Ruth and her family were home again, and Martin, returned to Oakland, saw much of her. Having gained her degree, she was doing no more studying; and he, having worked all vitality out of his mind and body, was doing no writing. This gave them time for each other that they had never had before, and their intimacy ripened fast.
At first, Martin had done nothing but rest. He had slept a great deal, and spent long hours musing and thinking and doing nothing. He was like one recovering from some terrible bout if hardship. The first signs of reawakening came when he discovered more than languid interest in the daily paper. Then he began to read again - light novels, and poetry; and after several days more he was head over heels in his long-neglected Fiske. His splendid body and health made new vitality, and he possessed all the resiliency and rebound of youth.
Ruth showed her disappointment plainly when he announced that he was going to sea for another voyage as soon as he was well rested.
"Why do you want to do that?" she asked.
"Money," was the answer. "I'll have to lay in a supply for my next attack on the editors. Money is the sinews of war, in my case - money and patience."
"But if all you wanted was money, why didn't you stay in the laundry?"
"Because the laundry was making a beast of me. Too much work of that sort drives to drink."
She stared at him with horror in her eyes.
"Do you mean - ?" she quavered.
It would have been easy for him to get out of it; but his natural impulse was for frankness, and he remembered his old resolve to be frank, no matter what happened.
"Yes," he answered. "Just that. Several times."
She shivered and drew away from him.
"No man that I have ever known did that - ever did that."
"Then they never worked in the laundry at Shelly Hot Springs," he laughed bitterly. "Toil is a good thing. It is necessary for human health, so all the preachers say, and Heaven knows I've never been afraid of it. But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing, and the laundry up there is one of them. And that's why I'm going to sea one more voyage. It will be my last, I think, for when I come back, I shall break into the magazines. I am certain of it."
She was silent, unsympathetic, and he watched her moodily, realizing how impossible it was for her to understand what he had been through.
"Some day I shall write it up - 'The Degradation of Toil' or the 'Psychology of Drink in the Working-class,' or something like that for a title."
Never, since the first meeting, had they seemed so far apart as that day. His confession, told in frankness, with the spirit of revolt behind, had repelled her. But she was more shocked by the repulsion itself than by the cause of it. It pointed out to her how near she had drawn to him, and once accepted, it paved the way for greater intimacy. Pity, too, was aroused, and innocent, idealistic thoughts of reform. She would save this raw young man who had come so far. She would save him from the curse of his early environment, and she would save him from himself in spite of himself. And all this affected her as a very noble state of consciousness; nor did she dream that behind it and underlying it were the jealousy and desire of love.
They rode on their wheels much in the delightful fall weather, and out in the hills they read poetry aloud, now one and now the other, noble, uplifting poetry that turned one's thoughts to higher things. Renunciation, sacrifice, patience, industry, and high endeavor were the principles she thus indirectly preached - such abstractions being objectified in her mind by her father, and Mr. Butler, and by Andrew Carnegie, who, from a poor immigrant boy had arisen to be the book-giver of the world. All of which was appreciated and enjoyed by Martin. He followed her mental processes more clearly now, and her soul was no longer the sealed wonder it had been. He was on terms of intellectual equality with her. But the points of disagreement did not affect his love. His love was more ardent than ever, for he loved her for what she was, and even her physical frailty was an added charm in his eyes. He read of sickly Elizabeth Barrett, who for years had not placed her feet upon the ground, until that day of flame when she eloped with Browning and stood upright, upon the earth, under the open sky; and what Browning had done for her, Martin decided he could do for Ruth. But first, she must love him. The rest would be easy. He would give her strength and health. And he caught glimpses of their life, in the years to come, wherein, against a background of work and comfort and general well-being, he saw himself and Ruth reading and discussing poetry, she propped amid a multitude of cushions on the ground while she read aloud to him. This was the key to the life they would live. And always he saw that particular picture. Sometimes it was she who leaned against him while he read, one arm about her, her head upon his shoulder. Sometimes they pored together over the printed pages of beauty. Then, too, she loved nature, and with generous imagination he changed the scene of their reading - sometimes they read in closed-in valleys with precipitous walls, or in high mountain meadows, and, again, down by the gray sand-dunes with a wreath of billows at their feet, or afar on some volcanic tropic isle where waterfalls descended and became mist, reaching the sea in vapor veils that swayed and shivered to every vagrant wisp of wind. But always, in the foreground, lords of beauty and eternally reading and sharing, lay he and Ruth, and always in the background that was beyond the background of nature, dim and hazy, were work and success and money earned that made them free of the world and all its treasures.
