Mrs. Morse did not require a mother's intuition to read the advertisement in Ruth's face when she returned home. The flush that would not leave the cheeks told the simple story, and more eloquently did the eyes, large and bright, reflecting an unmistakable inward glory.

"What has happened?" Mrs. Morse asked, having bided her time till Ruth had gone to bed.

"You know?" Ruth queried, with trembling lips.

For reply, her mother's arm went around her, and a hand was softly caressing her hair.

"He did not speak," she blurted out. "I did not intend that it should happen, and I would never have let him speak - only he didn't speak."

"But if he did not speak, then nothing could have happened, could it?"

"But it did, just the same."

"In the name of goodness, child, what are you babbling about?" Mrs. Morse was bewildered. "I don't think know what happened, after all. What did happen?"

Ruth looked at her mother in surprise.

"I thought you knew. Why, we're engaged, Martin and I."

Mrs. Morse laughed with incredulous vexation.

"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. I couldn't help it. I just had to. And then I knew I loved him."

She paused, waiting with expectancy the benediction of her mother's kiss, but Mrs. Morse was coldly silent.

"It is a dreadful accident, I know," Ruth recommenced with a sinking voice. "And I don't know how you will ever forgive me. But I couldn't help it. I did not dream that I loved him until that moment. And you must tell father for me."

"Would it not be better not to tell your father? Let me see Martin Eden, and talk with him, and explain. He will understand and release you."

"No! no!" Ruth cried, starting up. "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; no man picked out for you, or anything like that. Our plans go no farther than your marrying some man in your own station in life, a good and honorable gentleman, whom you will select yourself, when you love him."

"But I love Martin already," was the plaintive protest.

"We would not influence your choice in any way; but you are our daughter, and we could not bear to see you make a marriage such as this. He has nothing but roughness and coarseness to offer you in exchange for all that is refined and delicate in you. He is no match for you in any way. He could not support you. We have no foolish ideas about wealth, but comfort is another matter, and our daughter should at least marry a man who can give her that - and not a penniless adventurer, a sailor, a cowboy, a smuggler, and Heaven knows what else, who, in addition to everything, is hare- brained and irresponsible."

Ruth was silent. Every word she recognized as true.

"He wastes his time over his writing, trying to accomplish what geniuses and rare men with college educations sometimes accomplish. A man thinking of marriage should be preparing for marriage. But not he. As I have said, and I know you agree with me, he is irresponsible. And why should he not be? It is the way of sailors. He has never learned to be economical or temperate. The spendthrift years have marked him. It is not his fault, of course, but that does not alter his nature. And have you thought of the years of licentiousness he inevitably has lived? Have you thought of that, daughter? You know what marriage means."

Ruth shuddered and clung close to her mother.

"I have thought." Ruth waited a long time for the thought to frame itself. "And it is terrible. It sickens me to think of it. I told you it was a dreadful accident, my loving him; but I can't help myself. Could you help loving father? Then it is the same with me. There is something in me, in him - I never knew it was there until to-day - but it is there, and it makes me love him. I never thought to love him, but, you see, I do," she concluded, a certain faint triumph in her voice.

They talked long, and to little purpose, in conclusion agreeing to wait an indeterminate time without doing anything.

The same conclusion was reached, a little later that night, between Mrs. Morse and her husband, after she had made due confession of the miscarriage of her plans.

"It could hardly have come otherwise," was Mr. Morse's judgment. "This sailor-fellow has been the only man she was in touch with. Sooner or later she was going to awaken anyway; and she did awaken, and lo! here was this sailor-fellow, the only accessible man at the moment, and of course she promptly loved him, or thought she did, which amounts to the same thing."

Mrs. Morse took it upon herself to work slowly and indirectly upon Ruth, rather than to combat her. There would be plenty of time for this, for Martin was not in position to marry.

