Except the long surging roll of the waves, as in monotonous succession
they dashed and broke against the rocks, not a sound was to be heard.
The night had grown more lowering: the sprinkle of stars was hid behind
the dense masses of cloud, through which, ever and anon, the moon, with
shadowy face, broke out and feebly cast down a glimmering light. Below,
the outspread stretch of water lay dark and motionless, its glassy
surface cold and glittering like steel. Walking a little in the rear of
Adam, Eve shuddered as her eyes fell on the depths, over whose brink
the narrow path they trod seemed hanging. Instinctively she shrank
closer to the cliff-side, to be caught by the long trails of bramble
which, with bracken and gorse, made the steep descent a bristly wall.
Insensibly affected by external surroundings, unused to such complete
darkness, the sombre aspect of the scene filled her with nervous
apprehension: every bit of jutting rock she stumbled against was a
yawning precipice, and at each step she took she died some different
death. The terrors of her mind entirely absorbed all her former
indifference and ill-humor, and she would have gladly welcomed any
accident which would have afforded her a decent pretext for breaking
this horrible silence. But nothing occurred, and they reached the open
piece of green and were close on the crumbling ruins of St. Peter's
chapel without a word having passed between them. The moon struggled out
with greater effort, and, to Eve's relief, showed that the zigzag
dangers of the path were past, and there was now nothing worse to fear
than what might happen on any uneven grassy slope. Moreover, the buzz of
voices was near, and, though they could not see the persons speaking,
Eve knew by the sound that they could not be very far distant. Having
before him the peculiar want of reticence generally displayed by the
Polperro folk, Adam would have given much to have been in a position to
ask Eve to remount the hill and get down by the other side; but under
present circumstances he felt it impossible to make any suggestion:
things must take their course. And without a word of warning he and Eve
gained the summit of the raised elevation which formed a sheltered
background to this favorite loitering-place, at once to find themselves
the centre of observation to a group of men whose noisy discussion they
had apparently interrupted.
"Why, 'tis my son Adam, ain't it?" exclaimed the voice of Uncle Zebedee;
and at the sound of a little mingled hoarseness and thickness Adam's
heart sank within him.--"And who's this he's a got with un, eh?"
"Tis me, Uncle Zebedee," said Eve, stepping down on to the flat and
advancing toward where the old man stood lounging--"Eve, you know."
"Awh, Eve, is it?" exclaimed Zebedee. "Why, how long's t'wind veered
round to your quarter, my maid? Be you two sweetheartin' then, eh?"
"I've been all day up to Aunt Hepzibah's," said Eve quickly, endeavoring
to cover her confusion, "and Adam came to fetch me back: that's how it
is we're together."
"Wa-al, but he needn't ha' fetched 'ee 'less he'd got a mind for yer
company, I s'pose," returned Zebedee with a meaning laugh. "Come, come
now: 't 'ull niver do for 'ee to try to cabobble Uncle Zibedee. So you
and Adam's courtyin', be 'ee? Wa-al, there's nuffin' to be said agen
that, I s'pose?" and he looked round as if inviting concurrence or
contradiction.--"Her's my poor brother Andrer's little maid, ye knaw,
shipmates"--and here he made a futile attempt to present Eve to the
assembled company--"what's dead--and drownded--and gone to Davy's
locker; so, notwithstandin' I'd lashins sooner 'twas our Joan he'd ha'
fix'd on--Lord ha' massy!" he added parenthetically, "Joan's worth a
horsgead o' she--still, what's wan man's mate's another man's pison;
and, howsomedever that lies, I reckon it needn't go for to hinder me
fra' drinkin' their healths in a drap o' good liquor. So come along, my
hearties;" and, making a movement which sent him forward with a lurch,
he began muttering something about his sea-legs, the effect of which was
drowned in the shout evincing the ready satisfaction with which this
proposal for friendly conviviality was hailed.
Eve drew in her breath, trying to gather up courage and combat down the
horrible suspicion that Uncle Zebedee was not quite himself, didn't
exactly know what he was saying, had taken too much to drink. With
congratulatory intent she found herself jostled against by two or three
others near her, whose noisy glee and uncertain gait only increased her
fears. What should she do? Where could she go? What had become of Adam?
Surely he would not go and leave her amongst--
But already her question was answered by a movement from some one
behind, who with a dexterous interposition succeeded in placing himself
between Uncle Zebedee and herself.
