He snapped his half-burnt cigarette into the grate and turned towards her. Her face suddenly went white, and she swayed unsteadily. One hand waved aimlessly in the air, seeking support. He took it in his.
The next few days the papers were full of theExpedition. The Marquis d'Hauteville came back from Semmering, and a large part of his statement was a tribute to Walter's ability and courage. The other members of the Expedition, with the delightful courtesy of the French, emphasized his part in the Siege and exaggerated the perils he had run while bringing them relief. Paris dearly loves such sensations. Nothing pleases the gay city more than to idolize a foreigner. He did the best he could to escape the lionizing.
There was much work still to do in the preparing of the report. He moved from the hotel to a quiet cottage in Passy and settled down to work—and play. Beatrice scrupulously respected his "duty hours," but once he was free from his desk, he plunged with her into a swirl of gayety, such as he had never before permitted himself. The follies of the "Transatlantique" set—the rich Americans of the Étoile district—interested him from their sheer novelty. Beatrice's incisive comments on the bogus aristocracy—the Roumanian Grand Dukes and Princes of the Papal States—who fattened off the gullibility of his countrymen amused him immensely.
Their intimacy was strange indeed. Before his infatuation with Mabel, Walter had not been exactly a Puritan, but he had never experienced anything like this. No word of love ever passed between him and Beatrice. The hallowed phrases of affection were under the ban. They were feverishly engaged in trying to forget, in helping each other forget how hollow such words had proved. A feeling of delicacy restrained him from using the word "home," it had been such a mockery to her. And to have spoken to him of fidelity would have seemed to her rank cruelty.
Only once did they talk together of the past. What he had to tell was told quickly. Her story was longer, and part of it she did not tell.
Her father had been a doctor. His death, when she was in college, had left her almost penniless, alone with an invalid mother. Literature had always been her ambition; so, leaving college, she had come to New York to try newspaper work. She had fought her way to a very moderate success. It was not the kind of work which interested her,—the dreariest kind of pot-boiling,—and it did not pay enough to keep her mother in the comfort she was accustomed to. There was no immediate prospect of bettering their position. Beatrice was very much discouraged. She thought she had it in her to write novels, but by wearing herself out with hack work she could not earn enough for her mother's needs and had no energy left for the things she longed to do.
Then Bert Karner had come along. He was a young millionnaire from the West. He boughtThe Staron which Beatrice worked. Although rich, he was not of proud family. He never told how his father had made his stake. His outspoken ambition was "to make New York sit up and take notice." He had a decided genius for journalism. And it was not long before the steadily increasing circulation of his paper—and his piratical methods—attracted attention. There was no statute by which he could be sent to jail, so he became "a leading citizen."
At the very first he fell wildly and tumultuously in love with Beatrice. Although his passion for her was very real, it was not entirely free from calculation. His project of "being somebody" required a skilled manager.Beatrice was beautiful, she knew how to dress. She was witty, she would make a distinguished-looking hostess. He could also rely on her taste in selecting his neckties. He was morbidly afraid of appearing vulgar, and especially in this matter of neck-wear he was afraid to trust his own judgment. These considerations made him ask her to be his wife instead of his mistress. Her first refusal surprised him. But he was used to buying what he wanted, and he kept raising her price.
If Mrs. Maynard had complained, her daughter would very likely have been more egoistic. But her mother, whom she always referred to as an Angel in Heaven, never complained. And so at last Beatrice sold herself. But—and this, for some unaccountable reason, she did not tell Walter—she had had an outspoken explanation with Karner. He knew what he was buying, knew that she did not love him.
Three months after the marriage Mrs. Maynard died suddenly. This was what had annihilated Beatrice. It was so horribly grotesque. If her mother had only died before the wedding! If the gods had only given Beatrice courage to hold out a little longer! To give her mother these three months of comfort, she had sold all her life.
In her first fit of despair she had burned the half-finished novel. What did a failure like herself have to tell the world? But her mother's death had not been Bert's fault. So at first she tried to fulfil her contract with him, did what she could to organize his home and help him in his social climbing. But the Fates had not finished their bludgeonings. Into this dumb indifference which followed her mother's death came a suddendemonstration of her husband's rascality. When she had married him, she had at least thought he was an upright man. If her spirit had not been broken, she would have left him at once. But she was too shattered to care any more. She had gone through the forms of life, seeking listlessly after distraction. The thing which had come nearest to reality had been her interest in the Woman's Trade Union League. She had gone on the Board because her husband urged her to make friends with Mrs. Van Cleave. It held her interest because her own hunger-years had given her a deep sympathy.
Although she did not realize it, it was Yetta who had at last driven her to leave her husband. She had caught some of Yetta's life-giving faith. It takes us a long time to recover when once we are dead, and Mrs. Karner had been a long time dead. She did not know what was happening, but the grain of faith, which the little East Side vest-maker had planted in her, grew steadily. Slowly it had forced out roots into the dead matter about it, pushed the stem which was to bear fruit up through the hardened soil to the light. When Mr. Karner had profanely explained how Yetta had left his office, his wife suddenly realized that she was alive again. The sham was over. The next day she had called on a lawyer and had left for Europe shortly afterwards.