"Let her see all she wants of him," was Mr. Morse's advice. "The more she knows him, the less she'll love him, I wager. And give her plenty of contrast. Make a point of having young people at the house. Young women and young men, all sorts of young men, clever men, men who have done something or who are doing things, men of her own class, gentlemen. She can gauge him by them. They will show him up for what he is. And after all, he is a mere boy of twenty-one. Ruth is no more than a child. It is calf love with the pair of them, and they will grow out of it."

So the matter rested. Within the family it was accepted that Ruth and Martin were engaged, but no announcement was made. The family did not think it would ever be necessary. Also, it was tacitly understood that it was to be a long engagement. They did not ask Martin to go to work, nor to cease writing. They did not intend to encourage him to mend himself. And he aided and abetted them in their unfriendly designs, for going to work was farthest from his thoughts.

"I wonder if you'll like what I have done!" he said to Ruth several days later. "I've decided that boarding with my sister is too expensive, and I am going to board myself. I've rented a little room out in North Oakland, retired neighborhood and all the rest, you know, and I've bought an oil-burner on which to cook."

Ruth was overjoyed. The oil-burner especially pleased her.

"That was the way Mr. Butler began his start," she said.

Martin frowned inwardly at the citation of that worthy gentleman, and went on: "I put stamps on all my manuscripts and started them off to the editors again. Then to-day I moved in, and to-morrow I start to work."

"A position!" she cried, betraying the gladness of her surprise in all her body, nestling closer to him, pressing his hand, smiling. "And you never told me! What is it?"

He shook his head.

"I meant that I was going to work at my writing." Her face fell, and he went on hastily. "Don't misjudge me. I am not going in this time with any iridescent ideas. It is to be a cold, prosaic, matter-of-fact business proposition. It is better than going to sea again, and I shall earn more money than any position in Oakland can bring an unskilled man."

"You see, this vacation I have taken has given me perspective. I haven't been working the life out of my body, and I haven't been writing, at least not for publication. All I've done has been to love you and to think. I've read some, too, but it has been part of my thinking, and I have read principally magazines. I have generalized about myself, and the world, my place in it, and my chance to win to a place that will be fit for you. Also, I've been reading Spencer's 'Philosophy of Style,' and found out a lot of what was the matter with me - or my writing, rather; and for that matter with most of the writing that is published every month in the magazines."

"But the upshot of it all - of my thinking and reading and loving - is that I am going to move to Grub Street. I shall leave masterpieces alone and do hack-work - jokes, paragraphs, feature articles, humorous verse, and society verse - all the rot for which there seems so much demand. Then there are the newspaper syndicates, and the newspaper short-story syndicates, and the syndicates for the Sunday supplements. I can go ahead and hammer out the stuff they want, and earn the equivalent of a good salary by it. There are free-lances, you know, who earn as much as four or five hundred a month. I don't care to become as they; but I'll earn a good living, and have plenty of time to myself, which I wouldn't have in any position."

"Then, I'll have my spare time for study and for real work. In between the grind I'll try my hand at masterpieces, and I'll study and prepare myself for the writing of masterpieces. Why, I am amazed at the distance I have come already. When I first tried to write, I had nothing to write about except a few paltry experiences which I neither understood nor appreciated. But I had no thoughts. I really didn't. I didn't even have the words with which to think. My experiences were so many meaningless pictures. But as I began to add to my knowledge, and to my vocabulary, I saw something more in my experiences than mere pictures. I retained the pictures and I found their interpretation. That was when I began to do good work, when I wrote 'Adventure,' 'Joy,' 'The Pot,' 'The Wine of Life,' 'The Jostling Street,' the 'Love-cycle,' and the 'Sea Lyrics.' I shall write more like them, and better; but I shall do it in my spare time. My feet are on the solid earth, now. Hack- work and income first, masterpieces afterward. Just to show you, I wrote half a dozen jokes last night for the comic weeklies; and just as I was going to bed, the thought struck me to try my hand at a triolet - a humorous one; and inside an hour I had written four. They ought to be worth a dollar apiece. Four dollars right there for a few afterthoughts on the way to bed."

