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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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- Стр. 97/241
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The
moon
had
not
yet
risen
,
and
Ruth
,
gazing
into
the
starry
vault
of
the
sky
and
exchanging
no
speech
with
Martin
,
experienced
a
sudden
feeling
of
loneliness
.
She
glanced
at
him
.
A
puff
of
wind
was
heeling
the
boat
over
till
the
deck
was
awash
,
and
he
,
one
hand
on
tiller
and
the
other
on
main
-
sheet
,
was
luffing
slightly
,
at
the
same
time
peering
ahead
to
make
out
the
near
-
lying
north
shore
.
He
was
unaware
of
her
gaze
,
and
she
watched
him
intently
,
speculating
fancifully
about
the
strange
warp
of
soul
that
led
him
,
a
young
man
with
signal
powers
,
to
fritter
away
his
time
on
the
writing
of
stories
and
poems
foredoomed
to
mediocrity
and
failure
.
Her
eyes
wandered
along
the
strong
throat
,
dimly
seen
in
the
starlight
,
and
over
the
firm
-
poised
head
,
and
the
old
desire
to
lay
her
hands
upon
his
neck
came
back
to
her
.
The
strength
she
abhorred
attracted
her
.
Her
feeling
of
loneliness
became
more
pronounced
,
and
she
felt
tired
.
Her
position
on
the
heeling
boat
irked
her
,
and
she
remembered
the
headache
he
had
cured
and
the
soothing
rest
that
resided
in
him
.
He
was
sitting
beside
her
,
quite
beside
her
,
and
the
boat
seemed
to
tilt
her
toward
him
.
Then
arose
in
her
the
impulse
to
lean
against
him
,
to
rest
herself
against
his
strength
—
a
vague
,
half
-
formed
impulse
,
which
,
even
as
she
considered
it
,
mastered
her
and
made
her
lean
toward
him
.
Or
was
it
the
heeling
of
the
boat
?
She
did
not
know
.
She
never
knew
.
She
knew
only
that
she
was
leaning
against
him
and
that
the
easement
and
soothing
rest
were
very
good
.
Perhaps
it
had
been
the
boat
’
s
fault
,
but
she
made
no
effort
to
retrieve
it
.
She
leaned
lightly
against
his
shoulder
,
but
she
leaned
,
and
she
continued
to
lean
when
he
shifted
his
position
to
make
it
more
comfortable
for
her
.
It
was
a
madness
,
but
she
refused
to
consider
the
madness
.
She
was
no
longer
herself
but
a
woman
,
with
a
woman
’
s
clinging
need
;
and
though
she
leaned
ever
so
lightly
,
the
need
seemed
satisfied
.
She
was
no
longer
tired
.
Martin
did
not
speak
.
Had
he
,
the
spell
would
have
been
broken
.
But
his
reticence
of
love
prolonged
it
.
He
was
dazed
and
dizzy
.
He
could
not
understand
what
was
happening
.
It
was
too
wonderful
to
be
anything
but
a
delirium
.
He
conquered
a
mad
desire
to
let
go
sheet
and
tiller
and
to
clasp
her
in
his
arms
.
His
intuition
told
him
it
was
the
wrong
thing
to
do
,
and
he
was
glad
that
sheet
and
tiller
kept
his
hands
occupied
and
fended
off
temptation
.
But
he
luffed
the
boat
less
delicately
,
spilling
the
wind
shamelessly
from
the
sail
so
as
to
prolong
the
tack
to
the
north
shore
.
The
shore
would
compel
him
to
go
about
,
and
the
contact
would
be
broken
.
He
sailed
with
skill
,
stopping
way
on
the
boat
without
exciting
the
notice
of
the
wranglers
,
and
mentally
forgiving
his
hardest
voyages
in
that
they
had
made
this
marvellous
night
possible
,
giving
him
mastery
over
sea
and
boat
and
wind
so
that
he
could
sail
with
her
beside
him
,
her
dear
weight
against
him
on
his
shoulder
.
When
the
first
light
of
the
rising
moon
touched
the
sail
,
illuminating
the
boat
with
pearly
radiance
,
Ruth
moved
away
from
him
.
And
,
even
as
she
moved
,
she
felt
him
move
away
.
The
impulse
to
avoid
detection
was
mutual
.
The
episode
was
tacitly
and
secretly
intimate
.
She
sat
apart
from
him
with
burning
cheeks
,
while
the
full
force
of
it
came
home
to
her
.
