Another man rose to speak. He was uncommonly short, four feet tall at most, with the head of a normal-sized man on a small stubby body and small limbs such that his proportions seemed wrong. His face was covered by a full but well-kept beard. If anything, his head seemed larger than it was, owing to the smallness of his body.
To describe his condition more directly, he was a dwarf.
He looked to be about thirty-five years of age, although Ruby was unsure how men of his condition appeared as they grew older.
“I have a passion for liberty and detest oppression of any kind,” the dwarf said.
He had an intelligent face and bright grey eyes. His voice was deep and sounded as though it were coming from one much larger than he was. When he first rose, Ruby had seen him only for his size. Now she noted his dignity of bearing and the eloquence of his words.
“I am unsatisfied,” the dwarf continued, “with the division of society into two classes, one of which rules the other by accident of birth. As long as that condition exists, America shall be neither a model of wisdom nor an example to the world.”
The drunken heckler rose to his feet again.
“Sit down, Tom Thumb,” he bellowed. “Or are you sitting already? I cannot tell.”
There was scattered laughter around the hall.
Ruby felt anger welling up within her. Nature had implanted a sense of decency in her breast. She stood and, almost without thought, spoke.
“I dare say, he’s more a man than you are.”
There was more laughter than before in the hall, this time directed at the heckler.
“And probably twice as smart,” a woman shouted.
Sensing that the crowd was with him, the dwarf addressed his detractor.
“Take a word of advice, sir, even if it comes from one who is shorter than you are. Try not to associate a diminutive stature with mental shortcomings. My opinion is worth no more but also no less than that of a full-sized man.”
The town meeting ended at nine o’clock. As Ruby left Faneuil Hall and thought back on the evening, she realized that she had forgotten her cares for the first time since leaving England. However briefly, the dull pain of loneliness had been gone.
She was not used to being out this late. There were fewer people on the street than she would have thought. At first, she did not know that she was being followed by a shambling figure. Then she realized that a man was behind her. She quickened her pace. He did the same. When she walked faster, he walked faster. When she lingered, he lingered.
Buildings cast shadows over the road, making the dark night darker.
She was frightened now.
Then the man—and he was a large man—moved to her side and peered into her face with an intrusive leer. His face was rendered more sinister by a tangle of reddish brown hair and thick brows that overshadowed his eyes.
Ruby recognized him as the heckler from the meeting hall. She had not realized before how big he was.
The man eyed her like a wolf. His coarse look frightened her.
“Why do you spend so much effort avoiding me?”
Ruby was unsure whether to go forward or retreat.
“You walk too near. Please, stand back or go on.”
“Nay, my pretty one. I will walk with you. Do you think I am drunk?”
“I think that you have been drinking.”
He moved in front of Ruby, blocking her way with his legs spread wide apart.
“You might use force,” she thought. “But I will resist you with every resource at my command.”
He grabbed her arm and held her in his grasp.
“Let go of me,” she cried.
“You look pretty in a passion.”
“Instantly. This moment.”
“Tell me, pretty one. Why are you so proud?”
“Leave me alone.”
“You can’t hide your beauty from a poor fellow like me. Give me a kiss.”
“Let me go.”
“A kiss for every cry. Scream if you love me, darling.”
Her terror was growing. Then a voice from behind sounded.
“If you value your life, let her go.”
The bully turned, still holding Ruby in his grasp.
“This must not go on,” the dwarf said.
Aghast by the boldness of the interference, the bully looked at the tiny man with scorn.
“Must not go on?”
“Must not and shall not. Choose your next act carefully. If you choose wrongly, the consequences will fall heavily on your head.”
“Be gone, little man.”
The dwarf’s next words were calmly spoken.
“I’ll beat your brains out if you have any, or fracture your skull if you haven’t.”
The bully let go of Ruby’s arm, spat on the ground, and moved menacingly forward.
“You continue at your own peril,” the dwarf warned, stepping toward him. “I will not spare you.”
Ruby held her breath.
The bully spat on the ground again, then turned and walked away. The dwarf did not move until the aggressor was out of sight. Only then did he speak.
“You were kind to me inside the hall tonight,” he said to Ruby. “It was only right that I return the favor. Allow me to walk you home, if I may.”
He was more sturdily built than she had realized earlier in the evening. There was a dignity in his face that made it rather pleasant to look upon.
“I would be grateful. Thank you.”
She slowed her stride to accommodate his as they walked. They exchanged names: . . . Abraham Hart . . . Ruby Spriggs.
Abraham Hart extended his hand.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ruby Spriggs. Although the circumstances of our meeting could have been more pleasant.”
“Were you not scared?”
“I was. But so was he. He feared me because I am different. He feared me because he thought there was a reason—a gun, perhaps—that I challenged him in the face of his overwhelming advantage in size. And he feared the humiliation that would follow if a man of my size got the better of him.”
At the door to Ruby’s home, Abraham Hart reached into his pocket and took out a small card.
