第 二十六 章 · Chapter XXVI

. Chapter XXVI

Martin Eden did not go out to hunt for a job in the morning. It was

late afternoon before he came out of his delirium and gazed with aching

eyes about the room. Mary, one of the tribe of Silva, eight years old,

keeping watch, raised a screech at sight of his returning

consciousness. Maria hurried into the room from the kitchen. She put

her work-calloused hand upon his hot forehead and felt his pulse.

“You lika da eat?” she asked.

He shook his head. Eating was farthest from his desire, and he wondered

that he should ever have been hungry in his life.

“I’m sick, Maria,” he said weakly. “What is it? Do you know?”

“Grip,” she answered. “Two or three days you alla da right. Better you

no eat now. Bimeby plenty can eat, to-morrow can eat maybe.”

Martin was not used to sickness, and when Maria and her little girl

left him, he essayed to get up and dress. By a supreme exertion of

will, with rearing brain and eyes that ached so that he could not keep

them open, he managed to get out of bed, only to be left stranded by

his senses upon the table. Half an hour later he managed to regain the

bed, where he was content to lie with closed eyes and analyze his

various pains and weaknesses. Maria came in several times to change the

cold cloths on his forehead. Otherwise she left him in peace, too wise

to vex him with chatter. This moved him to gratitude, and he murmured

to himself, “Maria, you getta da milka ranch, all righta, all right.”

Then he remembered his long-buried past of yesterday.

It seemed a life-time since he had received that letter from the

_Transcontinental_, a life-time since it was all over and done with and

a new page turned. He had shot his bolt, and shot it hard, and now he

was down on his back. If he hadn’t starved himself, he wouldn’t have

been caught by La Grippe. He had been run down, and he had not had the

strength to throw off the germ of disease which had invaded his system.

This was what resulted.

“What does it profit a man to write a whole library and lose his own

life?” he demanded aloud. “This is no place for me. No more literature

in mine. Me for the counting-house and ledger, the monthly salary, and

the little home with Ruth.”

Two days later, having eaten an egg and two slices of toast and drunk a

cup of tea, he asked for his mail, but found his eyes still hurt too

much to permit him to read.

“You read for me, Maria,” he said. “Never mind the big, long letters.

Throw them under the table. Read me the small letters.”

“No can,” was the answer. “Teresa, she go to school, she can.”

So Teresa Silva, aged nine, opened his letters and read them to him. He

listened absently to a long dun from the type-writer people, his mind

busy with ways and means of finding a job. Suddenly he was shocked back

to himself.

“‘We offer you forty dollars for all serial rights in your story,’”

Teresa slowly spelled out, “‘provided you allow us to make the

alterations suggested.’”

“What magazine is that?” Martin shouted. “Here, give it to me!”

He could see to read, now, and he was unaware of the pain of the

action. It was the _White Mouse_ that was offering him forty dollars,

and the story was “The Whirlpool,” another of his early horror stories.

He read the letter through again and again. The editor told him plainly

that he had not handled the idea properly, but that it was the idea

they were buying because it was original. If they could cut the story

down one-third, they would take it and send him forty dollars on

receipt of his answer.

He called for pen and ink, and told the editor he could cut the story

down three-thirds if he wanted to, and to send the forty dollars right

along.

The letter despatched to the letter-box by Teresa, Martin lay back and

thought. It wasn’t a lie, after all. The _White Mouse_ paid on

acceptance. There were three thousand words in “The Whirlpool.” Cut

down a third, there would be two thousand. At forty dollars that would

be two cents a word. Pay on acceptance and two cents a word—the

newspapers had told the truth. And he had thought the _White Mouse_ a

third-rater! It was evident that he did not know the magazines. He had

deemed the _Transcontinental_ a first-rater, and it paid a cent for ten

words. He had classed the _White Mouse_ as of no account, and it paid

twenty times as much as the_ Transcontinental_ and also had paid on

acceptance.

