الفصل الفصل 21 · Chapter XXI

. Chapter XXI

Came a beautiful fall day, warm and languid, palpitant with the hush of

the changing season, a California Indian summer day, with hazy sun and

wandering wisps of breeze that did not stir the slumber of the air.

Filmy purple mists, that were not vapors but fabrics woven of color,

hid in the recesses of the hills. San Francisco lay like a blur of

smoke upon her heights. The intervening bay was a dull sheen of molten

metal, whereon sailing craft lay motionless or drifted with the lazy

tide. Far Tamalpais, barely seen in the silver haze, bulked hugely by

the Golden Gate, the latter a pale gold pathway under the westering

sun. Beyond, the Pacific, dim and vast, was raising on its sky-line

tumbled cloud-masses that swept landward, giving warning of the first

blustering breath of winter.

The erasure of summer was at hand. Yet summer lingered, fading and

fainting among her hills, deepening the purple of her valleys, spinning

a shroud of haze from waning powers and sated raptures, dying with the

calm content of having lived and lived well. And among the hills, on

their favorite knoll, Martin and Ruth sat side by side, their heads

bent over the same pages, he reading aloud from the love-sonnets of the

woman who had loved Browning as it is given to few men to be loved.

But the reading languished. The spell of passing beauty all about them

was too strong. The golden year was dying as it had lived, a beautiful

and unrepentant voluptuary, and reminiscent rapture and content

freighted heavily the air. It entered into them, dreamy and languorous,

weakening the fibres of resolution, suffusing the face of morality, or

of judgment, with haze and purple mist. Martin felt tender and melting,

and from time to time warm glows passed over him. His head was very

near to hers, and when wandering phantoms of breeze stirred her hair so

that it touched his face, the printed pages swam before his eyes.

“I don’t believe you know a word of what you are reading,” she said

once when he had lost his place.

He looked at her with burning eyes, and was on the verge of becoming

awkward, when a retort came to his lips.

“I don’t believe you know either. What was the last sonnet about?”

“I don’t know,” she laughed frankly. “I’ve already forgotten. Don’t let

us read any more. The day is too beautiful.”

“It will be our last in the hills for some time,” he announced gravely.

“There’s a storm gathering out there on the sea-rim.”

The book slipped from his hands to the ground, and they sat idly and

silently, gazing out over the dreamy bay with eyes that dreamed and did

not see. Ruth glanced sidewise at his neck. She did not lean toward

him. She was drawn by some force outside of herself and stronger than

gravitation, strong as destiny. It was only an inch to lean, and it was

accomplished without volition on her part. Her shoulder touched his as

lightly as a butterfly touches a flower, and just as lightly was the

counter-pressure. She felt his shoulder press hers, and a tremor run

through him. Then was the time for her to draw back. But she had become

an automaton. Her actions had passed beyond the control of her will—she

never thought of control or will in the delicious madness that was upon

her. His arm began to steal behind her and around her. She waited its

slow progress in a torment of delight. She waited, she knew not for

what, panting, with dry, burning lips, a leaping pulse, and a fever of

expectancy in all her blood. The girdling arm lifted higher and drew

her toward him, drew her slowly and caressingly. She could wait no

longer. With a tired sigh, and with an impulsive movement all her own,

unpremeditated, spasmodic, she rested her head upon his breast. His

head bent over swiftly, and, as his lips approached, hers flew to meet

them.

This must be love, she thought, in the one rational moment that was

vouchsafed her. If it was not love, it was too shameful. It could be

nothing else than love. She loved the man whose arms were around her

and whose lips were pressed to hers. She pressed more tightly to him,

with a snuggling movement of her body. And a moment later, tearing

herself half out of his embrace, suddenly and exultantly she reached up

and placed both hands upon Martin Eden’s sunburnt neck. So exquisite

was the pang of love and desire fulfilled that she uttered a low moan,

relaxed her hands, and lay half-swooning in his arms.

Not a word had been spoken, and not a word was spoken for a long time.

Twice he bent and kissed her, and each time her lips met his shyly and

her body made its happy, nestling movement. She clung to him, unable to

release herself, and he sat, half supporting her in his arms, as he

gazed with unseeing eyes at the blur of the great city across the bay.

For once there were no visions in his brain. Only colors and lights and

glows pulsed there, warm as the day and warm as his love. He bent over

her. She was speaking.

“When did you love me?” she whispered.

“From the first, the very first, the first moment I laid eye on you. I

was mad for love of you then, and in all the time that has passed since

then I have only grown the madder. I am maddest, now, dear. I am almost

a lunatic, my head is so turned with joy.”

“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?”

“Oh, I knew it all the time, almost, from the first.”

“And I have been as blind as a bat!” he cried, a ring of vexation in

his voice. “I never dreamed it until just how, when I—when I kissed

you.”

“I didn’t mean that.” She drew herself partly away and looked at him.

“I meant I knew you loved almost from the first.”

“And you?” he demanded.

“It came to me suddenly.” She was speaking very slowly, her eyes warm

and fluttery and melting, a soft flush on her cheeks that did not go

away. “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

you make me love you?”

