He drew her arm through his own, as he said it.
“I believe it, Tom!”
“No, no,” cried Tom, “of course not. I said so. Why, tut, tut, tut. What a silly little thing you are!”
“I never meant,” said Martin, hastily, “to appeal to you against your brother. Do not think me so unmanly and unkind. I merely appealed to you to hear my declaration, that I came here for no purpose of reproach—I have not one reproach to vent—but in deep regret. You could not know in what bitterness of regret, unless you knew how often I have thought of Tom; how long in almost hopeless circumstances, I have looked forward to the better estimation of his friendship; and how steadfastly I have believed and trusted in him.”
“Tut, tut,” said Tom, stopping her as she was about to speak. “He is mistaken. He is deceived. Why should you mind? He is sure to be set right at last.”
“Heaven bless the day that sets me right!” cried Martin, “if it could ever come!”
“Amen!” said Tom. “And it will!”
Martin paused, and then said in a still milder voice:
“You have chosen for yourself, Tom, and will be relieved by our parting. It is not an angry one. There is no anger on my side—”
“There is none on mine,” said Tom.
“—It is merely what you have brought about, and worked to bring about. I say again, you have chosen for yourself. You have made the choice that might have been expected in most people situated as you are, but which I did not expect in you. For that, perhaps, I should blame my own judgment more than you. There is wealth and favour worth having, on one side; and there is the worthless friendship of an abandoned, struggling fellow, on the other. You were free to make your election, and you made it; and the choice was not difficult. But those who have not the courage to resist such temptations, should have the courage to avow what they have yielded to them; and I DO blame you for this, Tom: that you received me with a show of warmth, encouraged me to be frank and plain- spoken, tempted me to confide in you, and professed that you were able to be mine; when you had sold yourself to others. I do not believe,” said Martin, with emotion—'hear me say it from my heart—I CANNOT believe, Tom, now that I am standing face to face with you, that it would have been in your nature to do me any serious harm, even though I had not discovered, by chance, in whose employment you were. But I should have encumbered you; I should have led you into more double-dealing; I should have hazarded your retaining the favour for which you have paid so high a price, bartering away your former self; and it is best for both of us that I have found out what you so much desired to keep secret.”
“Be just,” said Tom; who, had not removed his mild gaze from Martin's face since the commencement of this last address; “be just even in your injustice, Martin. You forget. You have not yet told me what your accusation is!”
“Why should I?” returned Martin, waving his hand, and moving towards the door. “You could not know it the better for my dwelling on it, and though it would be really none the worse, it might seem to me to be. No, Tom. Bygones shall be bygones between us. I can take leave of you at this moment, and in this place—in which you are so amiable and so good—as heartily, if not as cheerfully, as ever I have done since we first met. All good go with you, Tom!—I—”
“You leave me so? You can leave me so, can you?” said Tom.
“I—you—you have chosen for yourself, Tom! I—I hope it was a rash choice,” Martin faltered. “I think it was. I am sure it was! Goodbye!”
And he was gone.
Tom led his little sister to her chair, and sat down in his own. He took his book, and read, or seemed to read. Presently he said aloud, turning a leaf as he spoke: “He will be very sorry for this.”And a tear stole down his face, and dropped upon the page.
Ruth nestled down beside him on her knees, and clasped her arms about his neck.
“No, Tom! No, no! Be comforted! Dear Tom!”
“I am quite—comforted,” said Tom. “It will be set right.”
“Such a cruel, bad return!” cried Ruth.
“No, no,” said Tom. “He believes it. I cannot imagine why. But it will be set right.”
More closely yet, she nestled down about him; and wept as if her heart would break.
“Don't. Don't,” said Tom. “Why do you hide your face, my dear!”
Then in a burst of tears, it all broke out at last.
“Oh Tom, dear Tom, I know your secret heart. I have found it out; you couldn't hide the truth from me. Why didn't you tell me? I am sure I could have made you happier, if you had! You love her, Tom, so dearly!”
Tom made a motion with his hand as if he would have put his sister hurriedly away; but it clasped upon hers, and all his little history was written in the action. All its pathetic eloquence was in the silent touch.
“In spite of that,” said Ruth, “you have been so faithful and so good, dear; in spite of that, you have been so true and selfdenying, and have struggled with yourself; in spite of that, you have been so gentle, and so kind, and even-tempered, that I have never seen you give a hasty look, or heard you say one irritable word. In spite of all, you have been so cruelly mistaken. Oh Tom, dear Tom, will THIS be set right too! Will it, Tom? Will you always have this sorrow in your breast; you who deserve to be so happy; or is there any hope?”
And still she hid her face from Tom, and clasped him round the neck, and wept for him, and poured out all her woman's heart and soul in the relief and pain of this disclosure.
It was not very long before she and Tom were sitting side by side, and she was looking with an earnest quietness in Tom's face. Then Tom spoke to her thus, cheerily, though gravely:
“I am very glad, my dear, that this has passed between us. Not because it assures me of your tender affection (for I was well assured of that before), but because it relieves my mind of a great weight.”
Tom's eyes glistened when he spoke of her affection; and he kissed her on the cheek.
“My dear girl,” said Tom; “with whatever feeling I regard her'—they seemed to avoid the name by mutual consent—'I have long ago—I am sure I may say from the very first—looked upon it as a dream. As something that might possibly have happened under very different circumstances, but which can never be. Now, tell me. What would you have set right?”
She gave Tom such a significant little look, that he was obliged to take it for an answer whether he would or no; and to go on.
“By her own choice and free consent, my love, she is betrothed to Martin; and was, long before either of them knew of my existence. You would have her betrothed to me?”
“Yes,” she said directly.
“Yes,” rejoined Tom, “but that might be setting it wrong, instead of right. Do you think,” said Tom, with a grave smile, “that even if she had never seen him, it is very likely she would have fallen in love with Me?”
“Why not, dear Tom?”
Tom shook his head, and smiled again.
“You think of me, Ruth,” said Tom, “and it is very natural that you should, as if I were a character in a book; and you make it a sort of poetical justice that I should, by some impossible means or other, come, at last, to marry the person I love. But there is a much higher justice than poetical justice, my dear, and it does not order events upon the same principle. Accordingly, people who read about heroes in books, and choose to make heroes of themselves out of books, consider it a very fine thing to be discontented and gloomy, and misanthropical, and perhaps a little blasphemous, because they cannot have everything ordered for their individual accommodation. Would you like me to become one of that sort of people?”
“No, Tom. But still I know,” she added timidly, “that this is a sorrow to you in your own better way.”
Tom thought of disputing the position. But it would have been mere folly, and he gave it up.
“My dear,” said Tom, “I will repay your affection with the Truth and all the Truth. It is a sorrow to me. I have proved it to be so sometimes, though I have always striven against it. But somebody who is precious to you may die, and you may dream that you are in heaven with the departed spirit, and you may find it a sorrow to wake to the life on earth, which is no harder to be borne than when you fell asleep. It is sorrowful to me to contemplate my dream which I always knew was a dream, even when it first presented itself; but the realities about me are not to blame. They are the same as they were. My sister, my sweet companion, who makes this place so dear, is she less devoted to me, Ruth, than she would have been, if this vision had never troubled me? My old friend John, who might so easily have treated me with coldness and neglect, is he less cordial to me? The world about me, is there less