"I should recommend my little girl to be careful," her mother warned her one day.
"I know what you mean. But it is impossible. He if; not - "
Ruth was blushing, but it was the blush of maidenhood called upon for the first time to discuss the sacred things of life with a mother held equally sacred.
"Your kind." Her mother finished the sentence for her.
Ruth nodded.
"I did not want to say it, but he is not. He is rough, brutal, strong - too strong. He has not - "
She hesitated and could not go on. It was a new experience, talking over such matters with her mother. And again her mother completed her thought for her.
"He has not lived a clean life, is what you wanted to say."
Again Ruth nodded, and again a blush mantled her face.
"It is just that," she said. "It has not been his fault, but he has played much with - "
"With pitch?"
"Yes, with pitch. And he frightens me. Sometimes I am positively in terror of him, when he talks in that free and easy way of the things he has done - as if they did not matter. They do matter, don't they?"
They sat with their arms twined around each other, and in the pause her mother patted her hand and waited for her to go on.
"But I am interested in him dreadfully," she continued. "In a way he is my protege. Then, too, he is my first boy friend - but not exactly friend; rather protege and friend combined. Sometimes, too, when he frightens me, it seems that he is a bulldog I have taken for a plaything, like some of the 'frat' girls, and he is tugging hard, and showing his teeth, and threatening to break loose."
Again 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 in - in the other way. You see, I have been thinking. He swears, he smokes, he drinks, he has fought with his fists (he has told me so, and he likes it; he says so). He is all that a man should not be - a man I would want for my - " her voice sank very low - "husband. 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 failing in love with Martin Eden. It would be the worst fate that could befall me."
"But it is not that that I spoke about," her mother equivocated. "Have you thought about him? He is so ineligible in every way, you know, and suppose he should come to love you?"
"But he does - already," she cried.
"It was to be expected," Mrs. Morse said gently. "How could it be otherwise with any one who knew you?"
"Olney hates me!" she exclaimed passionately. "And I hate Olney. I feel always like a cat when he is around. I feel that I must be nasty to him, and even when I don't happen to feel that way, why, he's nasty to me, anyway. But I am happy with Martin Eden. No one ever loved me before - no man, I mean, in that way. And it is sweet to be loved - that way. You know what I mean, mother dear. It is sweet to feel that you are really and truly a woman." She buried her face in her mother's lap, sobbing. "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. The experiment had succeeded. The strange void in Ruth's nature had been filled, and filled without danger or penalty. This rough sailor-fellow had been the instrument, and, though Ruth did not love him, he had made her conscious of her womanhood.
"His hand trembles," Ruth was confessing, her face, for shame's sake, still buried. "It is most amusing and ridiculous, but I feel sorry for him, too. And when his hands are too trembly, and his eyes too shiny, why, I lecture him about his life and the wrong way he is going about it to mend it. But he worships me, I know. His eyes and his hands do not lie. And it makes me feel grown-up, the thought of it, the very thought of it; and I feel that I am possessed of something that is by rights my own - that makes me like the other girls - and - and young women. And, then, too, I knew that I was not like them before, and I knew that it worried you. You thought you did not let me know that dear worry of yours, but I did, and I wanted to - 'to make good,' as Martin Eden says."
It was a holy hour for mother and daughter, and their eyes were wet as they talked on in the twilight, Ruth all white innocence and frankness, her mother sympathetic, receptive, yet calmly explaining and guiding.
"He is four years younger than you," she said. "He has no place in the world. He has neither position nor salary. He is impractical. Loving you, he should, in the name of common sense, be doing something that would give him the right to marry, instead of paltering around with those stories of his and with childish dreams. 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 one. Martin Eden, I am afraid, will never be a money-earner. And this world is so ordered that money is necessary to happiness - oh, no, not these swollen fortunes, but enough of money to permit of common comfort and decency. He - he has never spoken?"
"He has not breathed a word. He has not attempted to; but if he did, I would not let him, because, you see, I do not love him."
"I am glad of that. I should not care to see my daughter, my one daughter, who is so clean and pure, 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 you must always carry in mind - "
"Yes, mother."
Mrs. Morse's voice was low and sweet as she said, "And that is the children."
"I - have thought about them," Ruth confessed, remembering the wanton thoughts that had vexed her in the past, her face again red with maiden shame that she should be telling such things.
"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 in assent, feeling that she really did understand, though her conception was of something vague, remote, and terrible that was beyond the scope of imagination.
"You know I do nothing without telling you," she began. " - Only, sometimes you must ask me, like this time. I wanted to tell you, but I did not know how. It is false modesty, I know it is that, but you can make it easy for me. Sometimes, like this time, you must ask me, you must give me a chance."