"Of course it's all valueless, just so much dull and sordid plodding; but it is no more dull and sordid than keeping books at sixty dollars a month, adding up endless columns of meaningless figures until one dies. And furthermore, the hack-work keeps me in touch with things literary and gives 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.

"All those you named, and which you say yourself are good - 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," he asserted stoutly, putting his arm around her and drawing a very unresponsive sweetheart toward him.

"Listen to this," he went on in attempted gayety. "It's not art, but it's a dollar.

"He came in When I was out, To borrow some tin Was why he came in, And he went without; So I was in And he was out."

The merry lilt with which he had invested the jingle was at variance with the dejection that came into his face as he finished. He had drawn no smile from Ruth. She was looking at him in an earnest and troubled way.

"It may be a dollar," she said, "but it is a jester's dollar, the fee of a clown. Don't you see, Martin, the whole thing is lowering. I want the man I love and honor to be something finer and higher than a perpetrator of jokes and doggerel."

"You want him to be like - say Mr. Butler?" he suggested.

"I know you don't like Mr. Butler," she began.

"Mr. Butler's all right," he interrupted. "It's only his indigestion I find fault with. But to save me I can't see any difference between writing jokes or comic verse and running a type- writer, taking dictation, or keeping sets of books. It is all a means to an end. Your theory is for me to begin with keeping books in order to become a successful lawyer or man of business. Mine is to begin with hack-work and develop into an able author."

"There is a difference," she insisted.

"What is it?"

"Why, your good work, what you yourself call good, you can't sell. You have tried, you know that, - but the editors won't buy it."

"Give me time, dear," he pleaded. "The hack-work is only makeshift, and I don't take it seriously. Give me two years. I shall succeed in that time, and the editors will be glad to buy my good work. I know what I am saying; I have faith in myself. I know what I have in me; I know what literature is, now; I know the average rot that is poured out by a lot of little men; and I know that at the end of two years I shall be on the highroad to success. As for business, I shall never succeed at it. I am not in sympathy with it. It strikes me as dull, and stupid, and mercenary, and tricky. Anyway I am not adapted for it. I'd never get beyond a clerkship, and how could you and I be happy on the paltry earnings of a clerk? I want the best of everything in the world for you, and the only time when I won't want it will be when there is something better. And I'm going to get it, going to get all of it. The income of a successful author makes Mr. Butler look cheap. A 'best-seller' will earn anywhere between fifty and a hundred thousand dollars - sometimes more and sometimes less; but, as a rule, pretty close to those figures."

She remained silent; her disappointment was apparent.

"Well?" he asked.

"I had hoped and planned otherwise. I had thought, and I still think, that the best thing for you would be to study shorthand - you already know type-writing - and go into father's office. You have a good mind, and I am confident you would succeed as a lawyer."

露丝回家时莫尔斯太太不用靠母亲的直觉便看出了挂在她脸上的东西。那羞红不褪的脸已经说明了这个简单的故事，那双水汪汪的大眼睛更雄辩地反映了存在她内心的不容置疑的辉煌。

“出了什么事了？”莫尔斯太太直等到露丝上了床，才问。

“你知道了？”露丝嘴唇颤抖着问。

妈妈伸出手搂着她，再用一只手轻轻地抚摩她的头发，作为回答。

“他没有提出来，”她突然叫道，“我是不愿意发生这种情况的，也决不愿意他提出——但是他并没有提出。”

“那么，他既然没有提出就不会发生情况了，是么？”

“可情况仍然发生了。”

“天啦，孩子，你在唠叨些什么呀？”莫尔斯太太给弄糊涂了，“我始终不明白出了什么事。究竟怎么啦？”

露丝吃惊地望着妈妈。

“我以为你知道了呢。我们订婚了，马丁和我。”