Well, there was one thing certain: when he got well, he would not go

out looking for a job. There were more stories in his head as good as

“The Whirlpool,” and at forty dollars apiece he could earn far more

than in any job or position. Just when he thought the battle lost, it

was won. He had proved for his career. The way was clear. Beginning

with the _White Mouse_ he would add magazine after magazine to his

growing list of patrons. Hack-work could be put aside. For that matter,

it had been wasted time, for it had not brought him a dollar. He would

devote himself to work, good work, and he would pour out the best that

was in him. He wished Ruth was there to share in his joy, and when he

went over the letters left lying on his bed, he found one from her. It

was sweetly reproachful, wondering what had kept him away for so

dreadful a length of time. He reread the letter adoringly, dwelling

over her handwriting, loving each stroke of her pen, and in the end

kissing her signature.

And when he answered, he told her recklessly that he had not been to

see her because his best clothes were in pawn. He told her that he had

been sick, but was once more nearly well, and that inside ten days or

two weeks (as soon as a letter could travel to New York City and

return) he would redeem his clothes and be with her.

But Ruth did not care to wait ten days or two weeks. Besides, her lover

was sick. The next afternoon, accompanied by Arthur, she arrived in the

Morse carriage, to the unqualified delight of the Silva tribe and of

all the urchins on the street, and to the consternation of Maria. She

boxed the ears of the Silvas who crowded about the visitors on the tiny

front porch, and in more than usual atrocious English tried to

apologize for her appearance. Sleeves rolled up from soap-flecked arms

and a wet gunny-sack around her waist told of the task at which she had

been caught. So flustered was she by two such grand young people asking

for her lodger, that she forgot to invite them to sit down in the

little parlor. To enter Martin’s room, they passed through the kitchen,

warm and moist and steamy from the big washing in progress. Maria, in

her excitement, jammed the bedroom and bedroom-closet doors together,

and for five minutes, through the partly open door, clouds of steam,

smelling of soap-suds and dirt, poured into the sick chamber.

Ruth succeeded in veering right and left and right again, and in

running the narrow passage between table and bed to Martin’s side; but

Arthur veered too wide and fetched up with clatter and bang of pots and

pans in the corner where Martin did his cooking. Arthur did not linger

long. Ruth occupied the only chair, and having done his duty, he went

outside and stood by the gate, the centre of seven marvelling Silvas,

who watched him as they would have watched a curiosity in a side-show.

All about the carriage were gathered the children from a dozen blocks,

waiting and eager for some tragic and terrible dénouement. Carriages

were seen on their street only for weddings and funerals. Here was

neither marriage nor death: therefore, it was something transcending

experience and well worth waiting for.

Martin had been wild to see Ruth. His was essentially a love-nature,

and he possessed more than the average man’s need for sympathy. He was

starving for sympathy, which, with him, meant intelligent

understanding; and he had yet to learn that Ruth’s sympathy was largely

sentimental and tactful, and that it proceeded from gentleness of

nature rather than from understanding of the objects of her sympathy.

So it was while Martin held her hand and gladly talked, that her love

for him prompted her to press his hand in return, and that her eyes

were moist and luminous at sight of his helplessness and of the marks

suffering had stamped upon his face.

But while he told her of his two acceptances, of his despair when he

received the one from the _Transcontinental_, and of the corresponding

delight with which he received the one from the _White Mouse_, she did

not follow him. She heard the words he uttered and understood their

literal import, but she was not with him in his despair and his

delight. She could not get out of herself. She was not interested in

selling stories to magazines. What was important to her was matrimony.

She was not aware of it, however, 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?”

“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.”

“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.”

“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 it showed signs of recent travel. At one

place it ran along the crest of a ridge that was no more than a

knife-edge. The trail wasn’t three feet wide on the crest, and on

either side the ridge fell away in precipices hundreds of feet deep.

One man, with plenty of ammunition, could have held it against a

hundred thousand.

“It was the only way in to the hiding-place. Three hours after I found

the trail I was there, in a little mountain valley, a pocket in the

midst of lava peaks. The whole place was terraced for taro-patches,

fruit trees grew there, and there were eight or ten grass huts. But as

soon as I saw the inhabitants I knew what I’d struck. One sight of them

was enough.”

“What did you do?” Ruth demanded breathlessly, listening, like any

Desdemona, appalled and fascinated.