She
had
been
guilty
of
something
she
would
not
have
her
brothers
see
,
nor
Olney
see
.
Why
had
she
done
it
?
She
had
never
done
anything
like
it
in
her
life
,
and
yet
she
had
been
moonlight
-
sailing
with
young
men
before
.
She
had
never
desired
to
do
anything
like
it
.
She
was
overcome
with
shame
and
with
the
mystery
of
her
own
burgeoning
womanhood
.
She
stole
a
glance
at
Martin
,
who
was
busy
putting
the
boat
about
on
the
other
tack
,
and
she
could
have
hated
him
for
having
made
her
do
an
immodest
and
shameful
thing
.
And
he
,
of
all
men
!
Perhaps
her
mother
was
right
,
and
she
was
seeing
too
much
of
him
.
It
would
never
happen
again
,
she
resolved
,
and
she
would
see
less
of
him
in
the
future
.
She
entertained
a
wild
idea
of
explaining
to
him
the
first
time
they
were
alone
together
,
of
lying
to
him
,
of
mentioning
casually
the
attack
of
faintness
that
had
overpowered
her
just
before
the
moon
came
up
.
Then
she
remembered
how
they
had
drawn
mutually
away
before
the
revealing
moon
,
and
she
knew
he
would
know
it
for
a
lie
.
In
the
days
that
swiftly
followed
she
was
no
longer
herself
but
a
strange
,
puzzling
creature
,
wilful
over
judgment
and
scornful
of
self
-
analysis
,
refusing
to
peer
into
the
future
or
to
think
about
herself
and
whither
she
was
drifting
.
She
was
in
a
fever
of
tingling
mystery
,
alternately
frightened
and
charmed
,
and
in
constant
bewilderment
.
She
had
one
idea
firmly
fixed
,
however
,
which
insured
her
security
.
She
would
not
let
Martin
speak
his
love
.
As
long
as
she
did
this
,
all
would
be
well
.
In
a
few
days
he
would
be
off
to
sea
.
And
even
if
he
did
speak
,
all
would
be
well
.
It
could
not
be
otherwise
,
for
she
did
not
love
him
.
Of
course
,
it
would
be
a
painful
half
hour
for
him
,
and
an
embarrassing
half
hour
for
her
,
because
it
would
be
her
first
proposal
.
She
thrilled
deliciously
at
the
thought
.
She
was
really
a
woman
,
with
a
man
ripe
to
ask
for
her
in
marriage
.
It
was
a
lure
to
all
that
was
fundamental
in
her
sex
.
The
fabric
of
her
life
,
of
all
that
constituted
her
,
quivered
and
grew
tremulous
.
The
thought
fluttered
in
her
mind
like
a
flame
-
attracted
moth
.
She
went
so
far
as
to
imagine
Martin
proposing
,
herself
putting
the
words
into
his
mouth
;
and
she
rehearsed
her
refusal
,
tempering
it
with
kindness
and
exhorting
him
to
true
and
noble
manhood
.
And
especially
he
must
stop
smoking
cigarettes
.
She
would
make
a
point
of
that
.
But
no
,
she
must
not
let
him
speak
at
all
.
She
could
stop
him
,
and
she
had
told
her
mother
that
she
would
.
All
flushed
and
burning
,
she
regretfully
dismissed
the
conjured
situation
.
Her
first
proposal
would
have
to
be
deferred
to
a
more
propitious
time
and
a
more
eligible
suitor
.
Came
a
beautiful
fall
day
,
warm
and
languid
,
palpitant
with
the
hush
of
the
changing
season
,
a
California
Indian
summer
day
,
with
hazy
sun
and
wandering
wisps
of
breeze
that
did
not
stir
the
slumber
of
the
air
.
Filmy
purple
mists
,
that
were
not
vapors
but
fabrics
woven
of
color
,
hid
in
the
recesses
of
the
hills
.
San
Francisco
lay
like
a
blur
of
smoke
upon
her
heights
.
The
intervening
bay
was
a
dull
sheen
of
molten
metal
,
whereon
sailing
craft
lay
motionless
or
drifted
with
the
lazy
tide
.
Far
Tamalpais
,
barely
seen
in
the
silver
haze
,
bulked
hugely
by
the
Golden
Gate
,
the
latter
a
pale
gold
pathway
under
the
westering
sun
.
Beyond
,
the
Pacific
,
dim
and
vast
,
was
raising
on
its
sky
-
line
tumbled
cloud
-
masses
that
swept
landward
,
giving
warning
of
the
first
blustering
breath
of
winter
.