莫尔斯太太带着不愿相信的烦恼，笑了。

“没有，他没有提出来，”露丝解释说，“他只是爱了我，如此而已。我也跟你一样意外呢。他一个字也没提，只是用胳膊搂住了我，我就——我就身不由己了。他吻了我，我也吻了他。我情不自禁，只能那样。然后我明白了，我爱他。”

她住了口，等待着妈妈带祝福的吻，但是莫尔斯太太却冷冷地保持沉默。

“这是个可怕的意外，我知道。”露丝继续说下去，声音越来越低，“也不知道你怎样才能原谅我。但是我情不自禁。在那以前我做梦也没想到会爱上他。你一定要帮我告诉爸爸。”

“不告诉你爸爸不是更好么？让我见一见马丁吧，让我跟他谈谈，解释一下。他会理解的，会放掉你的。”

“不！不！”露丝大吃一惊，叫了起来，“我不要他放掉我。我爱他，爱情是非常甜蜜的。我要和他结婚——当然，得要你同意。”

“我们给你另有安排，亲爱的露丝，你爸爸和我——啊不，不，不予我们没有给你选择好对象，没有做这一类的事。我们的计划不过是让你嫁给跟你在生活中地位相同的人，一个体面的好人，上等人。到你爱他的时候，由你自己选择。”

“可我已经爱上马丁了！”她痛苦地抗议。

“我们不会以任何方式影响你的选择的；但你是我们的女儿，我们不忍心眼看你嫁给这样一个人。他除了粗鲁野蛮不能给你任何东西，而你给他的却是文雅和贤淑。他无论如何也配不上你，也养不起你。我们对于财富并不抱糊涂观念，但生活要舒适却是另外一回事。我们的女儿至少应该嫁给一个能让她生活得舒适的人，而不是一个不名一文的冒险家、牛仔。水手、走私犯，还有天知道什么。此外，这个人头脑也简单，还缺乏责任感。”

露丝没有作声，她承认妈妈每句话都说得对。

“他把时间浪费在写作上，想做的事只有天才和少数受过大学教育的人才能偶尔做到。一个要想结婚的人总得作结婚准备吧，可他术去作。我说过，也知道你会同意我的意见：他不负责任。他能够不如此吗？水手们都这样的。他根本不懂得节俭和克制。多少年的胡花乱用给他打上了烙印。当然，这不怪他，但不怪他并没有改变他的本性。还有，你想过这些年来他必然有过的下流生活么？你想过这个问题没有，女儿？婚姻的含意你是知道的。”

露丝感到不寒而栗，紧紧地偎到她妈妈怀里。

“我想过。”露丝过了好一会儿才理清了思路。“是可怕。我一想到就恶心。我刚才说了，我爱上了他是个可怕的意外；但是我情不自禁。你能让自己不爱爸爸吗？我也是一样的呀。在我身上，在他身上，都有了某种东西——在今天以前我并不知道——可它一直存在，而且使我爱上了他。我原没有打算爱他的。可你看，我爱上了。”她说完了，带着某种胜利的口气，淡淡的。

两人谈了很久，也没谈出个结果，最后双方同意作无限期的等待，暂不行动。

那天晚上稍迟，莫尔斯太太向她的丈夫恰当地承认了她那落了空的打算，然后两人也达到同样的结论。

“不可能出现别的结局，”莫尔斯先生判断，“这个水手是她眼前接触到的唯一的男性。她早晚会觉醒的。她这回不就觉醒了么．体育！目前这个水手是她唯一能接近的男性，她当然会立即爱上他的，或者说自以为爱上了他的，反正一样。”

