any more than she was aware that her desire that Martin take a
position was the instinctive and preparative impulse of motherhood.
She would have blushed had she been told as much in plain, set
terms, and next, she might have grown indignant and asserted that
her sole interest lay in the man she loved and her desire for him
to make the best of himself. So, while Martin poured out his heart
to her, elated with the first success his chosen work in the world
had received, she paid heed to his bare words only, gazing now and
again about the room, shocked by what she saw.
For the first time Ruth gazed upon the sordid face of poverty.
Starving lovers had always seemed romantic to her, – but she had
had no idea how starving lovers lived. She had never dreamed it
could be like this. Ever her gaze shifted from the room to him and
back again. The steamy smell of dirty clothes, which had entered
with her from the kitchen, was sickening. Martin must be soaked
with it, Ruth concluded, if that awful woman washed frequently.
Such was the contagiousness of degradation. When she looked at
Martin, she seemed to see the smirch left upon him by his
surroundings. She had never seen him unshaven, and the three days’
growth of beard on his face was repulsive to her. Not alone did it
give him the same dark and murky aspect of the Silva house, inside
and out, but it seemed to emphasize that animal-like strength of
his which she detested. And here he was, being confirmed in his
madness by the two acceptances he took such pride in telling her
about. A little longer and he would have surrendered and gone to
work. Now he would continue on in this horrible house, writing and
starving for a few more months.
“What is that smell?” she asked suddenly.
“Some of Maria’s washing smells, I imagine,” was the answer. “I am
growing quite accustomed to them.”
“No, no; not that. It is something else. A stale, sickish smell.”
Martin sampled the air before replying.
“I can’t smell anything else, except stale tobacco smoke,” he
announced.
“That’s it. It is terrible. Why do you smoke so much, Martin?”
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147
“I don’t know, except that I smoke more than usual when I am
lonely. And then, too, it’s such a long-standing habit. I learned
when I was only a youngster.”
“It is not a nice habit, you know,” she reproved. “It smells to
heaven.”
“That’s the fault of the tobacco. I can afford only the cheapest.
But wait until I get that forty-dollar check. I’ll use a brand
that is not offensive even to the angels. But that wasn’t so bad,
was it, two acceptances in three days? That forty-five dollars
will pay about all my debts.”
“For two years’ work?” she queried.
“No, for less than a week’s work. Please pass me that book over on
the far corner of the table, the account book with the gray cover.”
He opened it and began turning over the pages rapidly. “Yes, I was
right. Four days for ‘The Ring of Bells,’ two days for ‘The
Whirlpool.’ That’s forty-five dollars for a week’s work, one
hundred and eighty dollars a month. That beats any salary I can
command. And, besides, I’m just beginning. A thousand dollars a
month is not too much to buy for you all I want you to have. A
salary of five hundred a month would be too small. That forty-five
dollars is just a starter. Wait till I get my stride. Then watch
my smoke.”
Ruth misunderstood his slang, and reverted to cigarettes.
“You smoke more than enough as it is, and the brand of tobacco will
make no difference. It is the smoking itself that is not nice, no
matter what the brand may be. You are a chimney, a living volcano,
a perambulating smoke-stack, and you are a perfect disgrace, Martin
dear, you know you are.”
She leaned toward him, entreaty in her eyes, and as he looked at
her delicate face and into her pure, limpid eyes, as of old he was
struck with his own unworthiness.
“I wish you wouldn’t smoke any more,” she whispered. “Please, for
– my sake.”
“All right, I won’t,” he cried. “I’ll do anything you ask, dear
love, anything; you know that.”
A great temptation assailed her. In an insistent way she had
caught glimpses of the large, easy-going side of his nature, and
she felt sure, if she asked him to cease attempting to write, that
he would grant her wish. In the swift instant that elapsed, the
words trembled on her lips. But she did not utter them. She was
not quite brave enough; she did not quite dare. Instead, she
leaned toward him to meet him, and in his arms murmured:-
“You know, it is really not for my sake, Martin, but for your own.
I am sure smoking hurts you; and besides, it is not good to be a
slave to anything, to a drug least of all.”
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“I shall always be your slave,” he smiled.
“In which case, I shall begin issuing my commands.”
She looked at him mischievously, though deep down she was already
regretting that she had not preferred her largest request.
“I live but to obey, your majesty.”
“Well, then, my first commandment is, Thou shalt not omit to shave
every day. Look how you have scratched my cheek.”
And so it ended in caresses and love-laughter. But she had made
one point, and she could not expect to make more than one at a
time. She felt a woman’s pride in that she had made him stop
smoking. Another time she would persuade him to take a position,
for had he not said he would do anything she asked?
She left his side to explore the room, examining the clothes-lines
of notes overhead, learning the mystery of the tackle used for
suspending his wheel under the ceiling, and being saddened by the
heap of manuscripts under the table which represented to her just
so much wasted time. The oil-stove won her admiration, but on
investigating the food shelves she found them empty.
“Why, you haven’t anything to eat, you poor dear,” she said with
tender compassion. “You must be starving.”
“I store my food in Maria’s safe and in her pantry,” he lied. “It
keeps better there. No danger of my starving. Look at that.”
She had come back to his side, and she saw him double his arm at
the elbow, the biceps crawling under his shirt-sleeve and swelling
into a knot of muscle, heavy and hard. The sight repelled her.
Sentimentally, she disliked it. But her pulse, her blood, every
fibre of her, loved it and yearned for it, and, in the old,
inexplicable way, she leaned toward him, not away from him. And in
the moment that followed, when he crushed her in his arms, the
brain of her, concerned with the superficial aspects of life, was
in revolt; while the heart of her, the woman of her, concerned with
life itself, exulted triumphantly. It was in moments like this
that she felt to the uttermost the greatness of her love for
Martin, for it was almost a swoon of delight to her to feel his
strong arms about her, holding her tightly, hurting her with the
grip of their fervor. At such moments she found justification for
her treason to her standards, for her violation of her own high
ideals, and, most of all, for her tacit disobedience to her mother
and father. They did not want her to marry this man. It shocked
them that she should love him. It shocked her, too, sometimes,
when she was apart from him, a cool and reasoning creature. With
him, she loved him – in truth, at times a vexed and worried love;
but love it was, a love that was stronger than she.
“This La Grippe is nothing,” he was saying. “It hurts a bit, and
gives one a nasty headache, but it doesn’t compare with break-bone
fever.”
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149
“Have you had that, too?” she queried absently, intent on the
heaven-sent justification she was finding in his arms.
And so, with absent queries, she led him on, till suddenly his
words startled her.
He had had the fever in a secret colony of thirty lepers on one of
the Hawaiian Islands.
“But why did you go there?” she demanded.
Such royal carelessness of body seemed criminal.
“Because I didn’t know,” he answered. “I never dreamed of lepers.
When I deserted the schooner and landed on the beach, I headed
inland for some place of hiding. For three days I lived off
guavas, OHIA-apples, and bananas, all of which grew wild in the
jungle. On the fourth day I found the trail – a mere foot-trail.
It led inland, and it led up. It was the way I wanted to go, and