“Nothing for me to do. Their leader was a kind old fellow, pretty far

gone, but he ruled like a king. He had discovered the little valley and

founded the settlement—all of which was against the law. But he had

guns, plenty of ammunition, and those Kanakas, trained to the shooting

of wild cattle and wild pig, were dead shots. No, there wasn’t any

running away for Martin Eden. He stayed—for three months.”

“But how did you escape?”

“I’d have been there yet, if it hadn’t been for a girl there, a

half-Chinese, quarter-white, and quarter-Hawaiian. She was a beauty,

poor thing, and well educated. Her mother, in Honolulu, was worth a

million or so. Well, this girl got me away at last. Her mother financed

the settlement, you see, so the girl wasn’t afraid of being punished

for letting me go. But she made me swear, first, never to reveal the

hiding-place; and I never have. This is the first time I have even

mentioned it. The girl had just the first signs of leprosy. The fingers

of her right hand were slightly twisted, and there was a small spot on

her arm. That was all. I guess she is dead, now.”

“But weren’t you frightened? And weren’t you glad to get away without

catching that dreadful disease?”

“Well,” he confessed, “I was a bit shivery at first; but I got used to

it. I used to feel sorry for that poor girl, though. That made me

forget to be afraid. She was such a beauty, in spirit as well as in

appearance, and she was only slightly touched; yet she was doomed to

lie there, living the life of a primitive savage and rotting slowly

away. Leprosy is far more terrible than you can imagine it.”

“Poor thing,” Ruth murmured softly. “It’s a wonder she let you get

away.”

“How do you mean?” Martin asked unwittingly.

“Because she must have loved you,” Ruth said, still softly. “Candidly,

now, didn’t she?”

Martin’s sunburn had been bleached by his work in the laundry and by

the indoor life he was living, while the hunger and the sickness had

made his face even pale; and across this pallor flowed the slow wave of

a blush. He was opening his mouth to speak, but Ruth shut him off.

“Never mind, don’t answer; it’s not necessary,” she laughed.

But it seemed to him there was something metallic in her laughter, and

that the light in her eyes was cold. On the spur of the moment it

reminded him of a gale he had once experienced in the North Pacific.

And for the moment the apparition of the gale rose before his eyes—a

gale at night, with a clear sky and under a full moon, the huge seas

glinting coldly in the moonlight. Next, he saw the girl in the leper

refuge and remembered it was for love of him that she had let him go.

“She was noble,” he said simply. “She gave me life.”

That was all of the incident, but he heard Ruth muffle a dry sob in her

throat, and noticed that she turned her face away to gaze out of the

window. When she turned it back to him, it was composed, and there was

no hint of the gale in her eyes.

“I’m such a silly,” she said plaintively. “But I can’t help it. I do so

love you, Martin, I do, I do. I shall grow more catholic in time, but

at present I can’t help being jealous of those ghosts of the past, and

you know your past is full of ghosts.”

“It must be,” she silenced his protest. “It could not be otherwise. And

there’s poor Arthur motioning me to come. He’s tired waiting. And now

good-by, dear.”

“There’s some kind of a mixture, put up by the druggists, that helps

men to stop the use of tobacco,” she called back from the door, “and I

am going to send you some.”

The door closed, but opened again.

“I do, I do,” she whispered to him; and this time she was really gone.

Maria, with worshipful eyes that none the less were keen to note the

texture of Ruth’s garments and the cut of them (a cut unknown that

produced an effect mysteriously beautiful), saw her to the carriage.

The crowd of disappointed urchins stared till the carriage disappeared

from view, then transferred their stare to Maria, who had abruptly

become the most important person on the street. But it was one of her

progeny who blasted Maria’s reputation by announcing that the grand

visitors had been for her lodger. After that Maria dropped back into

her old obscurity and Martin began to notice the respectful manner in

which he was regarded by the small fry of the neighborhood. As for

Maria, Martin rose in her estimation a full hundred per cent, and had

the Portuguese grocer witnessed that afternoon carriage-call he would

have allowed Martin an additional three-dollars-and-eighty-five-cents’

worth of credit.