Chapter VI

CHAPTER VI

A terrible restlessness that was akin to hunger afflicted Martin
Eden. He was famished for a sight of the girl whose slender hands
had gripped his life with a giant's grasp. He could not steel
himself to call upon her. He was afraid that he might call too
soon, and so be guilty of an awful breach of that awful thing
called etiquette. He spent long hours in the Oakland and Berkeley
libraries, and made out application blanks for membership for
himself, his sisters Gertrude and Marian, and Jim, the latter's
consent being obtained at the expense of several glasses of beer.
With four cards permitting him to draw books, he burned the gas
late in the servant's room, and was charged fifty cents a week for
it by Mr. Higginbotham.

The many books he read but served to whet his unrest. Every page
of every book was a peep-hole into the realm of knowledge. His
hunger fed upon what he read, and increased. Also, he did not know
where to begin, and continually suffered from lack of preparation.
The commonest references, that he could see plainly every reader
was expected to know, he did not know. And the same was true of
the poetry he read which maddened him with delight. He read more
of Swinburne than was contained in the volume Ruth had lent him;
and "Dolores" he understood thoroughly. But surely Ruth did not
understand it, he concluded. How could she, living the refined
life she did? Then he chanced upon Kipling's poems, and was swept
away by the lilt and swing and glamour with which familiar things
had been invested. He was amazed at the man's sympathy with life
and at his incisive psychology. PSYCHOLOGY was a new word in
Martin's vocabulary. He had bought a dictionary, which deed had
decreased his supply of money and brought nearer the day on which
he must sail in search of more. Also, it incensed Mr.
Higginbotham, who would have preferred the money taking the form of
board.

He dared not go near Ruth's neighborhood in the daytime, but night
found him lurking like a thief around the Morse home, stealing
glimpses at the windows and loving the very walls that sheltered
her. Several times he barely escaped being caught by her brothers,
and once he trailed Mr. Morse down town and studied his face in the
lighted streets, longing all the while for some quick danger of
death to threaten so that he might spring in and save her father.
On another night, his vigil was rewarded by a glimpse of Ruth
through a second-story window. He saw only her head and shoulders,
and her arms raised as she fixed her hair before a mirror. It was
only for a moment, but it was a long moment to him, during which
his blood turned to wine and sang through his veins. Then she
pulled down the shade. But it