A Gamble with Life Part 18

"I don't know. That's a sum I haven't figured out yet. But what would you like me to read to you?"

"Anything you like. I fear you will not consider my stock of books very interesting."

"Have they all to do with science and mechanics, and that sort of thing?"

"No, not all."

She rose from her chair and went to a table on which several volumes lay, and began to read their t.i.tles. "Principles of Western Civilisation," "The Earth's Beginning," "Facts and Comments," "Education and Empire," "Philosophy and Life."

"Ah! here is a story book I expect. 'The Buried Temple,' by Maurice Maeterlinck," and she picked up the book and began to turn over the pages, then with a faint sigh she laid it down again.

"Would you rather I talked to you?" she questioned, turning her face toward him with a smile.

"I think I would," he replied. "I am not much in the mood for philosophy to-day."

"But why vex your brains with philosophy at all? What you need when you are ill is a real, good story. The next time I come to see you I'll bring a book along with me."

"What will you bring?"

"I don't know yet. Do you like poetry?"

"When it is poetry."

"Are you sure you know it when you see it?" and she laughed good humouredly.

"Well, I would not like to dogmatise on that point," he answered.

"You've read Whittier, of course?"

"No."

"Oh, I'm sorry for you. Whittier is great. I like him heaps better than your Browning."

"Why?"

"Because I understand him better. I expect poetry is like beauty, in the eye of the beholder, don't you think so? Now if poetry don't touch me, don't thrill me, why, whatever it may be to other people it isn't poetry to me. Do I make myself plain?"

"Quite plain."

"Now Whittier just says what I feel, but what I haven't the power to express; just sums up in great, n.o.ble words the holiest emotions I have ever known."

"Yes."

"Then Whittier is a man of faith and vision, as all poets must be if they are to be great. I like Browning for that. He sees clear. He doesn't merely hope, he believes. He not only 'faintly trusts the larger hope,' he builds on the rock. A man who has no faith is like a bird with a broken wing. Don't you think so?"

"But what do you mean by faith?" he asked, uneasily.

"Ah, now you want to puzzle me," she said, with a smile.

"Oh, no I don't," he replied, quickly. "I only want to get your meaning clearly."

"But I'm not a poet," she answered. "I'm only a girl, and I can't find the right words. But I just mean faith. Seeing the invisible, if I may say so. Realising it. Being conscious of it."

"The invisible?" he questioned.

"Yes, G.o.d, and heaven, and immortality. Believing also in goodness and humanity and the sacredness of human life."

"Do you believe that human life is a very sacred thing?"

"Why, of course I do! What a question to ask."

"Does it seem so very strange?"

"Why, yes. Think of the care that is taken of everybody, even the worthless. Think of all the hospitals and asylums----"

"Yes, that is one side of the question," he said. "What we may call the sentimental side. But place human life in the scale against money or territory or human ambition."

"Well?"

"We mow men down with machine guns or blow them up with dynamite--not in twos or threes, but in thousands and tens of thousands, and the more we kill the more satisfied we are."

"Oh yes, I know. That is all very terrible," she said, with a puzzled expression in her eyes.

"But why terrible?" he questioned.

"I can't explain myself very well," she answered, slowly; "but, of course, we must defend our country."

"Therefore country is more sacred than life."

"Oh no, you are not going to catch me that way. To die for one's country must be great, heroic."

"Exactly. Therefore, in comparison with what we call country--that is, our particular form of government, or our particular set of rulers, or our particular stake in it--what you call the sacredness of human life occupies a very subordinate position."

"But you would risk your life in defence of your country?" she questioned, evasively.

"Most certainly I would," he answered, promptly; "but then you see I am not hampered by any notions respecting the sacredness of human life."

He was sorry a moment later that their conversation had taken the turn it had. He felt that he would bite his tongue out rather than give this sweet-eyed maiden pain; and that he had pained her was too evident by the look upon her face. And yet, having gone so far, he was bound to be honest.

"If I held your views," he went on, "nothing would induce me to take a human life--neither patriotism nor any other ism."

"Oh, but," she said, quickly, "there are some things more sacred even than life, honour for instance, and truth."

"No doubt. But there is surely a difference between losing one's life, giving it up for the sake of some great principle, and taking the life of another."

"Then you would not be afraid to die for something you valued much?"

"Why should a man be afraid to die at all? Of course life is sweet while you have something to live for, but to rest and be at peace, should not that be sweet also?"