“This is the address of my business. I am there six days a week. If I can ever be of service to you, do not hesitate to visit.”
After he had gone, Ruby looked at the card:
ABRAHAM HART, PROPRIETOR
BOSTON BOOK EMPORIUM
114 TREMONT STREET
The following morning, Ruby returned to work. The previous night’s happenings were very much on her mind. Lucretia Mott had given her much to think about. And she felt indebted to Abraham Hart. It intrigued her that he was the proprietor of a bookshop. And he had saved her from God knows what.
Ruby worked in the bakery five days each week. Sunday and Tuesday were her days off. She had not properly thanked Hart for interceding on her behalf. And he had suggested that she visit him at his shop. On Tuesday, she decided to do so.
Tremont Street was within walking distance of Ruby’s lodging. Instead of entering the shop immediately, she stood outside and looked at the window. Dozens of books were invitingly displayed, some turned open to the title page or frontispiece.
She opened the door and went inside. The smell of freshly pressed paper filled the air. Leather too. Rows of books were neatly arranged on shelves.
Abraham Hart was sitting behind a desk. He saw Ruby, rose from his chair, and stretched out his short arms to welcome her.
“I didn’t thank you properly for rescuing me,” she said.
“If admiring a pretty face were criminal, we should all be in jail,” Hart responded. “But people should be treated with respect.”
Hart introduced Ruby to a young man named Nicholas, who assisted him in overseeing the shop. Then he showed her his wares.
Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe was prominently displayed. So were books by Herman Melville, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edgar Allan Po
e, and Washington Irving. There were classics by Homer and Virgil, and works by Cervantes and Dante.
England was well represented. There was Shakespeare, of course. And Dickens. Also Geoffrey Chaucer, Daniel Defoe, John Milton, Jane Austen, Emily Brontë, Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
And in a corner of the shop, a section for children. Mother Goose, the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Andersen. It was good to see these treasures.
Hart had a cordial manner and a kind thoughtful face.
“I am an American,” he told Ruby, “so I must ask how you like our country.”
She was still getting acclimated to it, she said. But apart from her encounter with the bully—and she had enjoyed the town meeting before the confrontation—everything was well.
They talked about books. Dickens versus “our American writers.” Hart told Ruby that he wanted to give her a book. She demurred, but he was insistent.
“Think of it as an investment on my part. If you like it, you will come back and buy more.”
Ruby asked which book he suggested, and he gave her a copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
“It speaks to the issue of slavery. And to the dignity of man.”
Ruby thanked him and promised to return.
“And one thing more,” Hart told her. “You keep addressing me as ‘Mr. Hart.’ I would prefer it if you call me Abraham. We are much less formal in the colonies than is the custom in England.”
Each Tuesday during the next month, Ruby returned to the bookshop. When the weather was pleasant, she and Abraham took long walks. His legs were a bit crooked and spread apart. But his pace was brisk for a man his size. People gave him friendly greetings as they passed. Children were especially fond of him, perhaps because he gave them little candies that he carried in a pocket.
Their conversations were more about the issues of the day than personal.
“We began our political life in America with two distinct advantages over England,” Abraham told her. “First, our history commenced so late in time that we escaped the centuries of bloodshed and cruelty through which you passed. And second, we have a vast territory with not too many people in it yet.”
He was curious with regard to the things that Ruby told him about England. He had strong views about religion and a low opinion of most clergy. On one of their walks, he fulminated, “The preachers who strew the greatest amount of brimstone along the Eternal Path are deemed the most righteous. And those who preach the greatest difficulty of getting into Heaven are considered the most likely to get there, although it is hard to say by what reasoning that horrid conclusion is arrived at.”
“I believe,” Ruby offered, “that if one’s religion is in harmony with one’s conscience, it should not matter whether those beliefs satisfy anyone else. But I am more ignorant than I might be on matters of religion.”
“Your ignorance, as you call it, is wiser than most people’s enlightenment.”
Ruby felt as though she had a friend.
After several weeks of taking walks together, Abraham invited Ruby to his home for a picnic. He picked her up in a carriage on a Sunday morning, and they rode to the outskirts of Boston. Small cottages dotted the road. Then came larger houses with gardens in front and orchards behind.
Abraham lived in a large old house set amidst oak trees and surrounded by a rough stone wall. Inside, the house was like the home of a normal-sized man, save for the fact that some of the furniture was fit for a child. The mantle above the fireplace seemed to have come from the same oak trees as the ceiling beams and floor. The windows were heavily shaded by branches and admitted a subdued light.
“I love this place dearly,” Abraham told her. “I have lived here for my entire life.”
The picnic was served in the garden by a housekeeper of normal stature. There was a cold roast fowl, a crusty loaf of bread, sliced cucumber, cheese, and a blueberry tart.
Berries hung from branches like clusters of coral beads.
After lunch, the housekeeper brought a bottle of old sherry and two glasses to the garden. Abraham engaged. Ruby did not.
“We have never spoken of my size,” Abraham said.