“I don’t know,” he laughed, “unless just by loving you, for I loved you

hard enough to melt the heart of a stone, much less the heart of the

living, breathing woman you are.”

“This is so different from what I thought love would be,” she announced

irrelevantly.

“What did you think it would be like?”

“I didn’t think it would be like this.” She was looking into his eyes

at the moment, but her own dropped as she continued, “You see, I didn’t

know what this was like.”

He offered to draw her toward him again, but it was no more than a

tentative muscular movement of the girdling arm, for he feared that he

might be greedy. Then he felt her body yielding, and once again she was

close in his arms and lips were pressed on lips.

“What will my people say?” she queried, with sudden apprehension, in

one of the pauses.

“I don’t know. We can find out very easily any time we are so minded.”

“But if mamma objects? I am sure I am afraid to tell her.”

“Let me tell her,” he volunteered valiantly. “I think your mother does

not like me, but I can win her around. A fellow who can win you can win

anything. And if we don’t—”

“Yes?”

“Why, we’ll have each other. But there’s no danger not winning your

mother to our marriage. She loves you too well.”

“I should not like to break her heart,” Ruth said pensively.

He felt like assuring her that mothers’ hearts were not so easily

broken, but instead he said, “And love is the greatest thing in the

world.”

“Do you know, Martin, you sometimes frighten me. I am frightened now,

when I think of you and of what you have been. You must be very, very

good to me. Remember, after all, that I am only a child. I never loved

before.”

“Nor I. We are both children together. And we are fortunate above most,

for we have found our first love in each other.”

“But that is impossible!” she cried, withdrawing herself from his arms

with a swift, passionate movement. “Impossible for you. You have been a

sailor, and sailors, I have heard, are—are—”

Her voice faltered and died away.

“Are addicted to having a wife in every port?” he suggested. “Is that

what you mean?”

“Yes,” she answered in a low voice.

“But that is not love.” He spoke authoritatively. “I have been in many

ports, but I never knew a passing touch of love until I saw you that

first night. Do you know, when I said good night and went away, I was

almost arrested.”

“Arrested?”

“Yes. The policeman thought I was drunk; and I was, too—with love for

you.”

“But you said we were children, and I said it was impossible, for you,

and we have strayed away from the point.”

“I said that I never loved anybody but you,” he replied. “You are my

first, my very first.”

“And yet you have been a sailor,” she objected.

“But that doesn’t prevent me from loving you the first.”

“And there have been women—other women—oh!”

And to Martin Eden’s supreme surprise, she burst into a storm of tears

that took more kisses than one and many caresses to drive away. And all

the while there was running through his head Kipling’s line: “_And the

Colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady are sisters under their skins_.” It was

true, he decided; though the novels he had read had led him to believe

otherwise. His idea, for which the novels were responsible, had been

that only formal proposals obtained in the upper classes. It was all

right enough, down whence he had come, for youths and maidens to win

each other by contact; but for the exalted personages up above on the

heights to make love in similar fashion had seemed unthinkable. Yet the

novels were wrong. Here was a proof of it. The same pressures and

caresses, unaccompanied by speech, that were efficacious with the girls

of the working-class, were equally efficacious with the girls above the

working-class. They were all of the same flesh, after all, sisters

under their skins; and he might have known as much himself had he

remembered his Spencer. As he held Ruth in his arms and soothed her, he

took great consolation in the thought that the Colonel’s lady and Judy

O’Grady were pretty much alike under their skins. It brought Ruth

closer to him, made her possible. Her dear flesh was as anybody’s

flesh, as his flesh. There was no bar to their marriage. Class

difference was the only difference, and class was extrinsic. It could

be shaken off. A slave, he had read, had risen to the Roman purple.

That being so, then he could rise to Ruth. Under her purity, and

saintliness, and culture, and ethereal beauty of soul, she was, in

things fundamentally human, just like Lizzie Connolly and all Lizzie

Connollys. All that was possible of them was possible of her. She could

love, and hate, maybe have hysterics; and she could certainly be

jealous, as she was jealous now, uttering her last sobs in his arms.

“Besides, I am older than you,” she remarked suddenly, opening her eyes

and looking up at him, “three years older.”

“Hush, you are only a child, and I am forty years older than you, in

experience,” was his answer.

In truth, they were children together, so far as love was concerned,

and they were as naive and immature in the expression of their love as

a pair of children, and this despite the fact that she was crammed with

a university education and that his head was full of scientific

philosophy and the hard facts of life.

They sat on through the passing glory of the day, talking as lovers are

prone to talk, marvelling at the wonder of love and at destiny that had

flung them so strangely together, and dogmatically believing that they

loved to a degree never attained by lovers before. And they returned

insistently, again and again, to a rehearsal of their first impressions

of each other and to hopeless attempts to analyze just precisely what

they felt for each other and how much there was of it.

The cloud-masses on the western horizon received the descending sun,

and the circle of the sky turned to rose, while the zenith glowed with

the same warm color. The rosy light was all about them, flooding over

them, as she sang, “Good-by, Sweet Day.” She sang softly, leaning in

the cradle of his arm, her hands in his, their hearts in each other’s

hands.