Walter and Beatrice did not have another serious talk for several months. He had nearly finished his work, and she at least had begun to wonder what would come next. An early spring day had tempted them to motor down the river to St. Cloud. After supper, Walter was contentedly filling his pipe, his back againsta great chestnut tree, while she was repacking the dishes in the lunch basket.
"If you want any help," he said lazily, "I'll call the chauffeur. He's paid to do such things."
She ignored his remark until she had finished. Then she came over and sat beside him.
"Walter," she said, "in three weeks now I'm going to leave Paris—for Switzerland."
"It doesn't begin to get hot here till the end of June."
"Well, I'm not going in search of coolness. Quiet is what I want. I've got to settle down to work—a novel. I must get away from this turmoil of a city and its disturbances."
"Am I one of the disturbances?" he asked after a moment's thought.
"Yes."
"It'll be very lonely for me when you go."
"Let's have a cigarette," she said.
It was not till it had almost burnt out that either of them spoke. She broke the silence.
"Yes. I will be lonely too. But it looks to me like my only salvation." She stopped to press out the spark of her cigarette on the sole of her slipper. "I'm not a success as a light-minded woman, Walter. I'm no good at dancing a clog. I rather think you saved my life. I've been leaning on you more than you have known, I guess. I've caught my breath—thanks to you."
He put out his hand in protest:—
"There's lots of thanking to be done, but it's the other way round."
But she did not seem to hear him. Her brow was puckered up trying to find words for the thing she wanted to say.
"I've got to stand on my own feet—alone. I didn't want to take any money from Bert. A good friend lent me some. Enough for a year or two, but I can't always be dependent."
"Why not lean on me a little more effectively," he broke in impetuously. "Why not go on just as we are—at least till you find your footing."
"No," she shook her head decisively. "That wouldn't do at all. Look here, Walter, we're grown up—we can talk it out straight. What future is there for us if we go on? Only two alternatives. We'll get to hate each other—or—we'll get to—we'll become a habit. Woof! Habits are hard to break. No. If I'm really going to live, I've got to avoid habits as I would leprosy. There'll never be any decent life for me till I've convinced myself that I can go it alone. I've got a whole lot of things to fight out. My plan is best. Three weeks more of vacation, three weeks more of ribbons—and then armor."
"As you think best," he said.
The last day, he bought her ticket for her, engaged her berth in the morning, and then they went out again to St. Cloud to spend the day. After lunch they spread out a rug under the great trees.
"Boy," she began. She was not as old as he, but being a woman she liked to pretend she was. "I've come to a momentous conclusion about you. You ought to be married."
He sat up with a jerk.
"Don't be frightened," she said. "I'm not a candidate. I've had too much of it already. But seriously—you're different. I don't mean to be insulting, but you were made to be a family man. Our littleholiday has been pleasant without end, but it's not what you were meant for. After all you're not too old to reform. You've been on the rocks. But there's a good deal left of the wreckage. I got into trouble because I didn't have the nerve to hold tight enough to my dream. Watch out that you don't make the opposite mistake. Let me diagnose your case."
She moved around in front of him, and from time to time shook her slender finger at him solemnly.
"You've ability. Serious ability—the kind this old world of ours needs. And you've this 'social conscience' with which the younger generation is cursed. You won't be content to waste yourself. What are you going to do? Somehow you've got to find a place where you'll seem to yourself useful. If not, you'd better commit suicide at once. If you're going to run to waste, at least spare yourself the shameful years. But no. You're not defeated enough for the arsenic bottle.
"You've two kinds of ability. You pretend to despise this archæology—but nobody else does. The other ability is your grasp of social philosophy. For either career—and, wise as I am, I'm not sure which will be better for you—you need a quiet, orderly life, not a disturbing, disorderly romp like these last months. You need to be well kept, you need a wife."
Walter smoked away quietly, but his face had turned haggard.
"I don't want to hurt you," she went on relentlessly, "but Mabel Train isn't the only woman in the world."
"She's the only one I ever especially noticed, till you came along."
"Leave me out of this discussion. There's justthe trouble. If you insist on keeping your eyes closed to the other women, you'd best run along and blow your fool head off at once. If you want a real life, open your eyes."
"Well," he said with a wry smile, "I suppose you've got some victim to recommend. Whom shall I notice?"
It was several minutes before she took up his challenge.
"Why don't you notice Yetta Rayefsky?"
"Yetta Rayefsky?" he repeated in amazement.
"Yes. Why not? She's a fine girl, and she worships the ground you walk on."
"You're joking."
"Not at all. I know what I'm talking about. Perhaps she doesn't realize it herself, but she's very much in love with you."
"The poor little girl!"
"Yes. Of course. You ought to be sorry for her. You don't deserve it. But when it comes to that, did any man ever live who really deserved to have a woman love him? That's the tragedy of our sex. We have nothing better to love than mere men."
There were no heroics over their separation. They went to town for supper. They were both sufficiently civilized to keep up the appearance of gayety.
Just before the train started she leaned out of the window of her compartment and tossed him a final challenge.
"Walter," she said, "I'm more fortunate than you. I know what I'm going to do next. Better not waste time deciding. You know what my advice is. Go back to New York and get married."
But there was no agreement in his face as the train pulled out.
