Comrade Yetta

by Albert Edwards

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 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?"