Everell was silent a moment, gazing at his friend as if to make out some sort of puzzle which had repeatedly baffled him. “Sure, ’tis more than I can understand,” he said, at last. “For that lady I have the profound respect and admiration which your own regard for her declares her due; for every lady who merits them I have respect and admiration: but this power of love, as I see it manifested in you! Give me leave, on the score of our friendship, to confide that it astonishes me. How a man can fret his soul over a woman, be miserable at the idea of parting from her, risk his life for a meeting with her—for though we find it the safer course now, it was risking our lives to make that dash through the enemy’s lines and across the lowlands—”
“Yet you risked yours readily enough for mere friendship’s sake,” said Roughwood, breaking in upon the parenthesis, and so wrecking the sentence for ever.
“For friendship’s sake, yes!—brave comradeship, good company!—indeed, yes, and who would not? But for love of a girl!—why, ’tis worthy of Don Quixote! Forgive me: I speak only my mind.”
“Lad, lad, what is friendship in comparison with love of a girl—real love of a girl? You’ll sing another tune some day.”
“Never! I can assure you, never. I know not what the disease is, of which you speak. Certainly I’m now old enough to have had it if I ever was to be attacked.—Not that I don’t admire the beauty of women, and commend them for their gentleness,—when they are gentle,—and compassionate their weakness as I do that of children, and find pleasure in their smiling faces, and soft eyes, and tender blushes. I can take joy enough in the society of a pretty creature when it falls my lot, and count it among the other amenities of life. I value the grace and goodness that high-minded women diffuse in this rough world. I can be happy with sensible women, and amuse myself with light ones. But as to being what you call in love, I have not fallen into that strange condition, and I can promise you I never shall. ’Tis not in my constitution.”
“The day will come, and the disease be all the worse for being late, as is the case with other ailments delayed beyond the usual time.”
“No, sir: and as for hazarding life for love of a woman, I must tell you I put a higher value upon life than that implies. You understand me—for love of a woman. To save a woman in danger, to serve a woman in any way, is a different matter. But merely to participate in the absurdities of love, to exchange assurances and go through the rest of the comedy,—will you have me believe ’tis worth staking such a gift as life for? Pretty odds, egad!—life against love! Love, which is at most an incident, against life, which is everything and includes all incidents! Love, against the possibilities of who knows how many years! My dear Will!—and yet you say I am rash.”
“I am glad to find you a convert to a sense of the value of life,” laughed Will.
“Why, you don’t think I have held life cheap because I have sometimes ventured it perhaps without much hesitation? Be sure I have always known what I was doing. There has always been, as there is now, a good chance of winning through. I have not lagged behind the boldest in a fight, ’tis true—”
“Except in a retreat.”