from the very first; this fair-haired, blue-eyed fellow, who stood so near him in the ranks. John had seen another friend, another young man like him, fail and fall; a man who succeeded in the world, and failed with life; a suicide, that Henry Vane whom “Baby” Malgam has forgotten. But Arthur had a truer guide; and John had hoped for his and Gracie’s happiness.
So John was sorrowful; and he was troubled too with things of honor. Is honor, then, a false light too, when so many men must stand by it alone? I trow not; not wholly so, at least. So John had had this added trouble; whether he should tell Gracie of his love. And he had settled with himself, now, that he would; and in plain words; and had resolved that he would do so, too, at Mr. Duval’s ball; such earnest things may balls be, after all. He had small hope, but only great resolve. Man has no right to hope, he read; no right to happiness, and hence to hope of happiness;—and consoled himself.
Novels should end well, they tell us; does then the novel of life end well? Life, that is so novel to each one, so old to fate. Let us hasten back to those with whom the novel may end well: to fortunate Caryl Wemyss, and favored Flossie, and worldly-wise Charlie and to Arthur Holyoke.
He had made his way. He had bettered his position. He was popular, and his life was full of pleasure. If he had not written a great poem, he had done things that the world would prize more highly. He saw his way, at least, to substantial success, as Charlie Townley had seen it before him; John Haviland still tried to be his friend, but Arthur liked Charlie better now. Was not Faust glad on that first morning, when he saw the world once more, and left the devil to his God to fight—permitte divis cetera?