"Father," and Adam's voice sounded more harsh and stern than usual,
"leave Eve to go home as she likes: she's not used to these sort o'
ways, and she will not take things as you mean them."
"Eh! what? How not mane 'em?" exclaimed old Zebedee, taken aback by his
son's sudden appearance. "I arn't a said no harm that I knaws by:
there's no 'fence in givin' the maid a wet welcome, I s'pose."
A buzz of dissatisfaction at Adam's interference inspired Zebedee with
renewed confidence, and with two or three sways in order to get the
right balance he managed to bring himself to a standstill right in front
of Adam, into whose face he looked with a comical expression of defiance
and humor as he said, "Why, come 'long with us, lad, do 'ee, and name
the liquor yerself, and see it passes round free and turn and turn
about: and let's hab a song or two, and get up Rozzy Treloar wi' his
fiddle, and Zeke Orgall there 'ull dance us a hornpipe;" and he began a
double-shuffle with his feet, adding, as his dexterity came to a sudden
and somewhat unsteady finish, "Tis a ill wind that blows nobody no good,
and a poor heart what never rejices."
Eve during this time had been vainly endeavoring to make her escape--an
impossibility, as Adam saw, under existing circumstances; and this
decided him to use no further argument; but, with his arm put through
his father's and in company with the rest of the group, he apparently
conceded to their wishes, and, motioning Eve on, the party proceeded
along the path, down the steps and toward the quay, until they came in
front of the Three Pilchards, now the centre of life and jollity, with
the sound of voices and the preparatory scraping of a fiddle to enhance
the promise of comfort which glowed in the ruddy reflection sent by the
bright lights and cheerful fire through the red window-curtain.
"Now, father," exclaimed Adam with a resolute grip of the old man's arm,
"you and me are homeward bound. We'll welcome our neighbors some other
time, but for this evening let's say good-night to them."
"Good-night?" repeated Zebedee: "how good-night? Why, what 'ud be the
manin' o' that? None o' us ain't agoin' to part company here, I hopes.
We'm all goin' to cast anchor to the same moorin's--eh, mates?"
"No, no, no!" said Adam, impatiently: "you come along home with me now."
"Iss, iss, all right!" laughed the old man, trying to wriggle out of his
son's grasp; "only not just yet a whiles. I'm agoin' in here to drink
your good health, Adam lad, and all here's a-comin' with me--ain't us,
hearties?"
"Pack of stuff! Drink my health?" exclaimed Adam. "There's no more
reason for drinking my health to-night than any other night. Come along
now, father: you've had a hard day of it, you know, and when you get
home you can have whatever you want quietly by your own fireside."
But Zebedee, though perfectly good-humored, was by no means to be
persuaded: he continued to laugh and writhe about as if the fact of his
detention was merely a good joke on Adam's part, the lookers-on abetting
and applauding his determination, until Adam's temper could restrain
itself no longer, and with no very pleasant explosion of wrath he let go
his hold and intimated that his father was free to take what course
pleased him most.
"That's right, lad!" exclaimed old Zebedee heartily, shaking himself
together. "You'm a good son and a capital sailor-man, but you'm pore
company, Adam--verra pore company."
And with this truism (to which a general shout gave universal assent)
ringing in his ears, Adam strode away up the street with all possible
speed, and was standing in front of the house-door when he was suddenly
struck by the thought of what had become of Eve. Since they had halted
in front of the Three Pilchards he had seen nothing of her: she had
disappeared, and in all probability had made her way home.
The thought of having to confront her caused him to hesitate: should he
go in? What else could he do? where had he to go? So, with a sort of
desperation, he pushed open the door and found himself within the
sitting-room. It was empty; the fire had burnt low, the wick of the
unsnuffed candle had grown long; evidently Eve had not returned; and
with an undefined mixture of regret and relief Adam sat down, leaned his
arms on the table and laid his head upon them.
During the whole day the various excitements he had undergone had so
kept his mind on the stretch that its powers of keen susceptibility
seemed now thoroughly exhausted, and in place of the acute pain he had
previously suffered there had come a dull, heavy weight of despair,
before which his usual force and determination seemed vanquished and
powerless. The feeling uppermost was a sense of the injustice inflicted
on him--that he, who in practice and principle was so far removed above
his neighbors, should be made to suffer for their follies and misdeeds,
should have to bear the degradation of their vices. As to any hope of
reclaiming them, he had long ago given that up, though not without a
certain disappointment in the omniscience of that Providence which could
refuse the co-operation of his valuable agency.