The next weeks were Hell for him. Left to himself, the bitter memories came back with a rush. TheQuatorze feuilletbrought him the Legion of Honor. He had often thought that it was the one distinction he would enjoy most. The investiture seemed a farce. What good are honors, when there is no one at whose feet to lay them? Then came the offer of a professorship at Oxford. It was a life berth, the highest scholastic honor to which he could aspire. After all, if these people valued his knowledge of Haktite and no one else valued him at all, why not accept?
But he could not bring himself to a definite separation from Mabel. He decided to have one more try. He asked for a month to consider the Oxford offer and started home. He announced his coming by two cables—to Mabel and to Yetta.
When the cablegram from Teheran had announced that Walter was starting homeward, it became necessary for Yetta to rearrange her attitude towards him. As long as he had been an abstraction she had been perfectly free to love him according to her fancy. Evidently she would have to treat the real person differently.
Of course she was glad that he was coming back, but there was an undercurrent of sadness to the thought. It is very hard to give up habits which have become dear. And she was habituated to his absence. In a more tangible way his rooms had become dear to her. In this setting she had come into life. Almost every memory she valued, except those of her father, were connected with the place. She had read so many books in his great leather chair! She had learned to write at his desk. Even the two oil portraits, of his grandfather in a stiff stock and his grandmother in crinoline, had become in a way personal possessions. She must leave all this, must learn to live in new surroundings.
But this regret was only half conscious. There were more vivid sensations of expectancy. Aboveall she tremblingly hoped for his approbation. When the Great Jahwe had completed his six days' labor and was looking it over, the Earth must have had a palpitating moment of suspense while it waited His verdict. Yetta felt herself the work of Walter's hands. Would he say, "It is good"?
Her love had made her foolishly humble. An objective observer would have doubted if Walter was worthy to unlace her shoes. The fairies had been generous at his christening. They had given him health and wealth and brains. He himself would have admitted that most of his talents had lain idle, wrapped in a napkin. Yetta had not been so richly endowed. At fifteen, with hardly any education, the Fates had put her in a sweat-shop. But she had been given one priceless talent—a keen hunger for an ever larger life. No slightest opportunity for growth had she let slip. Walter was a pitiful example of wasted opportunities compared to this young woman of twenty-two.
There was a more subtle disparity between them.
Yetta's beliefs were passionate faiths, Walter's were intellectual convictions. The dozen odd years' difference in age might have explained this, but it went deeper. Walter had never had the knack of being an intimate part of activity. He was an observer rather than a participant in life. He never got closer to the stage than the wings. And more often he sat in a box. Between her ardent faith and his tired disillusionment lay a chasm which was more than a matter of years. But she, being in love with him, and hardly knowing him at all—at most she had had a dozen talks with him—could not see this.
Would he give her more than approbation? As long as she could, Yetta tried to avoid a definite answer to this question. But it became insistent. She knew he had been in love with Mabel. Eleanor Mead's gossip had supplemented her own conviction. At first it had seemed the inevitable that he should love the wonderful Miss Train. But the last year had seen almost a quarrel between Yetta and Mabel. There were constant disagreements as to the policy of the Woman's Trade Union League. Mabel did not want it to become avowedly Socialist and Yetta did. Mabel felt that she had a discoverer's right to Yetta and was provoked whenever herprotégéeshowed a will of her own. It is hard enough for men to keep friends in the face of serious and long-continued difference of opinion. Women, with lesser experience in the world of affairs, with a more personal tradition, find it harder. It had come to a climax over Yetta's resignation fromThe Star. Mabel had been very indignant and had called it a piece of stupid Quixotism. It had shown Yetta very clearly the fundamental gap between their points of view. They still called each other by their first names and professed undying affection. But it was hard nowadays for Yetta to realize how the wonderful Walter had ever loved this rather narrow-minded woman. She knew where Mabel bought her false hair. Surely Walter would get over his infatuation. Vague hopes inevitably mingled with her thoughts of the future. But she was almost relieved by his unexpectedly long stay in Paris.
Walter had hardly seen the lights of Le Havre sink below the horizon before he began to regret his decision to go to New York. Once more hope had made a foolof him. What chance was there that Mabel would have changed her mind in these six months? Certainly she had not loved him when she had written that miserably cold note of welcome. His escapade with Beatrice would hardly help matters. What perversity was it that drove him home to receive a new humiliation?
Two days out they ran into a gale, and Walter, who was a good sailor, had the promenade deck almost to himself. Standing up forward, an arm round a stanchion for a brace, the spray in his face, it seemed as if the cobwebs which had been smothering him were blown away. He could look at himself calmly, objectively. One question after another posed itself, and he sought the answers, not as an infatuated fool, but as a man who has "suffered unto wisdom."
What was there for him to hope for from Mabel? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Even if she relented, it was a sorry prospect. If now, after six years, after her youth had passed, she suddenly decided to pick up what she had so long despised, it would be in discouragement. He had more disillusions than enough of his own. And Mabel in slippers was a revolting idea. The romantic thing for him to do, now that romance was dead, was to kill himself on the lady's front doorstep. But the age of romance had passed for him.
