Chapter XIX

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　Ruth and her family were home again, and Martin, returned toOakland, saw much of her. Having gained her degree, she was doingno more studying; and he, having worked all vitality out of hismind and body, was doing no writing. This gave them time for eachother that they had never had before, and their intimacy ripenedfast.At first, Martin had done nothing but rest. He had slept a greatdeal, and spent long hours musing and thinking and doing nothing.He was like one recovering from some terrible bout if hardship.The first signs of reawakening came when he discovered more thanlanguid interest in the daily paper. Then he began to read again -light novels, and poetry; and after several days more he was headover heels in his long-neglected Fiske. His splendid body andhealth made new vitality, and he possessed all the resiliency andrebound of youth.Ruth showed her disappointment plainly when he announced that hewas going to sea for another voyage as soon as he was well rested."Why do you want to do that?" she asked."Money," was the answer. "I'll have to lay in a supply for my nextattack on the editors. Money is the sinews of war, in my case -money and patience.""But if all you wanted was money, why didn't you stay in thelaundry?""Because the laundry was making a beast of me. Too much work ofthat sort drives to drink."She stared at him with horror in her eyes."Do you mean - ?" she quavered.It would have been easy for him to get out of it; but his naturalimpulse was for frankness, and he remembered his old resolve to befrank, no matter what happened."Yes," he answered. "Just that. Several times."She shivered and drew away from him."No man that I have ever known did that - ever did that.""Then they never worked in the laundry at Shelly Hot Springs," helaughed bitterly. "Toil is a good thing. It is necessary forhuman health, so all the preachers say, and Heaven knows I've neverbeen afraid of it. But there is such a thing as too much of a goodthing, and the laundry up there is one of them. And that's why I'mgoing to sea one more voyage. It will be my last, I think, forwhen I come back, I shall break into the magazines. I am certainof it."She was silent, unsympathetic, and he watched her moodily,realizing how impossible it was for her to understand what he hadbeen through."Some day I shall write it up - 'The Degradation of Toil' or the'Psychology of Drink in the Working-class,' or something like thatfor a title."Never, since the first meeting, had they seemed so far apart asthat day. His confession, told in frankness, with the spirit ofrevolt behind, had repelled her. But she was more shocked by therepulsion itself than by the cause of it. It pointed out to herhow near she had drawn to him, and once accepted, it paved the wayfor greater intimacy. Pity, too, was aroused, and innocent,idealistic thoughts of reform. She would save this raw young manwho had come so far. She would save him from the curse of hisearly environment, and she would save him from himself in spite ofhimself. And all this affected her as a very noble state ofconsciousness; nor did she dream that behind it and underlying itwere the jealousy and desire of love.They rode on their wheels much in the delightful fall weather, andout in the hills they read poetry aloud, now one and now the other,noble, uplifting poetry that turned one's thoughts to higherthings. Renunciation, sacrifice, patience, industry, and highendeavor were the principles she thus indirectly preached - suchabstractions being objectified in her mind by her father, and Mr.Butler, and by Andrew Carnegie, who, from a poor immigrant boy hadarisen to be the book-giver of the world. All of which wasappreciated and enjoyed by Martin. He followed her mentalprocesses more clearly now, and her soul was no longer the sealedwonder it had been. He was on terms of intellectual equality withher. But the points of disagreement did not affect his love. Hislove was more ardent than ever, for he loved her for what she was,and even her physical frailty was an added charm in his eyes. Heread of sickly Elizabeth Barrett, who for years had not placed herfeet upon the ground, until that day of flame when she eloped withBrowning and stood upright, upon the earth, under the open sky; andwhat Browning had done for her, Martin decided he could do forRuth. But first, she must love him. The rest would be easy. Hewould give her strength and health. And he caught glimpses oftheir life, in the years to come, wherein, against a background ofwork and comfort and general well-being, he saw himself and Ruthreading and discussing poetry, she propped amid a multitude ofcushions on the ground while she read aloud to him. This was thekey to the life they would live. And always he saw that particularpicture. Sometimes it was she who leaned against him while heread, one arm about her, her head upon his shoulder. Sometimesthey pored together over the printed pages of beauty. Then, too,she loved nature, and with generous imagination he changed thescene of their reading - sometimes they read in closed-in valleyswith precipitous walls, or in high mountain meadows, and, again,down by the gray sand-dunes with a wreath of billows at their feet,or afar on some volcanic tropic isle where waterfalls descended andbecame mist, reaching the sea in vapor veils that swayed andshivered to every vagrant wisp of wind. But always, in theforeground, lords of beauty and eternally reading and sharing, layhe and Ruth, and always in the background that was beyond thebackground of nature, dim and hazy, were work and success and moneyearned that made them free of the world and all its treasures."I should recommend my little girl to be careful," her motherwarned her one day."I know what you mean. But it is impossible. He if; not - "Ruth was blushing, but it was the blush of maidenhood called uponfor the first time to discuss the sacred things of life with amother held equally sacred."Your kind." Her mother finished the sentence for her.Ruth nodded."I did not want to say it, but he is not. He is rough, brutal,strong - too strong. He has not - "She hesitated and could not go on. It was a new experience,talking over such matters with her mother. And again her mothercompleted her thought for her."He has not lived a clean life, is what you wanted to say."Again Ruth nodded, and again a blush mantled her face."It is just that," she said. "It has not been his fault, but hehas played much with - ""With pitch?""Yes, with pitch. And he frightens me. Sometimes I am positivelyin terror of him, when he talks in that free and easy way of thethings he has done - as if they did not matter. They do matter,don't they?"They sat with their arms twined around each other, and in the pauseher mother