“Nor of mine,” Ruby parried.
He smiled.
“There is a difference. My life has been shaped by my physical stature. In polite terms, I am a curiosity. I have heard far worse. I am educated and, I believe, intelligent. I have feelings, which are frequently abused. I am sometimes ridiculed and scorned.”
He seemed to be struggling a bit.
“I am told that I was a serious child. I recall liking to arrange all of my toys in a row.”
He paused, as though having difficulty coming to the heart of the matter.
“You may speak freely,” Ruby said.
“My parents were of normal size. One can say that it is worse to be the way I am. None would say that it is better. It makes life more difficult. And lonely. These things happen in the world.”
The shadow of apple trees splayed across the grass.
“It was in this garden that I experienced the worst moment of my life. One day when I was young, some friends and I were gathered round my mother’s knee, looking at a picture of angels that she held in her hand. It was summer. I am certain of that because one of the girls had a rose in her hair. There were many angels in the picture, and I remember the fancy coming upon me to suggest which of the angels represented each child there. Once I had gone through the other children, I wondered aloud which of the angels was most like me. I remember the children looking awkwardly at each other. A sorrow came upon my mother’s face, and the truth that I was different from other children broke upon me for the first time. The other children kissed me and told me they loved me just the same. My mother held me in her arms, and I cried. I have long since made my accommodation with the world. But my heart aches for that child. I think often of how he would awake after dreaming that he had grown larger, only to find himself the same and cry himself to sleep again.”
Ruby could think of nothing to say.
Abraham looked directly at her.
“Why did you come to America?”
There was a moment of silence.
“Most people come here with the intention of improving their fortune. I do not sense that in you.”
“A change in my life was necessary.”
“I will not pry, since you seem disinclined to tell me more. But I will always be here to listen. I am older than you are and may, on a few small points, be able to offer guidance should you choose to confide in me. I have told you of my trials. Perhaps, someday, you will tell me of yours.”
There was no impertinence in the offer. It was as well intentioned as could be.
“There is wisdom of the head, and there is wisdom of the heart,” Abraham told her. “Neither is all-sufficient. You are a wonderful young woman. Know your own worth. You can be nothing better than yourself. That will suffice.”
That night in her tiny room, Ruby thought about the day just done. There was a shadow on her heart that told of a sad love story. Sad, but a love story just the same. Something inside of her cried out, “Love him! If he wounds you, love him! If your heart is torn to pieces, love him! Love him! Love him! Love him!”
She took paper and pen in hand and began to write.
My Dearest Marie,
I do not quite know how to tell you what I wish to say. The nights here are very long. I cry sometimes when I am alone. I have been torn from my home and those I love.
The people here are kind. I have a room of my own and a job in a bakery. I would say that I am well, but pieces of my heart are in England.
I dreamed last night of myself as very young girl with patches on the clothes I wore before I knew you. I dreamed also of sitting by the fire with you and Antonio and dear uncle by my side. So you are with me still, though I am far away.
Ruby put the pen down, lifted it up, and put it down again, considering what to write next.
I will tell you the whole t
ruth. Forgive the rambling of my thoughts. They are not easily told.
Ruby then poured out her soul in the relief and pain of disclosure. She recounted being summoned to Murd’s home, and meeting with Murd and Isabella. She wrote frankly without concealment of any kind.
I left England because I feared that not doing so would bring misfortune to Edwin. If I did wrong to you and Antonio and others I love, it was in ignorance of the world.
The brightest hopes of my heart were set upon Edwin. I have loved him for every minute of every day since I have known him. I now look upon our time together as a dream—a dream I might marry the man I love—that can never be fulfilled.
I know that I must look for what is right in the world. I cannot let my life grow cold because there came my way a good man who, but for the selfish regret that I cannot call him my own, would, like all other good men, make me happier and better.
If by chance you see Edwin, tell him how much I wish for his happiness, that I will never forget his kind face and gentle manner. Tell him that I am sorry for any trouble that my feelings for him brought upon him.
In all of these foolish thoughts, which I confess to you because I know that you will understand me if anyone can, there is one thought that is never out of my mind. I hope that, sometimes in quiet moments, Edwin thinks fondly of me. I hope he remembers that I exist and, in some way, knows that I love him. If I were to die tomorrow, I would bless him with my last words and pray for his happiness with my last breath.
Your devoted daughter,
Ruby
CHAPTER 10
When Ruby disappeared suddenly from London, it was as though the sun that shone over Edwin had left the sky. He recalled every moment of their time together. Every charm that had enveloped her heightened his despair. He tried at times to smile, but it is difficult to smile with an aching heart.
Every Saturday, Edwin went to the learning center. He felt closer in spirit to Ruby when he was there. On Sundays, he visited Marie and myself, always hoping for news, although I had promised that I would immediately bring to him any word of Ruby’s whereabouts. We would sit together in the bakery and talk about all manner of things. A bond developed between us. Marie and I grew increasingly fond of Edwin, and our fondness was returned.
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