that makes life worth living in the material sense, and not the less
are we called upon to struggle with an army of spiritual woes and
fears, which now we vanquish and now are vanquished by. Every man of
refinement, and many women, will be able to recall periods in his or
her existence when life has seemed not only valueless but hateful,
when our small successes, such as they are, dwindled away and vanished
in the gulf of our many failures, when our hopes and aspirations faded
like a little sunset cloud, and we were surrounded by black and lonely
mental night, from which even the star of Faith had passed. Such a
time had come to Harold Quaritch now. His days had not, on the whole,
been happy days; but he was a good and earnest man, with that touching
faith in Providence which is given to some among us, and which had
brought with it the reward of an even thankful spirit. And then, out
of the dusk of his contentment a hope of happiness had arisen like the
Angel of the Dawn, and suddenly life was aflame with the light of
love, and became beautiful in his eyes. And now the hope had passed:
the woman whom he deeply loved, and who loved him back again, had gone
from his reach and left him desolate--gone from his reach, not into
the grave, but towards the arms of another man.

Our race is called upon to face many troubles; sickness, poverty, and
death, but it is doubtful if Evil holds another arrow so sharp as that
which pierced him now. He was no longer young, it is true, and
therefore did not feel that intense agony of disappointed passion,
that sickening sense of utter loss which in such circumstances
sometimes settle on the young. But if in youth we feel more sharply
and with a keener sympathy of the imagination, we have at least more
strength to bear, and hope does not altogether die. For we know that
we shall live it down, or if we do not know it then, we /do/ live it
down. Very likely, indeed, there comes a time when we look back upon
our sorrow and he or she who caused it with wonder, yes even with
scorn and bitter laughter. But it is not so when the blow falls in
later life. It may not hurt so much at the time, it may seem to have
been struck with the bludgeon of Fate rather than with her keen
dividing sword, but the effect is more lasting, and for the rest of
our days we are numb and cold, for Time has no salve to heal us.

These things Harold realised most clearly in the heavy days which
followed that churchyard s