The shadows deepened, deepened, and the room became quite dark. Still Tom’s fingers wandered over the keys of the piano, and still the window had its pair of tenants.
At length, her hand upon his shoulder, and her breath upon his forehead, roused Tom from his reverie.
“Dear me!” he cried, desisting with a start. “I am afraid I have been very inconsiderate and unpolite.”
Tom little thought how much consideration and politeness he had shown!
“Sing something to us, my dear,” said Tom, “let us hear your voice. Come!”
John Westlock added his entreaties with such earnestness that a flinty heart alone could have resisted them. Hers was not a flinty heart. Oh, dear no! Quite another thing.
So down she sat, and in a pleasant voice began to sing the ballads Tom loved well. Old rhyming stories, with here and there a pause for a few simple chords, such as a harper might have sounded in the ancient time while looking upward for the current of some half-remembered legend; words of old poets, wedded to such measures that the strain of music might have been the poet’s breath, giving utterance and expression to his thoughts; and now a melody so joyous and lighthearted, that the singer seemed incapable of sadness, until in her inconstancy (oh wicked little singer!) she relapsed, and broke the listeners’ hearts again; these were the simple means she used to please them. And that these simple means prevailed, and she did please them, let the still darkened chamber, and its long-deferred illumination witness.
The candles came at last, and it was time for moving homeward. Cutting paper carefully, and rolling it about the stalks of those same flowers, occasioned some delay; but even this was done in time, and Ruth was ready.
“Good night!” said Tom. “A memorable and delightful visit, John! Good night!”
John thought he would walk with them.
“No, no. Don’t!” said Tom. “What nonsense! We can get home very well alone. I couldn’t think of taking you out.”
But John said he would rather.
“Are you sure you would rather?” said Tom. “I am afraid you only say so out of politeness.”
John being quite sure, gave his arm to Ruth, and led her out. Fiery-face, who was again in attendance, acknowledged her departure with so cold a curtsey that it was hardly visible; and cut Tom dead.
Their host was bent on walking the whole distance, and would not listen to Tom’s dissuasions. Happy time, happy walk, happy parting, happy dreams! But there are some sweet daydreams, so there are that put the visions of the night to shame.
Busily the Temple fountain murmured in the moonlight, while Ruth lay sleeping, with her flowers beside her; and John Westlock sketched a portrait—whose?—from memory.
XLVI
In which Miss Pecksniff makes love, Mr. Jonas makes wrath, Mrs. Gamp makes tea, and Mr. Chuffey makes business.
On the next day’s official duties coming to a close, Tom hurried home without losing any time by the way; and after dinner and a short rest sallied out again, accompanied by Ruth, to pay his projected visit to Todgers’s. Tom took Ruth with him, not only because it was a great pleasure to him to have her for his companion whenever he could, but because he wished her to cherish and comfort poor Merry; which she, for her own part (having heard the wretched history of that young wife from Tom), was all eagerness to do.
“She was so glad to see me,” said Tom, “that I am sure she will be glad to see you. Your sympathy is certain to be much more delicate and acceptable than mine.”
“I am very far from being certain of that, Tom,” she replied; “and indeed you do yourself an injustice. Indeed you do. But I hope she may like me, Tom.”
“Oh, she is sure to do that!” cried Tom, confidently.
“What a number of friends I should have, if everybody was of your way of thinking. Shouldn’t I, Tom, dear?” said his little sister, pinching him upon the cheek.
Tom laughed, and said that with reference to this particular case he had no doubt at all of finding a disciple in Merry. “For you women,” said Tom, “you women, my dear, are so kind, and in your kindness have such nice perception; you know so well how to be affectionate and full of solicitude without appearing to be; your gentleness of feeling is like your touch: so light and easy, that the one enables you to deal with wounds of the mind as tenderly as the other enables you to deal with wounds of the body. You are such—”
“My goodness, Tom!” his sister interposed. “You ought to fall in love immediately.”
Tom put this observation off good humouredly, but somewhat gravely too; and they were soon very chatty again on some other subject.
As they were passing through a street in the City, not very far from Mrs. Todgers’s place of residence, Ruth checked Tom before the window of a large Upholstery and Furniture Warehouse, to call his attention to something very magnificent and ingenious, displayed there to the best advantage, for the admiration and temptation of the public. Tom had hazarded some most erroneous and extravagantly wrong guess in relation to the price of this article, and had joined his sister in laughing heartily