For the first time in six years he looked out upon a future in which Mabel played no part. Beatrice had said he must find some useful work. There was the Oxford offer. Of course every acquisition to the museum of human knowledge is worth while. But it was very hard for him to apply this theory to his specialty. What good did it do any one to have himpiece together the broken fragments of a semicivilization, so long dead? He could think of no branch of study which more truly deserved Carlyle's jibe of "dry-as-dust." It was perhaps better than suicide, but was there no more human sort of utility for him? As Beatrice had said, the "social conscience" was keen in him. He wanted to serve the people of his day and generation.
The one activity he could think of was suggested by the news in Yetta's letters of the English Socialist newspaper which Isadore Braun was editing and to which she was occasionally contributing. His surplus money, quite a lot of it had piled up in the last three years, would help immensely. Even if they could not raise enough to maintain a daily, his income would suffice for a weekly. The three of them would be a strong editorial combination. More and more the idea attracted him. They could make a representative publication of it. Isadore with his faith in the political party, Yetta in close touch with the trade-unions, and he to furnish a broader, more philosophical expression of the movement of revolt. They were three able, intelligent people who were not afraid. What better thing could he do with the remnant of his life than to weld them into an organized force? Gradually they would attract other brains to their group. Just such an intellectual centre was what the movement needed. The idea at least had the virtue of stirring a wave of true enthusiasm in him.
This line of thought brought Yetta to his mind—and Beatrice's advice. He smiled at the idea. Intellectually he might admit that it would be well for him to marry. But the Yetta he remembered was afrightened little East Side girl, who had not enough sense to keep out of the clutches of a cadet. Of course she had grown up, her letters showed that. And she had been a pretty youngster. If, as Beatrice believed, she was in love with him, it might possibly work out that way in time. But he was in no mood for romance. Hunger for a life of activity kept his mind on his project of work. The few times his thoughts touched on Yetta, he wrenched them back to what the three of them might accomplish with the paper.
As the ship slipped into its berth, Walter leaned over the rail and eagerly scanned the upturned faces of the welcoming crowd on the dock. When at last he convinced himself that there was no one there whom he knew, he suddenly realized that once more the hope had tripped him up. He had been looking for Mabel. He went back to the smoking-room and tried to regain his self-respect by a glass of whiskey. As the cab took him through the familiar streets, he was grimly telling himself that it would never happen again; Mabel did not exist any more.
Yetta was waiting for him in his rooms. She had spent her last night there, and at eight in the morning had carried her valise—the trunk had gone before—to her new quarters on Waverly Place. She could not afford a place to herself and had gone in with another Socialist girl, Sadie Michelson, in joint control of a small flat. While she was waiting through the morning hours, she rearranged his business papers for the fiftieth time. There was a pile of receipts, year by year, each one numbered to correspond to its check. There were the check-books, each voucher pinned to its stub. The bank-book had just been balanced.
It was about eleven when the cab rattled up to the door. From her seat in the window she saw him get out. Casting a quick glance over the room to reassure herself that everything was exactly as he had left it, she opened the door and went out on the landing. "Welcome home," she called down to him.
It did not occur to her that what she was doing was dramatic. But the lonely hearted man who was struggling up the narrow stairs with his two grips was deeply moved by her words and the vision which greeted his upturned eyes. A flood of light came out through the door of his room and illumined her as she stood above him on the landing.
"Hello," he said out loud. But to himself he said, "My God!"
Yetta's girlish promise of beauty had been richly fulfilled. Her figure had become more definite. There had been a sort of precociousness about the sweat-shop girl he remembered. The Yetta who greeted him now was a fully developed symmetrical woman. Her face, her arms, her neck had caught up with the rest of her body. There was nothing fragile about her any more. One no longer feared that she might be suddenly snuffed out and leave nothing but the haunting memory of her eyes. More striking, and at the same time more subtle, was the transformation from self-conscious awkwardness to the assured grace of a personage who has found a place in life. The Yetta he remembered had been impulsive—a creature of extremes—one moment lost in a childish abandon of enthusiasm, the next embarrassed andgauche. This woman was calm, restrained, and while perfectly conscious of herself was not self-conscious.
He had remembered her as pretty. Good food and a healthy life had taken from her the exotic, orchid-like charm of her girlhood. Yet she had grown greatly in beauty. Her face had gained immensely in "range"—to borrow a musical term. It held the capacity of a whole gamut of expressions it had before lacked. Her eyes were as beautiful as ever, and they had looked on many things. Her mouth had always been well-proportioned. Now any one could see that it was a perfected instrument. There were thousands of things it could say. Her cheeks had flushed or paled with a myriad of emotions and had grown more beautiful. And yet the mass of rich brown hair, which had always been the crown of her beauty, had not begun to lose its lustre.
When Walter reached the head of the stairs and shook hands with her, she had changed from the dimmest of possibilities to a vivid desire.
"Did you have a good passage?"
"Fine. A gale all the way over."
There were a few more banalities.
"Good Lord, Yetta," he exploded. "How you've grown up and changed!"
Yetta had hoped for his approbation of her works. He was admiring her person. He was looking her over with frank pleasure. The blush hurt her cheek. She turned away to hide it.
"Here's a note Mabel gave me for you," she said.