"Why, mother, you are a woman, too!" she cried exultantly, as they stood up, catching her mother's hands and standing erect, facing her in the twilight, conscious of a strangely sweet equality between them. "I should never have thought of you in that way if we had not had this talk. I had to learn that I was a woman to know that you were one, too."
"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, their arms around each other's waists, their hearts swelling with a new sense of companionship.
"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 smiling rejoinder. "The experiment has succeeded. She is awakened at last."
"Then we'll have to get rid of him." Mr. Morse spoke briskly, in matter-of-fact, 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. And, besides, a year in the East, with the change in climate, people, ideas, and everything, is just the thing she needs."
露丝和她的全家都回来了，马丁回到奥克兰之后跟她常常见面。露丝获得了学位，不再读书了。马丁呢，劳动得心力交瘁，也不再写东西了。这就让他俩比以前有了更多的时间见面。两人的关系也迅速亲密起来。
起初马丁除了休息什么事都不做，睡了很多觉，花了很多时间沉思默想。此外无所事事，像个饱尝了惊人的苦难后逐渐复原的人。他重新觉醒的最初信号是对每天的报纸发生了兴趣，不再淡漠了。然后他开始读书——读轻松的小说和诗歌。过了几天他又如醉如痴地迷上了他久已未读的费斯克。他那不同凡响的体魄和健康产生了新的活力，而他的青春又柔韧和富于弹性了。
当他宣布打算在充分休息之后再出一次海时，露丝表现了明显的失望。
“你为什么要出海？”她问。
“为了钱，”回答是，“我得攒一笔钱，准备下一次向编辑们发起进攻。就我的处境而言，钱是战斗力的泉源——一要有钱，二要有耐心。”
“既然你缺的只是钱，为什么不在洗衣房里干下去？”
“因为洗衣房要把我变成牲口。那样的活干得太多是会逼得人去喝酒的。”
她瞪大了眼望着他，眼里闪动着恐怖。
“你是说——？”她发着抖。
要绕开这个问题并不难，但他的自然冲动却是真诚坦率。他想起了从前的决心：无论出现什么情况都要真诚坦率。
“不错，”他回答，“就是那么回事。去喝了几回。”
她不禁一阵颤栗，离他远了些。
“我所认识的人没有人喝酒的——没有。”
“那是因为他们没有在雪莉温泉旅馆的洗衣房子过活，”他尖刻地笑道，“苦干是好事，所有的牧师都说它使人健全。上天也知道我从没有害怕过苦干。但世界上就有好过了头的事。那儿的洗衣房就是如此。因此我想再出一趟海。我认为那将是我最后的一次了。因为我回来之后就要打进杂志里去。我有把握。”
她沉默了。她并不赞成。马丁闷闷不乐地望着她。他明白要她理解他所经历的痛苦是多么枉然。总有一天我会把它全写出来的——《苦干的堕落作用》或是《工人阶级饮酒的心理研究》，诸如此类。
