Comrade Yetta Part 38

Yetta might have refused such an offer, refused to make any compromise with the love she dreamed of. The romantic thing is to demand that the prince's armor shall be as spotless as on the day he first rode out to seek the Grail. And Yetta was romantic. But Walter, with his larger experience with life, could probably have convinced her of the patent fact that most of us have to accept much more meagre terms from life than he offered. The ideal love is woefully rare, but there are a great many happy marriages.

Walter did not recognize this as one of the moments which demand entire frankness. Why should he hurt her at this moment with another ghost story? Had he not bruised her enough for one afternoon with Beatrice?

Without realizing it, his att.i.tude toward Yetta had changed subtly. The day before on the beach he had been impressed by her evident love for him. But the girl for whom he had been sorry had changed into the woman he ardently desired. So he kissed her tears away and taught her to smile again.

There had been enough left from the lunch purchases to serve their appet.i.tes for supper. They sat together in the window-seat and watched the twilight fall across the Square. All that was tangled in life straightened out before them, the future seemed a sort of paradisaical boulevard. In the days which were to come they were to have many hours of such sweet communion, hours when they locked the door against the world and talked or read together. And there were to be days of work.

They were neither of them shirkers, and it was to be hard work. But whether it was work or play the sun was always to shine upon them, for there were to be no clouds of misunderstanding or discouragement. Side by side, how could they be discouraged? Walter was getting on towards forty, but all this seemed possible to him.

At last they turned on the lights so Yetta could read to him some verses she had learned to love. And while they were still striving to find some fitting expression for their emotions among the poets, there was a knock at the door, and Isadore came in. Walter greeted him enthusiastically.

"Yetta," he said, "shall we tell him the great news?"

But there was no need to tell him. All the time he had been shaking hands he had been looking over Walter's shoulder at Yetta. His face went pale and rigid. He stiffened up perceptibly.

"I'm glad," he said slowly, looking squarely at Walter, "if you can make her happier than I could. I love her, too."

The words seemed to Walter like a challenge. For a second or two their eyes met. He was the first to look away. He could not meet the younger man's directness.

"Walter," Isadore said, "you're my best friend. Be good to her."

He hesitated a moment, irresolute, then turned abruptly and went away.

Walter stood still in the middle of the room--dazed by the intensity of Isadore's emotions, realizing suddenly how many more of the priceless gifts of Youth there were in Isadore's hands than in his own. The shame which had flooded him at Yetta's first caress came back. Yetta, in her infatuation, could not see how little--even of love--he had to offer.

She was too blinded to choose freely.

"Yetta," he said, coming over and sitting on the other end of the window-seat from her, "why didn't you tell me about this?"

"Why, Walter, I did tell you. I said he asked me to marry him--two years ago."

"But I didn't realize that he loved you as much as this."

"Walter," she said, taking fright at his tone, "I never gave him any encouragement. I never--"

"It isn't that, Yetta," he interrupted her. "Oh! I don't mean that. But why didn't you marry him?"

It was her turn to be dazed and bewildered. She stood up before him, but he had covered his face with his hands.

"Why? How could I when I loved you?"

"Loved me? Yetta, you hardly knew me."

There was an earthquake in Dreamland. Just what was happening in his soul she did not know, but all things were a-tremble.

"Walter? Walter? What do you mean?"

He looked up at her with a haggard face.

"Don't you understand?" he asked seriously. "I'm more than a dozen years older than you are, close to ten years older than Isadore. Years don't always mean much, but these last ones have been very long for me.

"Youth counts for very much in this dreary world of ours. It means undimmed faith, it means courage, it means vibrancy and reserve power.

Isadore has never been really defeated, Yetta, and I'm a ma.s.s of poorly healed wounds. The best of me is gone, some of it expended, more of it wasted. I come to you like a beggar, asking for all these precious things--faith, hope, incentive. My hands are empty. But Isadore could give you these things, when you need them--as you surely will some day, Yetta. If I'd been here all these years, you'd have seen the difference between us.

"A long time ago, when you were very young, I seemed wonderful to you. I went away--stop and think a moment how very little you know of me--and you made a romance about me. Romance is a very dangerous thing. It's a sort of Lorelei song, Yetta. After all, our business is to push on down the River, not to stop and play with the fairies on the rocks. It's a real world we must live in, Yetta dear, not a dream, and the facts must be faced. Youth is worth more than anything else. Your kisses made me forget to think of you--Isadore reminded me."