Adam suffered from that strong belief in himself which is apt, when
carried to excess, to throw a shadow on the highest qualities.
Outstepping the Pharisee, who thanked God that he was not like other
men, Adam thanked himself, and fed his vanity by the assurance that had
the Polperro folk followed his lead and his advice they would now be
walking in his footsteps; instead of which they had despised him as a
leader and rejected him as a counsellor, so that, exasperated by their
ignorance and stung by their ingratitude, he had cast them off and
abandoned them for ever; and out of this disappointment had arisen a dim
shadow of some far-off future wherein he caught glimpses of a new life
filled with fresh hopes and successful endeavors.
From the moment his heart had opened toward Eve her image seemed to be
associated with these hitherto undefined longings: by the light of her
love, of her presence, her companionship, all that had been vague seemed
to take shape and grow into an object which was real and a purpose to be
accomplished; so that now one of the sharpest pricks from the thorn of
disappointment came of the knowledge that this hope was shattered and
this dream must be abandoned. And, lost in moody retrospection, Adam sat
stabbing desire with the sword of despair.
"Let me be! let me be!" he said in answer to some one who was trying to
rouse him.
"Adam, it's me: do look up;" and in spite of himself the voice which
spoke made him lift his head and look at the speaker. "Adam, I'm so
sorry!" and Eve's face said more than her words.
"You've nothing to be sorry for," returned Adam sullenly.
"I want you to forgive me, Adam," continued Eve.
"I've nothing to forgive."
"Yes, you have;" and a faint flush of color came into her cheeks as she
added with hesitating confusion, "You know I didn't mean you to take
what I said as you did, Adam; because"--and the color suddenly deepened
and spread over her face--"because I do care for you--very much indeed."
Adam gave a despondent shake of his head. "No, you don't," he said,
steadily averting his eyes; "and a very good thing too. I don't know who
that wasn't forced to it would willingly have anything to do with such a
God-forsaken place as this is. I only know I'm sick of it, and of myself
and my life, and everything in it."
"Oh, Adam, don't say that--don't say you're sick of life. At least, not
now;" and she turned her face so that he might read the reason.
"And why not now?" he asked stolidly. "What have I now that I hadn't
before?"
"Why, you've got me."
"You? You said you couldn't give me the love I asked you for."
"Oh, but I didn't mean it. What I said was because I felt so hurt that
you should suspect me as you seemed to."
"I never suspected you--never meant to suspect you. All I wanted you to
know was that I must be all or nothing."
"Of course; and I meant that too, only you--But there! don't let's drift
back to that again;" and as she spoke she leaned her two hands upon his
shoulders and stood looking down. "What I want to say is, that every bit
of love I have is yours, Adam. I am afraid," she added shyly, "you had
got it all before ever I knew whether you really wanted it or not."
"And why couldn't you tell me that before?" he said bitterly.
"Why, is it too late now?" asked Eve humbly.
"Too late? You know it can't be too late," exclaimed Adam, his old
irritability getting the better of him: then, with a sudden revulsion of
his overwrought susceptibilities, he cried, "Oh, Eve, Eve, bear with me
to-night: I'm not what I want to be. The words I try to speak die away
upon my lips, and my heart seems sunk down so low that nothing can
rejoice it. To-morrow I shall be master of myself again, and all will
look different."
"I hope so," sighed Eve tremulously. "Things don't seem quite between us
as they ought to be. I sha'n't wait for Joan," she said, holding out her
hand: "I shall go up stairs now; so good-night, Adam."
"Good-night," he said: then, keeping hold of her hand, he drew her
toward him and stood looking down at her with a face haggard and full of
sadness.
The look acted as the last straw which was to swamp the burden of Eve's
grief. Control was in vain, and in another instant, with Adam's arms
around her, she lay sobbing out her sorrow on his breast, and the tears,
as they came, thrust the evil spirit away. So that when, an hour later,
the two said good-night again, their vows had been exchanged and the
troth that bound them plighted; and Adam, looking into Eve's face,
smiled as he said, "Whether for good luck or bad, the sun of our love
has risen in a watery sky."