"It's no use, Ruth; I shall have to go away. I can't stand it here. It
was bad enough before, but now I simply cannot bear it."
"You mean," I returned, full of fun and mischief, "that the idea of my
offering myself to you was too horrible? You had a chance to refuse,
Tom; and you took it. I should think I was the one to feel as if it
wasn't to be borne."
He stopped in the street and turned to face me.
"Don't, Ruth," he protested in a voice which went straight to my heart.
"If you knew how it hurts me you wouldn't joke about it."
I wanted to put my arms about his neck and kiss him as I used to do when
we were babies; but that was manifestly not to be thought of, at least
not in the street in plain sight of the blacksmith shop.
"It isn't any joke," said I. "Just walk along so the whole town need not
talk about us, please."
He walked on, and I tried to think of a sentence which would tell him
that I really cared for him, yet which I could say to him there in the
open day, with the sun making a peeping eye of every icy crystal on
fence or tree-twig.
"Well?" he cried after a moment.
"O Tom," I asked in despair, "why don't you help me? I can't say it. I
can't tell you I"--
I did not dare to look at him, and I came to a stop in my speech because
I could feel that he was pressing eagerly to my side.
"You what, Ruth?" he demanded, his voice quivering. "Be careful!"
Perhaps his agitation helped me to master mine. Certain it is for the
moment I thought only that he must not be kept in suspense, and so I
burst out abruptly:--
"Tom, you are horrid! I've offered myself to you once, and now you want
me to protest in the open street that I can't live without you! Well,
then; I can't!"
"Ruth!"
It was all he said; just my name, which he has said hundreds and
hundreds of times ever since he could say anything; but I think I can
never hear my name again without remembering the love he put into it. I
trembled with happiness, but I would not look at him. I walked on with
my eyes fixed on the snowy hills beyond the town, and tried to believe I
was acting as if I had said nothing and felt nothing unusual. I remember
our words up to this time, but after that it is all a joyful blur. I
know Tom walked about and waited for me while I did my errand with Peggy
Cole; the droll old creature scolded me because the flannel was not
thicker, and I beamed on her as if she were expressing gratitude; then
he walked home with me, and couldn't come in because as we turned the
corner we saw Aunt Naomi walk into the house.
One thing I do remember of our talk on the way home. Tom said suddenly,
and with a solemnity of manner that made me grave at once:--
"There is one thing more, Ruth, we must be frank about now or we shall
always have it between us. Can you forgive me for being baby's father?"
He had found just the phrase for that dreadful thing which made it most
easy for me to answer.
"Tom, dear," I answered, "it isn't for me to forgive or not to forgive.
It is in the past, and I want to help you to forget utterly what cannot
now be helped."
"But baby," he began, "she"--
"Baby is ours," I interrupted. "All the rest may go."
He promised to come in to-night, and then I had to face Aunt Naomi. She
looked me through and through with eyes that seemed determined to have
the very deepest secrets of my soul. Whether I concealed anything from
her or not I cannot tell; but after all why should I care? The day has
been lived through, and it is time for Tom to come.
December 3. If I could write--But I cannot, I cannot! Ever since Rosa
rushed in last night, crying out that Tom was drowned, I have seen
nothing but the water black with cold, and the flocks of ice cakes
grinding--Oh, why should I torment myself with putting it down?
December 5. We buried him to-day. Cousin Mehitable sent a wreath of ivy.
Nobody else knows our secret. If he remembers, it is sweet for him to
know.
December 13. The stars are so beautiful to-night they make me remember
how Tom and I in our childhood used to play at choosing stars we would
visit when we could fly. To-night he may be exploring them, but for me
they shine and shine, and my tears blur them, and make them dance and
double.
December 19. I have been talking with Deacon Richards and Mr. Turner.
They both think I can take Tom's place on the reading-room committee
without coming forward too much. Nothing need be said about it, only so
I can do most of Tom's work. Of course I cannot go to the room evenings
as he did; but Mr. Turner will do that. Tom was so interested in this
that I feel as if I were continuing his work and carrying out his plans.
I remember all he had told me, and it almost seems like doing it with
him. Almost!
December 20. Now I know all about Tom's death that anybody knows. I
could not talk about it before. Aunt Naomi and dear Miss Charlotte both
tried to tell me, but I would not let them. To-night Mr. Turner came to
talk about the library, and before he went away we spoke about Tom. He
was so homely in his speech, so honest, so kindly, that I kept on, and
could listen to him even when he told how Tom died.
That night Tom had been down on the other side of the river, and was
coming up--coming to me--past the Flatiron wharf. Mrs. Brownrig was on
the wharf, crazy with drink, and threatening to throw herself overboard.
Two or three of the people who live near there, men and women, were
trying to get her away, and when Tom appeared they asked him to see what
he could do. As he came near her the old woman shrieked out that he had
killed her daughter and would murder her; and before they realized what
she was doing she had jumped into the water. Tom ran to the edge,
unfastening his overcoat as he went, and just paused to tear it off
before he leaped in after her. The tide was running out, and the water
was full of ice. He had a great bruise on his forehead where he had
evidently been struck by a block. Mrs. Brownrig pinioned his arms too,
so he had no chance anyway. It was a mercy that the bodies were
recovered before the tide drifted them out.
"Tom was an awful good fellow," the blacksmith concluded, "an awful good
fellow."