Walter took it mechanically. He ought to have tossed it into the waste-paper basket. But the hope, the fool, the idiot hope grabbed him by the throat. Once more. He tore it open. This would be positively the last concession to the Dream.—EleanorMead was decorating a country house out near Stamford, Mabel had gone out to pass the week-end with her. She was glad to hear that Walter was back and looked forward to hearing about his adventures. She judged from the papers that he had had a lot—So! Spending a few days with Eleanor, whom she saw all the time, was more important than staying in town to greet him, whom she had not seen for years. He stuck the letter in his pocket and turned to Yetta, who was watching him closely.
"How's 'Saph' coming on?" he asked lightly.
"I don't see much of her."
"Good," he laughed. "She was never exactly a chum of mine."
"Here are all your business papers," Yetta said, going over to his desk, "receipts and all that."
"Oh! bother the receipts," he said. "I want to talk. How's Isadore's paper getting along?"
"There isn't any money," she said with a grimace. "There's a note on yesterday's editorial page, which says if they can't raise five thousand this week they'll have to stop. I guess one thousand will keep them going. They'll get it. But in a couple of weeks it will be the same thing over again. I guess it's doomed."
"I've been thinking about it," Walter said, "and I've got a scheme. Isadore tackled too much in a daily. That costs such a frightful lot. There isn't yet a big enough Socialist audience to support it. A weekly—a good lively, red-hot weekly—is the thing."
He went on to elaborate his idea. Gradually the constraint which Yetta had felt at first wore off. She curled up on the window-seat and listened to his talkas she had done the first day in his room—as she had done ever since in her dreams. She knew it would be hard work to persuade Isadore to give up the daily, but she felt that sooner or later he would have to. And in Walter's scheme was the promise of collaboration and constant association with him. She could hardly be expected to bring forth any serious criticism.
While he talked, she had the opportunity to look him over. After all he was not a god. The thing which surprised her most was his hair—it was shot through with irregular patches of gray. But this was only a detail. The soft life of the last few months in Paris had not quite killed the tan which the glare of the Persian sun had given him. He looked very rugged and strong—if his hands had been larger, he might have sat as a model for Rodin. And the halo of fame played about his forehead. The newspapers had given some space to him, and two or three lurid "Sunday stories" had been run about "the siege." They had recounted the various honors which had been given him. Yetta knew that the narrow red ribbon in his buttonhole was the Legion of Honor. And he was calmly proposing to give up what seemed to her a great renown for the obscure career of Socialist propaganda. Her love put forth blossoms.
"Gee," he interrupted himself at last. "It's long past lunch-time. Let's go over to the Lafayette. Any of the old waiters still there?"
Although Walter insisted that the cooking had deteriorated, it was a resplendent meal to Yetta. The proprietor came to their table and asked if he might present the French Consul, who was lunching thereand who wanted to congratulate Walter on the red ribbon. The Consul made a formal and stilted speech on behalf of the French Colony in New York. Yetta was as much impressed as Walter was bored. When this disturbance was over, he made her talk about herself. The meal was finished before she was half through with her news.
"Come on," he said. "It's too blazing hot to be in town. Let's jump on a ferry and go down to Staten Island."
"I ought to go up to the League."
"Oh! bother the League. One doesn't come home from Persia every day in the year. I want to celebrate."
All New York's four millions seemed bent on the same errand, but they managed to crowd into the "elevated," and after a breathless scramble at the Battery fought their way to places on the ferry, and at last found a fairly secluded spot on the beach. He listened through the afternoon to the story of how she had spent the three and a half years of his absence. Just as at first, she still found it easy to talk to him. Sure of his quick understanding, she found herself telling him everything. She told him of Isadore's proposal. That disturbed him somewhat.
"Will it interfere with the three of us working together?" he asked.
"Why, no," she said, her eyes opening wider with surprise. "Of course not. I guess he's got over it. It was two years ago. But anyhow we've been working together all the time. He wouldn't let a thing like that interfere with work."
And Walter, judging Isadore by himself, decidedthat it could not have been very serious. Although Yetta did not know it, she was, in almost every word, showing Walter her love. There was a naïve directness in all her relations with people. It was always hard for her to act a part. She talked to Walter as a woman naturally talks to a man she loves. Even without Beatrice's hint, he would have understood.
It was a new sensation to feel himself loved so simply and wholly. Such love is rare in this world, and no man sees it offered without a deep feeling of awe. What should he do? Should he turn her loyalty into a derision, as had been the fate of his own? His life counted for very little to him. It had been burnt out. That the love of this fine, clean, loyal young woman might be pleasant to him seemed to count relatively little. He did not feel particularly selfish, he was only a fool. He was sorry for her, and thought he could make her happy.
Beatrice, who knew him better than any other woman did, thought he could. Of course he realized that it was not exactly a romantic proposition. He had small use for romance. But if any one had charged him with planning to seduce Yetta into marriage under pretext of love, he would have indignantly denied it. What does love mean? Undoubtedly his feeling and hers were miles apart. But, after all, he was fond of her. Even in a most impersonal way he admired her immensely. He had liked her spirit from the first. He had not listened unmoved to the story of her struggle of these three years. There was nothing he admired more than such capacity for consistent effort. And it took a serious exercise of will power to think about her impersonally. It was so much easier to lie backon the sand and refresh his senses with the charm of her youth.