莫尔斯太太自告奋勇采取缓慢的迂回战术对待露丝，避免正面交锋。时间肯定是足够的，因为马丁没有结婚的条件。

“让她明白她对他的一切要求，”莫尔斯先生提出办法，“她越是了解他，就越会少爱他，我敢打赌。多让她作些对比，注意多邀请些年轻人到家里来。男的，女的，各种各样的男性，聪明的，有成就的，快要有成就的，她本阶级的男性，上等人。她可以拿他们来衡量衡量地。他们可以让他相形见绌的。毕竟那人只是个二十一岁的娃娃，而露丝也还很幼稚，双方都是雏恋，会渐渐淡忘的。”

于是这事便搁置了下来。在家庭内部大家都承认露丝和马丁订了婚，但并没有宣布。家里人都认为用不着。而且大家有个默契：婚约期会很长。他们没有要求马丁去工作，也没要他放弃写作。他们不打算让他改正错误，而他也给他们那并不友好的打算帮了忙，鼓了劲，因为他最没有想到的事就是去工作。

“我做了一件事，不知道你会不会喜欢片几天以后他对露丝讲，“我已经决定自己单独住，在姐姐那儿吃住太贵。我在北奥克兰租了一间小屋子，环境和一切都很偏僻，你知道，我已经买了一个煤油炉子烧饭。”

露丝喜出望外。煤油炉子叫她特别高兴。

“巴特勒先生就是这样开始的。”她说。

一听她表扬那位大人物马丁便在心里皱眉头。他接着说：“我给我的稿子全都贴上了邮票，又送它们到编辑先生们那儿去了。我今天就搬进去，明天就开始工作。”

“你有工作了！”她叫了起来。她很惊讶，全身都流露出欢乐，更紧地偎着他，捏着他的手笑着。“可你丝毫也没向我透露呢！什么工作？”

他摇摇头。

“我是说我要开始写作了。”她的脸色阴沉下来，他急忙说下去，“不要误会，这一回我可不写那些闪光的东西了。这是个冷静的、平淡无奇的、现实的打算。总比再去出海好些。我要多赚些钱，赚的钱要比一个没有技术的人在奥克兰所能得到的任何工作的收入都多。

“你看，我才度过的这个假期让我看出了方向。我没有拼命干活儿，也没有写作，至少没有为发表面写作。我一共做了两件事，爱你和思考问题。我读过一些东西，但那也只是我思考的问题的一部分，而我主要读的还是杂志。我对我自己、对世界。对我在世界上的地位。对我能争取得到的机会（要能配得上你的地位的机会）都勾了个轮廓。而且，我一直在读斯宾塞的《文体原理》，发现了我的许多毛病——确切地说是我写作上的毛病，也是大部分杂志每个月发表的作品的毛病。

“这一切的结果——我的思考、阅读和恋爱的结果——便是搬到街去。我要把大部头放一放，我要写下锅之作：笑话呀，短评呀，特写呀，俏皮诗呀，交际诗呀，乱七八糟的东西，需求量似乎很大的。还有报刊供稿社，报刊短篇小说供稿社，星期日增刊供稿社。我可以写下去，使劲写他们要的东西，挣的钱抵得上一份优厚的薪水。有的自由撰稿人，你知道，一个月能赚到四五百块呢。我并不想成为他们那样的人，可我要赚一份好生活，能有很多时间归自己，那是什河工作所不能给我的。

“然后我就有时间读书，做真正的工作了。苦苦投稿的同时我要试着写我的杰作，为写杰作读书，作准备。回顾我所走过的路之漫长，我感到惊讶。刚开始写作的时候，我除了一点点可怜的经验设有什么可写，而那些经验我又并不懂得，也不喜欢。我还没有思想，我真地没有思考过，连用来思考的话也不会说。我的经验只是许许多多没有意义的画面。但是在我开始增加知识、加大词汇量的时候，我便能从我的经验里看出更多的东西，不光是画面了。我保留了这些画面，找到了它们的诠释。那就是我开始写出好作品的时候。那时我写了《冒险》、《罐子》、《生命之酒》、《扰攘的街道》、《爱情组诗》和《海上抒情诗》。我还要写那样的作品，还要写得更好，但要利用闲暇去写。现在我得脚踏实地。首先得写下锅之作，赚钱，然后才谈得上杰作。为了给你看看，我昨天晚上给滑稽周刊写了半打笑话；然后正要睡觉，忽然心血来潮想试试‘小三重奏’，一种俏皮诗，不到一个小时写了四首。每首能赚一块钱，上床之前信手拈来就能到手四大枚呢。