自从第一次见面之后他俩从没有像那天那么疏远过。他现坦率的自白背后虽带有反抗情绪，却仍使她反感。但令她震惊的倒不是导致反感的原因而是那反感本身。这事向她表明了他对她所具有的强大吸引力。意识到这一点之后她对他反倒更亲密了。此外，那也唤起了她的矜悯之情，和一种天真烂漫的理想主义的改造热情。无论对方愿意不愿意，她也要挽救这位跟她距离很远的蒙昧的青年，使他微弃旧我，摆脱早期环境的不幸影响。她认为这一切都出于一种异常高贵的胸怀，却做梦也没有想到那背后和下面会隐藏着爱情的谨填的欲望。
他俩常在秋高气爽的日子骑车外出，到山里去高声朗诵诗歌。有时他朗诵，有时她朗诵，读的都是使人醉心于高尚事物。催人上进的高雅诗章。她借此间接向他宣扬着克己、牺牲、忍耐、勤奋和刻苦上进之类的原则——在她心里这类抽象的品德都体现在她的父亲和巴特勒先生身上，还有安德路·卡耐基——那从一个贫穷的少年移民奋斗成为世界性权威的人。
这一切马丁都欣赏，而且喜欢。他现在更清楚她的思想脉络了。她的灵魂再也不是过去那种无法窥测的奇迹了。他跟她在智力上已经平等。他俩的意见出入并不影响爱情。他爱得比以前任何时候都炽热了。因为他爱的就是此时的她。就连她那娇弱的身子在他眼里也只增添了妩媚。他读到体弱多病的伊丽莎白·勃朗宁的故事。她有好多年双脚不曾沾过地面，直到她跟勃朗宁私奔的那一天，因为爱情燃烧竟然顶天立地地站了起来。马丁认为勃朗宁在她身上能做到的他也能在露丝身上做到。可首先她得要爱他，然后别的就好办了。他会给她力量和健康的。他督见了他俩以后多少年的共同生活。以工作、舒适和共同富裕为背景，他看见了自己跟露丝在一起读诗、探讨诗的场景。她偎在一大堆放在地面的靠垫上，向他朗诵着。这便是他俩未来生活的基调。他总看到那幅图画。有时她仅依着他，听他朗诵：他的手接着她的腰；她的头靠着他的肩。有时他们俩又一起沉润于那印刷在书页上的美。而且，她热爱大自然，于是他便以丰富的想像变换着他们俩读诗的场景——有时在峭壁环抱、与世隔绝的山谷之中；有时在高山峻岭之巅的草场上；有时在灰色的沙丘之旁，细浪在脚边如花环般京绕；有时在辽远的热带入山岛上，瀑布飞泻，水雾蒙蒙，宛如片片薄绡，直通到海滨，每一阵风地飘摇吹过都使那雾绡淡荡摇曳。但占据前景的总是他和露丝这对美的主人。他们永远高卧着，朗诵着，共享着，而在大自然这个背景之外还有个朦胧迷离的背景：劳动、成功和金钱。有了这些他们才可以不受世人和他们的全部财产的约束。
“找要提醒我的小姑娘小心呢，”有一天她的妈妈警告她。
“我懂得你的意思，但那是不可能的。他跟我不——”
露丝红了脸，是处女的羞红。她还是第一次跟被她看作神圣的母亲讨论这个在生命中同样神圣的问题。
“——不般配。”她妈妈为她补完了全句。
露丝点点头。
“我本来不想谈的。不过他确实不般配。他粗野、剽悍、健壮，太健壮了。没有——”
她犹豫了，说不下去了。她从不曾跟妈妈谈过这类事。她妈妈又为她把话说完：——
“你想说的是：他从没有过过干干净净的生活。”
露丝点点头，脸上又泛出羞红。
“正是这样，”她说，“那不能怪他，但他也太随——”
“——太随波逐流？”
“是的，太随波逐流。他叫我害怕。有时他谈起那些事竟那么轻松愉快，好像全不当回事似的，真叫我心惊胆战。那是应该当回事的，是么？”
这时她们母女俩彼此搂着腰坐着。她住了嘴。妈妈却一言不发，只拍拍她的手，等她说下去。
“但他却引起了我极大的兴趣，”她说，“他在一定意义上是我的门徒，也是我的第一个男朋友——确切地说，还算不上朋友，算是门徒兼朋友吧。而在他叫我害怕的时候他又似乎是我的一只牛头拘，供我养着玩的——学校姐妹会里就有人养牛头狗玩.可他在龇着牙使劲扯链子，想扯断了跑掉呢。”
她妈妈等着她继续说下去。
“我觉得他真像牛头狗一样引起我的兴趣。他还有许多长处。可另一方面他也有不少我不喜欢的东西，你看，我一直在想。他骂粗话抽烟、喝酒、打架（他告诉我的，而且说他喜欢打架）。男人不应有的东西他全有。他并不是我所喜欢的——”她放低了声音，“丈夫人选。而且他又太健壮。我的‘王子’应当是高挑、顾长、黝黑的——一个潇洒的有魅力的‘王子’。不，我没有爱上马丁·伊登的危险。爱上他只能是我最大的不幸。”
“不过，我想谈的倒不是这个。”她的母亲闪烁其词地说，“你从他那一面考虑过没有呢？他在各个方面都是那么不如人意，这你知道。可要是他爱上了你，你怎么办？”
“他已经爱上我了？”她叫道。
“这倒也是人之常情，”莫尔斯太太轻言细语地说，“认识你的人谁又能不爱上你呢？”