Some one might have reminded him that emotionally he was very much of a wreck, that her youth had a right to demand its like, that his wearied disillusionment was no match for her fresh, exuberant faith. He would have answered that she was not a child, she was old enough to choose.
He listened and watched her and the sun slipped down among the Jersey hills.
"It's time to be going back," Yetta said.
"I'm quite happy here, and when we get hungry, there are restaurants about."
"I think Isadore will come to see you to-night. I told him you were due to-day."
"Oh, bother Isadore. Bother everything except this delectable breeze and the smell of the sea and you and me and the moon. Look at it, Yetta. It was at its unforgettable best last night—but it will be better to-night. It's going to be very beautiful right here where we are. And much as I like and admire Isadore, he isn't beautiful.
"Life," he went on in a moment, "and its swirl of duties will grab us soon enough, Yetta. We're going to be too busy on that paper, my friend, to hunt out such places as this. Let's sit very, very still and be happy as long as we may."
They both were very still as they watched the twilight fall over the Bay. The little red and green and white lights of the passing boats swayed softly in the gentle swell. A great liner crept up the channel towards the Narrows, row above row of gleaming portholes. Coney Island—section by section—woketo a glare of electricity. The blade of a searchlight at Fort Hamilton cut great slashes in the night. A strident orchestra in a restaurant behind them tried in vain to attract their attention.
Yetta found it easy to be happy; she felt that Walter approved of her.
"Yetta," he said, rolling over closer to where she sat, her back against the rotting beam of a wrecked ship, "Yetta, I didn't expect to find you so good to look at. I wonder if you know how very beautiful you are."
The wreck against which she leaned cast a moon-shadow across her face, and he could not see the desperate blush which flooded her cheeks and neck. Something laid hold of her heart and told it to be quiet, to beat gently and not to make a noise.
"But that's not the way to begin, Yetta. It's hard for me to say what I want to, because—well—I'm past the poetic age. I couldn't sing now—nor play on a lute—if I tried. Perhaps it's just as well to talk prose, because it's all very serious."
"Since I've finished up this Persian job, I've been thinking a lot about what to do next. I could go on with that kind of work very easily. But I want some more concrete kind of usefulness. You'll know what I mean. I want to make my life count at something more than dry scholarship. And the only thing I can think of that seems worth doing is to pitch in and help Isadore on this paper. We'd need you in the combine. And that means thinking about you. I've done a lot of it. Wondering what manner of person you had grown to be. I was sure we'd be able to work well together. But I did not expect to find you so wonderful. Less than four years ago you were only a girl.You've grown amazingly, Yetta, grown in wisdom and in beauty—beauty of soul and face.
"I'm a lonely and rather battered old bachelor, Yetta. And no man really wants to be a bachelor. Sometimes, coming over on the boat, I thought about you—in that connection. But I couldn't help thinking of you as a young girl, lovable and very dear, but very young. And I'm getting old. My hair is turning gray, and many things turn gray inside, Yetta, before the hair turns. You don't seem so painfully young to me now, and the dream doesn't seem ludicrous. We're going to work together, Yetta, be partners and comrades. I've very little to offer you, but it would be a great thing for me if you would also be my wife."
"I thought you were in love with Mabel," she said.
The cool sound of her words startled her. With the heavens opening, could she speak in so commonplace a voice? They sounded so utterly inadequate that she would have given worlds to have them back, unsaid. It was a moment before he sat up and answered her.
"I was."
"I told you, Yetta," he went on in a moment, "that I'm a bit dilapidated, getting gray.
"Yetta," he began again, forgetting that he was going to let her choose freely, "you believe in the reformation even of criminals. Isn't there any hope for me?"
Her arms were about him, her sobs shook him, he could feel the moisture of her tears against his cheek. Except for the sharp rasp of her breath, they were very still. Suddenly he felt ashamed of himself. Whatdid he have to give her in exchange for such vibrant love? But gradually the sense of contact, the pressure of her arms and her soft young body brushed aside this feeling that he was cheating her. Taking her face in his hands he turned it towards the moon and kissed her. When he held back her head so that the light fell on her face, its deep solemnity frightened him.
"Can't you smile a little?" he asked.
The tears welled up in her eyes again, but a smile such as he had never seen came, too. A laugh rippled up her throat and rang out into the night.
"Oh, Walter, Walter, I'm such a little fool to cry. But if I hadn't cried, I'd have died."
They forgot all about the moon they had waited out to see. Like dozens of other lovers on the beach that night, they forgot about supper. They missed the one o'clock boat and sat outside of the ferryhouse in the shadow of some packing-cases till two o'clock. They decided that it would be fun to walk home through the deserted streets. When they could think of no further reason to pass and repass her door, she kissed him "a really truly good night."
"I'll wake you up by telephone in the morning," she said, "and come round and make your coffee."
For half an hour after she had undressed she sat in her window looking up at the moon above the airshaft. She did not want ever to forget how the moon looked that night. But fearing that she might oversleep and lose the chance to breakfast with him, she at last went to bed.
For an hour more Walter paced up and down in Washington Square, between the sleeping figures huddled up on the park benches or stretched uneasilyon the hard dry ground. He was ill at ease. He wished he might go to a hotel, some place less saturated with memories of Mabel than his own diggings. Had he lied when he had used the past tense about Mabel? Did he love her still? Was it fair to talk marriage to Yetta with this uncertainty in his mind?
