ARTHUR IS MADE HAPPY.
John Haviland, too, was working very hard that fall. He was not perhaps
so happy even as Charles Townley, if this is any reason for hard work.
And have I not said that we all work in New York? We work to drive away
that bugbear of young Americans--discontent; much as Flossie Gower and
her set work to drive away that other bugbear of Americans who have,
surely, no cause for discontent--ennui.
But it was for neither of these two great things that John had ever
worked; nor did he now work quite as usual. He strode down and up his
town, breasting the December snows, and would have said that he was
just as usual; and have half believed it, but for that strange choking
that took him, by times, deep down in the throat. And yet, through his
moist eyes, the earth looked fairer, and his life a deeper thing.
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_?
Take this one bright December day for instance; he rises in his
comfortable bachelor apartment; his head still full of dreams of bright
eyes from the night before; for it is his fortune to be petted by
women. He has a few hours so-called work, to be sure; but the work is
among Millions, which it is pleasant to think may yet be his some day.
He left early in the afternoon and took his drive in his own pretty
cart, glad to see and be seen by all he called his friends. Then he
went to dine with a millionaire, Mrs. Malgam, and Mamie Livingstone; in
the evening to the opera, and to the first great subscription ball. He
was a manager of the last, and wears his honors with much grace; and he
has the offer of a partnership in a rich young firm.
Late in the afternoon sat Gracie in her room. We have not seen so much
of Gracie, lately, as I, for one, should like; she does not do much
in these pages, perhaps. When women have the nobler lives they ask
for now, our heroine shall perchance do more; now she merely lifts
the men about her to their higher selves. She is a power wrought out
most in other lives--Derwent’s, Mamie’s, Haviland’s. I own I am unable
to describe her; I cannot print the fragrance of a lily on these
pages; those who have seen the lily do not need it. Perhaps, if Helen,
Heloise, are the women that Flossie Gower, clever Flossie Gower, in
these days of women’s rights still envies most, I may have still some
maiden readers--my courteous greeting go to them--who think the nobler
Helens and the purer Cleopatras may yet not have too small a part in
life, and dream their sweet heart-dreams of Una and Elaine.
In her bed-room, then (for our hand is on the door-knob and we must
enter now)--sat Gracie, through this afternoon. Mamie has been in, from
time to time, and had close talks with her; and she has promised Gracie
she will keep her word with Derwent, and wait, although she is sure she
cannot care for him. But now she is gone, to dress for Arthur’s dinner,
and Gracie sits alone.
The house is silent; and she knows the old people are down below,
and she must go and read to them. But the vault of heaven has been
unfathomably blue, that day; and she has been looking into it, over the
crowded city walls. She knows that Arthur is not thinking of it, or of
her. And now the air has faded to the lilac winter twilight, and all
men are going, tired, to their homes. But she is idle; and idle hours
she finds so hard to fill! She took a book she loved, and read; but
gradually the dark came, and the book fell from her hand; and now her
hands are on her face, and her soft eyes closed, and she is crying,
silently.