“奥尔尼可讨厌我呢！”她激动地叫道，“我也讨厌奥尔尼。只要他在场我就产生一种猫的感觉，要想给他难堪。即使我没有那个意思他也会给我难堪的。但跟马丁·伊登在一起，我却觉得愉快。以前没有人爱过我——我是说像男人那样爱过我，而有人爱——恋爱，却是很甜蜜的。你明白我的意思，好妈妈。发觉自己已是个真正的、十足的女人是很甜蜜的呢。”她把脸理进妈妈的招兜里抽泣起来。“我知道你为我担心。但我是诚实的，我告诉你的都是真实感情。”
说也奇怪，莫尔斯太太倒是悲喜交集。她的女儿，那个做了大学文学上的大姑娘，不见了，变成了个女人。她的实验成功了。露丝天性中那奇怪的空白填满了，并没有带来危险和不良后果。而工具便是这个粗鲁的水手。他唤起了她女人的感情。
“他的手发抖呢，”露丝说道，因为害羞仍然把脸埋在妈妈裙兜里。“非常有趣而且滑稽。可我也为他难过。在他的手抖得太凶、眼睛太闪亮的时候，啊，我就教训他，谈他的生活，告诉他他那改正缺点的路子不对。但我知道他崇拜我。他的双手和眼睛不会撒谎。一想到这个，只要一想到这个，我就觉得已经是个成年人了。我感到获得了我有权获得的东西——我跟别的姑娘和年轻女人一样了。我也知道我过去跟她们不一样，你因此着急，为我怀着隐忧。你以为没有让我知道，其实我早知道了，而且打算——用马丁·伊登的话说：‘解决它’。”
那是母女双方神圣的时刻。两人在薄喜的微光里谈着话，眼里噙满泪水。露丝胸无城府，天真烂漫，坦率真诚；母亲满怀同情，洞察人意，平静地解释着，开导着。
“他比你小四岁，”她说，“在社会上没有地位，没有职务，也没有薪水，而且不切实际。既然爱上了你，凭常识地也应该做一点使他有权结婚的事了吧！可他却拿他那些小说到处乱寄，做着孩子气的梦。我担心马丁·伊登是永远也不会长大成人了。他不会承担起责任，在世界上做一份男子汉的工作，像你父亲和我们所有的朋友一样，比如巴特勒先生。我担心马丁·伊登永远不会成为能挣钱的人。可是这个世界的秩序的要求却是：有钱才能幸福——啊，不，不一定要像我们家这样阔气，总也要过得舒服像样吧！他——没有提起过？”
“一个字也没有提过，没有打算过。不过即使他有那意思我也不会让他提的。因为，你看，我并不爱他。”
“这就叫我高兴了。我不会乐意看到我的女儿，我这样纯洁无假的唯一的女儿，爱上一个像他那样的人的。世界上有的是高尚的男人，纯洁、真诚、男子汉味十足的男人，你有一天是会碰见这样的人，并且爱上他的，他也会爱上你的。你跟他会很幸福，就像你爸爸跟我一样。有件事你必须永远记在心里——”
“是的，妈妈。”
莫尔斯太太放低了声音，甜蜜地说：“那就是孩子。”
“我考虑过孩子的问题，”露丝承认。她想起了过去那些曾叫她难为情的放肆的念头。因为不得不谈起这样的问题，脸上泛出了处女的羞红。
“孩子的问题更淘汰了伊登先生，”莫尔斯太太一针见血地说下去。“孩子们必须家世清白。我却担心他的家世并不清白。你爸爸告诉过我水手的生活，因此，你是了解的。”
露丝捏捏妈妈的手表示理解。她以为自己真了解，其实她的印象模糊、辽远、可怕、难以想像。
“你知道我无论做什么都是会告诉你的，”露丝说，“不过有时你得问问我，像这回一样。我本来是想告诉你的，可总觉得难以启齿。我知道不应该这样害羞。可你一问我就好开口了。你有时就是该来问问我，给我机会开口，像这回一样的。”
“唉，妈妈，原来你也是个女人！”两人站了起来，露丝站得笔直，拉住妈妈的双手，在微光里面对着她，意识到跟她之间的一种甜蜜的平等关系，欢喜得哭了起来。“没有这番谈话，我是不会那样看你的。在懂得了自己是个女人之后，我也才懂得了你也是个女人。”
“我们俩都是女人，”她的母亲拥抱她，亲吻着她说，“我们俩都是女人，”她们俩走出屋子时她重复道。两人互相接着腰，因体会到一种新的伙伴之情而心花怒放。
“我们的小丫头长大成人了呢。”一小时以后莫尔斯太太得意地告诉她的丈夫。
“那就是说，”他注视了妻子很久之后才说，“她在恋爱了。”
“不，只是有人爱上她了，”她含笑回答，“我们的实验成功了，她终于苏醒了过来。”
“那么，我们就得摆脱那个人了。”莫尔斯先生带着一本正经、公事公办的口气斩钉截铁地说。
但是他的妻子摇了摇头：“用不着。露丝说他过几天就要出海了。等他回来她早离开这儿了。我们要送她到她姑妈克拉拉家去。她正需要到东部去过上一年，换换气候，换换人，换换思想和一切呢。”