"Morbid scruples!" he told himself disgustedly, and went to bed. But he dreamed about Mabel.
Far away in Stamford, she also was late in falling asleep. That evening she and Eleanor had played together for several hours. But at first the music had gone wrong. Mabel, like Beatrice, like Isadore—like everybody—knew that Yetta was in love with Walter. She was thinking about them, wondering about their meeting, and it had thrown her into discord with Eleanor. They had almost had a quarrel over it, for Eleanor guessed the cause. At last, with an effort of will, Mabel had lost herself in the music, a closer harmony than usual had sprung up between the two friends—it had ended as a very happy evening. But after Eleanor fell asleep, the thought of Walter and Yetta came back again disturbingly. Eleanor, Mabel told herself, was a fool to be jealous. She did not love Walter. She would not have left the city except that she wanted to give Yetta a clear field. She hoped they would marry, for she liked them both. But how she envied Yetta! There was no treasure she could dream of which she would not have sacrificed to feel herself in love as Yetta was.
A little after eight in the morning, Walter was shaken out of sleep by the noisy din of his telephone bell.
"Good morning, Beloved," Yetta's fresh voice came to his sleepy ears. "I couldn't call you up before—not till my room-mate went out. I could get dressed and round to your room in three minutes, but I'll give you ten. Put the water on. You can't have slept much, because a lot of times I felt you kiss me."
"Well, don't waste time talking about it," he interrupted. "Hurry."
"All right," and he heard the click of her receiver.
The scruples of the night before had vanished at the sound of her voice. He jumped into his bath and clothes with a keen thrill of expectancy. He sat in the window-seat and watched for her coming. God! What a queer world it was! He had been thinking over the possible expediency of suicide, and now life was opening up to him in thrilling vistas.
He waved his hand when he caught sight of her, and pinched himself to be sure he was awake when he noticed her quicken her pace.
He pretended to scold her for being slow. A dozen times he interrupted the coffee-making at critical moments to kiss her. She said it would surely be spoiled, and he swore he did not care. Yetta pretended to be in a hurry to finish the dishes and get uptown to work. It was a very meagre pretence. And what wonderful plans they made! With his arm about her they explored the two rooms in the back, which the carriage painter used as a storehouse for his brushes and cans. He would have to vacate. One they would turn into a dining-room. Yetta spoke of the other as the guest-room. But Walter christened it "the nursery."
When it was time for lunch, Yetta said she would rather cook than go to a restaurant, so they raided a delicatessen store.
It was during the afternoon that the first shadow fell across their dream. Yetta asked him if he had heard about Mrs. Karner's divorce.
"Yes, I know."
There was a queer ring in his voice which made her look up; something in his face disturbed her.
"What's the matter?"
He took his arms from about her and got up.
"Yetta," he said, pacing the room, "I suppose I'm a fool to ask you. But how much do you want to know? Very few men in this world of ours live up to their own ideals. I certainly haven't. I told you I was getting gray. Well—she's one of the gray spots—inside. I'd rather not tell you about it. It will only hurt you. But I'm not a good liar. You noticed something at the bare mention of her name. But if you want to know, I'll tell you."
For a moment Yetta was silent.
"I think you'd better tell me," she said. "I'm not afraid."
But she was. She had accepted the idea that Mabel had preceded her in his affection. She had not thought of other women. This was disturbing enough. But what really frightened her was that he was reluctant to tell. If there was any one tangible thing which love meant to her, it was frankness. She had told him everything without his asking. Here was something he had held back. What it was did not matter so much as the different point of view it showed. It was startling to realize how very little she knew of his life.
He pulled up a chair beside the window-seat where she lay, and told her about Beatrice; told it in a way that did not make her seem offensive to Yetta. He told the story as truthfully as might be, without giving its real explanation—his heartbreak over Mabel. He did not want to bring this in. If Yetta had asked him point-blank how long it was since he had been in love with Mabel, he would not have tried to deceive her. But the telling of it would only distress her.
"It may not sound to you like a pretty story," he ended. "I'm not proud of it. But I'm not exactly ashamed either. It's a sick sort of a world we live in. There are better days coming when the relations between men and women will be saner and sweeter—and finer. But I don't think more lightly of Beatrice because of this. She's a remarkable woman. Life has not been very kind to her. But she's fought her way to the place where she is through with pretence. That at least was fine about our friendship. We were not pretending. I haven't told it very well, perhaps I haven't made you understand. But I hope Beatrice can look back on it without being ashamed. I can."
Although Yetta listened intently, she was all the time thinking not so much of Mrs. Karner as of what she typified—the unknown life of the man she loved, the things he had not told her.
"Am I forgiven?" he asked, kneeling beside her and taking her hand.
"Oh! Forgiven! That isn't it. Who am I to forgive you or blame you? It's that I don't understand. And when I don't understand, I'm afraid."
"You mustn't be afraid of the past, darling."
"I don't know about that. When it comes to love, I can't think of any past or present or future. It's just somehow eternally always and now and for ever and ever. I'm not sure we can get away from the past. I can't explain it very well, but some things are real and some aren't. I don't think I'll ever get rid of the real things which have come to me. They'll never die."
