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Her mother waited.
“He interests me, I suppose, like the bulldog. And there is much good in him, too; but there is much in him that I would not like. He swears, he smokes, he drinks, he fights. Then he is too strong. My prince must be tall, and slender, and dark – a graceful, bewitching prince. No, there is no danger of my falling in love with Martin Eden.”
“But have you thought about him?” her mother equivocated. “He can fall in love with you?”
“But he does – already,” she cried.
“It was to be expected,” Mrs. Morse said gently.
“I am happy with Martin Eden!” Ruth exclaimed. “No one ever loved me before – no man, I mean, in that way. And I like it. You think I am dreadful, I know, but I am honest, and I tell you just how I feel.”
Mrs. Morse was strangely sad and happy. Her child-daughter, who was a bachelor of arts, was gone; but in her place was a woman-daughter. It was a holy hour for mother and daughter, and their eyes were wet as they talked on in the twilight.
“He is four years younger than you,” Mrs. Morse said. “He has no place in the world. He has neither position nor salary. He is impractical. Martin Eden, I am afraid, will never grow up. He does not take to responsibility and a man’s work in the world like your father did, or like all our friends, Mr. Butler for example. Martin Eden, I am afraid, will never be a money-earner. And in this world money is necessary for happiness.”
“You see, I do not love him.”
“I am glad of that. I do not want my daughter, who is so clean and pure, to love a man like him. There are noble men in the world who are clean and true and manly. Wait for them. You will find one some day, and you will love him and be loved by him, and you will be happy with him as your father and I have been happy with each other. And there is one thing – “
“Yes, mother.”
Mrs. Morse’s voice was low and sweet as she said, “And that is the children.”
“I – have thought about them.”
“And it is that, the children, that makes Mr. Eden impossible,” Mrs. Morse went on incisively. “Their heritage must be clean, and he is, I am afraid, not clean. Your father has told me of sailors’ lives, and – and you understand.”
Ruth pressed her mother’s hand.
“We are women together,” her mother said, drawing her to her and kissing her. “We are women together,” she repeated, as they went out of the room.
“Our little girl has become a woman,” Mrs. Morse said proudly to her husband an hour later.
“That means,” he said, after a long look at his wife, “that means she is in love.”
“No, but that she is loved,” was the answer.
“Then we’ll have to get rid of him.” Mr. Morse spoke briskly, in businesslike tones.
But his wife shook her head. “It will not be necessary. Ruth says he is going to sea in a few days. When he comes back, she will not be here. We will send her to Aunt Clara’s.”
Chapter 19
The desire to write came to Martin again. He composed the so
“I don’t believe you know a word of what you are reading,” she said once when he had finished reading his so
He looked at her with burning eyes.
“I don’t believe you know either. What was the last so
“I don’t know,” she laughed frankly. “I’ve already forgotten. Don’t let us read any more. The day is too beautiful.”
The book slipped from his hands to the ground, and they sat idly and silently. Ruth glanced at his neck. Her shoulder touched his as lightly as a butterfly touches a flower. His lips approached hers.
This must be love, she thought. It could be nothing else than love.
“When did you love me?” she whispered.
“From the first, the very first, the first moment I had seen you. I am mad, now, dear. I am almost a lunatic.”
“I am glad I am a woman, Martin – dear,” she said, after a long sigh.
He crushed her in his arms again and again, and then asked: —
“And you? When did you first know?”
“It came to me suddenly.” She was speaking very slowly. “I never knew until just now when – you put your arms around me. And I never expected to marry you, Martin, not until just now. How did it happen?”
“I don’t know,” he laughed.
“What will my relatives say?” she cried.
“I don’t know.”
“But if mamma objects? I am sure I am afraid to tell her.”
“Let me tell her,” he offered. “I think your mother does not like me, but I can win her sympathy. A fellow who can win you can win anything.”
“I am older than you,” she remarked suddenly, “three years older.”
“Hush, you are only a child, and I am forty years older than you, in experience,” was his answer.
Chapter 20
Mrs. Morse read the advertisement in Ruth’s face when she returned home.
“What has happened?” Mrs. Morse asked.
“You know?” Ruth queried, with trembling lips.
“In the name of goodness, child, what happened?” Mrs. Morse was bewildered.
Ruth looked at her mother in surprise.
“I thought you knew. Why, we’re engaged, Martin and I.”
Mrs. Morse laughed.
“No, he didn’t speak,” Ruth explained. “He just loved me, that was all. I was as surprised as you are. He didn’t say a word. He just put his arm around me. And – and I was not myself. And he kissed me, and I kissed him. And then I knew I loved him.”
She paused, but Mrs. Morse was coldly silent.
“It is a dreadful accident, I know. And I don’t know how you will ever forgive me. I did not dream that I loved him until that moment. And you must tell father.”
“Let me see Martin Eden, and talk with him, and explain. He will understand and release you.”
“No! no!” Ruth cried. “I do not want to be released. I love him, and love is very sweet. I am going to marry him – of course, if you will let me.”
“We have other plans for you, Ruth, dear, your father and I – oh, no, no. You must marry a good and honorable gentleman, whom you will select yourself, when you love him.”
“But I love Martin already,” was the protest.
“We would not influence your choice in any way; but you are our daughter. He has nothing but roughness and coarseness to offer you. He could not support you. We have no foolish ideas about wealth, but our daughter should not marry a pe
Ruth was silent. Every word she recognized as true.
“He wastes his time over his writing. As I have said, and I know you agree with me, he is irresponsible. He is a sailor. It is not his fault, of course, but that does not alter his nature.”
“I have thought. And it is terrible. I told you it was a dreadful accident, but I can’t help myself. There is something in me, in him. I never thought to love him, but, you see, I do,” she concluded.
They talked long, and in conclusion they agreed to wait.
Martin told Ruth about his plans. “I put stamps on all my manuscripts. Tomorrow I start to work.”
“To work!” Ruth cried, pressing his hand, and smiling. “And you never told me! What is your work?”
“I am going to write again.” Her face fell, and he went on hastily. “Don’t misjudge me. I shall earn money. I shall leave masterpieces alone and I shall write jokes, humorous verse, and society verse. Income first, masterpieces afterward. Just to show you, I wrote half a dozen jokes last night for the comic magazines. That will give me time to try bigger things.”
“But what good are these bigger-things, these masterpieces?” Ruth demanded. “You can’t sell them.”
“Oh, yes, I can,” he began; but she interrupted.
“You have not sold any of them. We can’t get married on masterpieces that won’t sell.”
“Then we’ll get married on triolets that will sell. Listen to this, it’s not art, but it’s a dollar. Just listen: