When the first worry was over, Yetta entered into a period of perfect peace. The conviction which had grown on her gradually—unnoticed at first—that she "really loved" Isadore, solidified. She had counted on finding it pleasant to take care of him; she had found it so in the city, it proved unexpectedly sweet here in the woods. In New York she had been only an accident; a dozen others could have nursed him just as well. Here she was all he had. Here too she could give all her time to him. He was as helpless as a baby at first, and submitted docilely to her loving tyranny. She had never "kept house" for any one before. In the kitchen of the little cabin—walking about on tiptoe, so as not to disturb his health-bringing sleep—she found a very real delight in the new experience of cooking a meal for her man, in washing and mending his clothes.
Even more pleasant to her was the utter intimacy which their isolation forced on them. Whenever he was awake, they talked—of everything under the sun, except The Clarion. They had agreed to forget that. After a couple of weeks, when he had grown a little stronger, she read to him. She found it embarrassing at first, almost as if it were immodest. She had never read aloud before. The joy of books had been something entirely individual. She was unaccustomed to launch out on the adventure of a new point of view in company. But after the first diffidence had worn off, it proved an undreamed-of delight. Now and again one or the other would interrupt the reading to think out loud. "Let's hear that again," he would say. Or, "I must read that passage over. Isn't it fine?" she would break out.
Almost all of Isadore's reading had been historical or scientific. He had no idea of grace in writing. "Force" and "Truth" were the only literary qualities he recognized. Meredith, who had been one of Yetta's favorites rather weakened under his incisive criticism. Zola's "Labor" they both liked. Poetry generally went wrong. Swinburne, whose luxurious music hypnotized Yetta past all comprehension of what he was talking about, disgusted Isadore—until Yetta came to "The lie on the lips of the priests and the blood on the hands of the Kings."
"That's good business," Isadore said. "Why didn't he stick to that style?"
It was the other way round with Henley. He fared better at first. Isadore liked the hospital verses. But when they came to "I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul," Isadore revolted.
"Do you really suppose he believed that rot?"
"Of course," Yetta said. "Don't you?"
"Not for a minute. You've been the master of my fate these last few years."
Naturally Yetta forgave him for disagreeing with Henley.
But there was a cloud in the sky—even these delicious, peaceful days. Yetta vaguely dreaded the time when Isadore would be quite well. She was no longer the unsophisticated girl who had promised to live with Harry Klein without knowing what it meant. She knew it was impossible to continue this pleasant relationship of nurse and patient. Sooner or later he would revolt from his rôle—he would want something quite different from nursing.