patted her hand and waited for her to go on."But I am interested in him dreadfully," she continued. "In a wayhe is my protege. Then, too, he is my first boy friend - but notexactly friend; rather protege and friend combined. Sometimes,too, when he frightens me, it seems that he is a bulldog I havetaken for a plaything, like some of the 'frat' girls, and he istugging hard, and showing his teeth, and threatening to breakloose."Again her mother waited."He interests me, I suppose, like the bulldog. And there is muchgood in him, too; but there is much in him that I would not like in- in the other way. You see, I have been thinking. He swears, hesmokes, he drinks, he has fought with his fists (he has told me so,and he likes it; he says so). He is all that a man should not be -a man I would want for my - " her voice sank very low - "husband.Then he is too strong. My prince must be tall, and slender, anddark - a graceful, bewitching prince. No, there is no danger of myfailing in love with Martin Eden. It would be the worst fate thatcould befall me.""But it is not that that I spoke about," her mother equivocated."Have you thought about him? He is so ineligible in every way, youknow, and suppose he should come to love you?""But he does - already," she cried."It was to be expected," Mrs. Morse said gently. "How could it beotherwise with any one who knew you?""Olney hates me!" she exclaimed passionately. "And I hate Olney.I feel always like a cat when he is around. I feel that I must benasty to him, and even when I don't happen to feel that way, why,he's nasty to me, anyway. But I am happy with Martin Eden. No oneever loved me before - no man, I mean, in that way. And it issweet to be loved - that way. You know what I mean, mother dear.It is sweet to feel that you are really and truly a woman." Sheburied her face in her mother's lap, sobbing. "You think I amdreadful, I know, but I am honest, and I tell you just how I feel."Mrs. Morse was strangely sad and happy. Her child-daughter, whowas a bachelor of arts, was gone; but in her place was a woman-daughter. The experiment had succeeded. The strange void inRuth's nature had been filled, and filled without danger orpenalty. This rough sailor-fellow had been the instrument, and,though Ruth did not love him, he had made her conscious of herwomanhood."His hand trembles," Ruth was confessing, her face, for shame'ssake, still buried. "It is most amusing and ridiculous, but I feelsorry for him, too. And when his hands are too trembly, and hiseyes too shiny, why, I lecture him about his life and the wrong wayhe is going about it to mend it. But he worships me, I know. Hiseyes and his hands do not lie. And it makes me feel grown-up, thethought of it, the very thought of it; and I feel that I ampossessed of something that is by rights my own - that makes melike the other girls - and - and young women. And, then, too, Iknew that I was not like them before, and I knew that it worriedyou. You thought you did not let me know that dear worry of yours,but I did, and I wanted to - 'to make good,' as Martin Eden says."It was a holy hour for mother and daughter, and their eyes were wetas they talked on in the twilight, Ruth all white innocence andfrankness, her mother sympathetic, receptive, yet calmly explainingand guiding."He is four years younger than you," she said. "He has no place inthe world. He has neither position nor salary. He is impractical.Loving you, he should, in the name of common sense, be doingsomething that would give him the right to marry, instead ofpaltering around with those stories of his and with childishdreams. Martin Eden, I am afraid, will never grow up. He does nottake to responsibility and a man's work in the world like yourfather did, or like all our friends, Mr. Butler for one. MartinEden, I am afraid, will never be a money-earner. And this world isso ordered that money is necessary to happiness - oh, no, not theseswollen fortunes, but enough of money to permit of common comfortand decency. He - he has never spoken?""He has not breathed a word. He has not attempted to; but if hedid, I would not let him, because, you see, I do not love him.""I am glad of that. I should not care to see my daughter, my onedaughter, who is so clean and pure, love a man like him. There arenoble men in the world who are clean and true and manly. Wait forthem. You will find one some day, and you will love him and beloved by him, and you will be happy with him as your father and Ihave been happy with each other. And there is one thing you mustalways carry in mind - ""Yes, mother."Mrs. Morse's voice was low and sweet as she said, "And that is thechildren.""I - have thought about them," Ruth confessed, remembering thewanton thoughts that had vexed her in the past, her face again redwith maiden shame that she should be telling such things."And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible,"Mrs. Morse went on incisively. "Their heritage must be clean, andhe is, I am afraid, not clean. Your father has told me of sailors'lives, and - and you understand."Ruth pressed her mother's hand in assent, feeling that she reallydid understand, though her conception was of something vague,remote, and terrible that was beyond the scope of imagination."You know I do nothing without telling you," she began. " - Only,sometimes you must ask me, like this time. I wanted to tell you,but I did not know how. It is false modesty, I know it is that,but you can make it easy for me. Sometimes, like this time, youmust ask me, you must give me a chance.""Why, mother, you are a woman, too!" she cried exultantly, as theystood up, catching her mother's hands and standing erect, facingher in the twilight, conscious of a strangely sweet equalitybetween them. "I should never have thought of you in that way ifwe had not had this talk. I had to learn that I was a woman toknow that you were one, too.""We are women together," her mother said, drawing her to her andkissing her. "We are women together," she repeated, as they wentout of the room, their arms around each other's waists, theirhearts swelling with a new sense of companionship."Our little girl has become a woman," Mrs. Morse said proudly toher husband an hour later."That means," he said, after a long look at his wife, "that meansshe is in love.""No, but that she is loved," was the smiling rejoinder. "Theexperiment has succeeded. She is awakened at last.""Then we'll have to get rid of him." Mr. Morse spoke briskly, inmatter-of-fact, businesslike tones.But his wife shook her head. "It will not be necessary. Ruth sayshe is going to sea in a few days. When he comes back, she will notbe here. We will send her to Aunt Clara's. And, besides, a yearin the East, with the change in climate, people, ideas, andeverything, is just the thing she needs."