"Well, don't worry about Beatrice,—that was only an interlude—not 'real.'"
"And Mabel?"
"A dream."
"But some dreams are real," she insisted.
"No dream in all the world, Yetta, is real like your lips."
She wanted so much to be kissed, had been so frightened for a moment, that she sought his arms without questioning this statement. But a few minutes later the thought came to her suddenly that he had kissed Beatrice just as he was kissing her. He felt her wince.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Oh, I'm dizzy. Let me go a minute."
She got up and stood by the window. She was doinghim an injustice. He had never kissed Beatrice as he had just kissed her. But women seem never to understand that it is an utter impossibility for a man to caress different women in the same way. Probably our Father Adam and Mother Eve are the only couple the Earth has seen who have not had words on this subject. If Yetta had spoken out what was in her mind, Walter also would have taken up the age-old argument—in vain. But Yetta did not speak. She was fighting with herself—striving to regain her self-control. She had always believed that jealousy was contemptible. But he had kissed Mrs. Karner just as—
"Still thinking of Beatrice?" he asked quietly.
"Trying not to, Walter. Oh, Beloved, you must be patient with me. It is all so new—so dizzyingly new. I've got to trust you, Walter. I've got to believe every word you say. I know I mustn't have doubts. I've got to believe every word you say"—she repeated it as if giving herself a lesson—"and I do, Walter. I mustn't ever think when you kiss me that perhaps you'd rather kiss some one else—and I won't."
She reached out her arms to him, and blinded by tears she stumbled across the room to him.
Walter should have seized this moment to tell her the whole truth. There is one very strong argument for always telling the truth. It is so desperately hard to know which moments in our rapidly moving life are such as to make a lie fatal.
Most of us believe that ultimately truth will out. But most of us try to control its outings. On the basis of what we vaguely call "worldly wisdom," by silences, by false emphasis—sometimes by frank lies—we try to protect our friends and enemies from the visionof Truth in her disturbing nudity. And there is hardly one of us who would not give his right hand if, in some crisis of his life, he had only had sense enough to tell the whole truth.
There were very real obstacles between Walter and his desire. Between their experiences and their outlooks on life there was a great chasm. But his best chance was to face things frankly.
Beatrice was only an incident. Mabel was a more important matter. But still he could have made out a good case for himself. When he was six—nearly seven—years younger, he had fallen romantically in love with her. He had followed that love with a fidelity which promised well for his future obligations. It had become a habit, and a six years' habit is hard to break. He had come to the realization that this blind infatuation was leading him to waste. With all the manhood he could muster he had tried to break the habit. Sometimes—possibly for a long time to come—the nerve-cells of his brain would fall back into the old ruts. But when this happened, it would be only the ghost of a dead desire. Even the ghost would be laid in time.
He could have told her that the very sense of life which throbbed within them—that made such questions seem of so great importance—laid upon them in no uncertain terms the imperious duty of the future. He had no Romeo-youth to offer her. Some of his hair was gray beyond dispute. But his strong and promising manhood was worth more than any hothouse flowers of romance. He could have offered her the finest of all comradeships, the communion of ideals, the life and labor shared together.
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 attitude 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 appetites 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 wereto 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 theother 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 mass 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 Isadorecould 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 passion—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 passion, 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. Butisn'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."
And so he could not lie. He buried his face once more in his hands. He did not look up when he heard the rustle of her skirts. He did not see her as she picked up her hat and stood there, the tears in her eyes, waiting—hoping that he would say the word.
He did not look up until he heard the door close behind her. He paced the room aimlessly for several minutes, then filled his pipe and, turning out the light, went back to the window-seat. He was not exactly suffering. He felt himself miserably inert and dead.
But one thing he saw clearly—and it made him glad. Yetta's romance had come while she was still young. She was only twenty-two. Life would pick her up again. It might be Isadore, it might be some one else. But her pulse was too strong to let her decay. There are many real joys in life if you get rid of romance early enough.
Time was when he had felt as she did, when nothing but the best seemed worth having. He saw clearly that what he could have given her would not have satisfied her.
Yetta had not stopped to put on her hat. Her eyes dimmed with tears, she had stumbled down the stairs and out across the street into the Square, towards home. Then she remembered that it was early, that her room-mate would be still awake. She could not go home. There were many people about, some stretched on the grass, some grouped on the benches, some strolling about. Many noticed the hatless girl who shuffled along blindly. And presently she ran into Isadore. He also was walking about aimlessly, his head bent, his hands deep in his pockets.
"Good God, Yetta," he cried in amazement, "what's wrong?"
She raised her tear-wet face to him, stretching out her hand towards the familiar voice.
"We're not going to get married," she said.
"Hadn't you better let me take you home?"
"Sadie'll be up. I don't want to go home."
"Well, then, come over here and sit down."
Hardly knowing what she did, she followed him to an empty bench. Now, Isadore did not believe in guardian angels, but something told him not to talk.
"It's like this," Yetta said, feeling that some further explanation was necessary, "he's still in love with Mabel."
And Isadore had sense enough to say nothing at all. Yetta turned about on the bench and, resting her head on her arms, began to sob. Half the night through, Isadore sat beside her there on guard.