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 denouement. 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.