“当然，这东西没什么价值，无聊的苦凑合而已；但总比为了每月六十元去记帐，没完没了地算那些没有意思的帐目，直算到呜呼哀哉要有意思些，要好过些。还有，写下锅之作也让我跟文学作品保持接触，给我时间试写更大的作品。”

“可是这些更大的作品，这些杰作，有什么好处？”露丝问，“你又卖不掉它们。”

“啊，我能卖掉的，”他刚开口便被她打断了。

“你刚才说的那些作品，还有你自认为不错的那些作品——你一个也没有卖掉。我们不能靠卖不掉的杰作结婚的。”

“那我们就靠卖得掉的‘小三重奏’结婚吧，”他坚决地说，伸手搂住了她的腰，把一个很不情愿的情人搂了过去。

“听听这个，”他故作高兴地说，“这谈不上艺术，但能值一块钱。

“我已出门去他才进门来，并不为别的，借钱应应急。他刚空手去，我又空手来，我回到家里，他早已拜拜。”

他给这绕口令设置了活泼有趣的旋律，可他念完时脸上却活泼不起来。露丝设有给他丝毫笑脸，只一本正经懊恼地望着他。

“这东西也许值一块钱，”她说，“可那是一块小丑的钱，赏给小花脸的钱。你不觉得么，马丁，这整个儿是堕落。我希望我爱和尊重的人能够比一个写点笑话和打油诗的人高明呢。”

“你希望他像——比如巴特勒先生么？”他提示。

“我知道你不喜欢巴特勒光生。”她开始了。

“巴特勒先生没有错，”他打断了她的话，“我不佩服的是他那消化不良。不过我也可以辩解，我实在看不出写点笑话和俏皮诗跟玩打字机、当记录、管一大堆帐本有什么不同。都不过是达到目的的手段。你的理论是让我从管帐本开始，发展成为一个成功的律师或企业家。我的路却是从写下锅之作开始，发展成为一个有水平的作家。”

“有区别，”她坚持。

“什么区别？”

“还用说么，你那些优秀作品，自以为挺不错的作品，卖不掉。你卖过，——这你知道，——编辑们不要。”

“请给我时间，亲爱的，”他恳求道，“写下锅之作只是权宜之计，我并不把它当回事。给我两年时间，我会成功的，编辑们会喜欢买我的好稿子的。我明白我自己的话的意思，我对自己有信心。我知道自己的能耐。现在我懂得什么叫文学了；我知道一大批小人物稀里哗啦搞出来的那些平庸玩意儿；而且相信两年之后我就会走上成功之路。至于搞企业么，我是决不会成功的。我对它缺乏感情，总觉得它枯燥、愚蠢、惟利是图、诡计多端，怎么也适应不了。我最多能做个店员。靠店员邵几个破钱你跟我怎么能快活呢。我要把世界上一切东西中最好的给你，若是我不要，那它就不是最好的。我能办到的，这一切都能办到。一个成功的作家的收入会把巴特勒先生比得灰头土脑的。一本‘畅销书’总能赚到五至十万块——有时多一点有时少一点；总归不离这个数目。”

她一直没说话；显然很失望。

“怎么样？”他问。

“我有过别的希望和打算。我认为，而且一直认为，你最好还是学速记——你已经会打字了——然后到爸爸的办公室去工作。你有一副优秀的头脑，我满怀信心你能做一个成功的律师的。”