"What are you trying to do, Walter?" she asked. "Don't you want me to marry you?"

"I want you to be happy, Little One."

Once more he buried his face in his hands, but she knelt before him and pulled his hands away.

"Do you think anything in all the world could make me as happy as your love?"

Suddenly--with a great rush of weariness--he saw clearly the gulf between them. He knew from his own experience what thrilling things the word "love" may mean. And he could no longer lay claim to it.

"What do you mean by love?" he asked drearily.

Yetta crumpled up in a heap at his feet. If he did not know what "love"

meant, the Palace of Dreams was indeed crumbling.

"Don't you know?" she whispered.

The clock ticked dolefully while she waited for his answer.

"Yes. I'm afraid I do know what it means to you, Yetta. And I haven't got that to give you. I think love means romance to you. That is what Isadore and Youth have to offer. I had it once--years ago--enough and to spare. I gave it all away--where it wasn't wanted. There isn't any glitter left.

"I came to you, Yetta, in quest of this very thing--which I have lost. I can't tell you how beautiful, how dazzling you look to my tired eyes--how much to be desired--how much above price--like the Song of Songs. And being selfish, I thought only of my want, of my hungry loneliness. I did not remember--till Isadore came in--that you too had a right--a much better right than my desire--to Youth.

"It would not be honest, Yetta, to accept your love, unless I made quite sure that you know me, know what you are doing, the choice you are making--stripped of romance, in its cold nakedness. It isn't a choice, Yetta, between me and Isadore. It's deeper than that, deeper than individuals. I must see that you make your choice with clear eyes. If you want romance--the grand pa.s.sion--well--I haven't that to offer you.

I--"

His voice trailed off into silence. Perhaps he was a fool. But for the first time in his life he was giving up something he wanted, something he could have for the asking. For the first time in his life he had utterly cleansed himself of selfishness. It was a momentous triumph over his nature, but it was only momentary. His desire for the girl at his feet came over him with a rush. She was resting her head against the ledge of the window-seat and--her clenched fist pressed against her lips--was staring at the black shadows under the table.

Perhaps a scrupulous definition forbade the use of the word "love" to describe his emotion, but it was none the less strong. The last twenty-four hours had been wondrously sweet to him. There was a grace to her clean, fresh youth, a charm to her caresses, her restrained but unhid pa.s.sion, the timidities and spontaneous abandon of her maidenhood, which had enchanted all the roots of his being. And besides and above all this--though life holds little better than such emotions--was the hope that with her he might get into the swing of activity, the ascending curve of work and purpose.

"I'm through pleading for you, Yetta. Let me plead a little for myself.

What is it that makes me talk to you like this? It's not romance.

Perhaps it isn't what you would call love. But I would call it that.

It's a very desperate desire to forget all about myself and--as Isadore said--'be good to you.' Get up, darling, and sit here beside me. Let us talk over again all our plans of work. After all, work is more important than romance."

She got up rather unsteadily, but she did not sit down beside him.

"I think love is necessary," she said.

"Don't let's wreck things over a word, Yetta. 'Love' means so many things. Tell me what it is I feel for you. What is it that makes me thrill so to your kisses? What is it that makes me want you, Yetta, for all time and always? What is it makes me know I can win to usefulness, if you will help me? What is it that makes me risk losing what I want most in the world, for fear I may not be true and just to you? I don't care what name you give it. But isn't it enough? Let's try to think of realities, not words."

"No. It's not the word I care about," she said. "But the reality is necessary. I love you, Walter, and I'm not afraid of the word. You know what it means to me--all that it ever meant to any woman--and more. It means thinking only and above everything else of the other--and more than that. It means giving one's self without any 'if's'--and more than that too. I can't tell you what love is--just because the reality is so much bigger than any words. But of one thing I am sure. There can't be any regrets in love. Are you sorry it isn't Mabel who loves you? I don't care about the past any more. I did for a minute this afternoon--because it surprised me. But I love you too much to care about the past. But, oh! the future, Walter? We daren't cheapen that! That's all there is left to us. And our life together--our future--couldn't be fine if you had regrets. If ever you had to hide things from me and had wishes I couldn't share. If you wished sometimes I was some one else. It's very simple, Walter. It's this way. If Mabel should come into this room and stand here beside me and say, 'I love you,' as I say it--which of us would you choose?"

"She'll never come into the room, Yetta."

"Oh, Walter! answer me! I know you won't lie. And I'll believe you for ever and ever."